WHERE IN THE WORLD ARE BOB AND REUEL? ... AND WHO ARE THIS BOB AND REUEL ANYWAY

2014. DANNY MEMORIAL CEREMONY 

SUNDAY, DEC. 7. A comedy of errors starts off a very sad day as we ready to fly to San Francisco for our dear friend Danny William's memorial service. First I decide to wear a tie--respectful thing to do. Only to discover, comment on my life, that I've forgotten how to do It--it's been so long. So Bob and I fiddle with the damn thing for fifteen precious minutes. Places to go. People to see. Car to catch at 6:30 AM. Daring fate I enroll in Lyft--interractive car service and lo and behold one Chuck arrives in minutes of my iPhone request, looking thuggish like his photo. Confesses he's sleep deprived --worrisome -- but he gets us to the United gate in fine time. The thing works! Then Bob and I are separated at security, since somehow I'm pre-checked and he isn't even though he's "an older gent". He only to be stopped to have his overnight examined and shaving cream and deodorant confiscated. We're not accustomed to traveling with carryons--the things you learn when you upset patterns. And then we're sent in the wrong direction for the Admiral's Club where we can enjoy snacks and things so decide instead to actually pay excessively for Pannikin's food and drink stuff.

THE SCONE IS PRETTY GOOD

Only to discover what we feared. Our plane is delayed. And we've got a service to get to somewhere South of Market in San Francisco at 11:

Waiting to board our tardy flight I note that no one is wearing a tie. What's happening to civility? Or perhaps they'll tie theirs on the run being, unlike some, practiced in the art.

HUMAN MAILING TUBE

Captain says Air Traffic Control is making us go around again --should be another ten minutes. We're not going to beat the clock on this one. Do we need this anxiety? I was late for my brother’s funeral too. Niece Beth driving we got lost enroute from Delaware to Lakewood NJ. We marched in, the crowd forced to wait for the service to begin, glaring. I'm sure they were thinking it was all the little brother's fault.

Hope this time they don't wait for us or better hope it starts at national gay time so we'll be really early.

So recap the lessons learned this far: 1. Remember to take your vitamins in the early morning of a trip (didn’t) 2. Practice tying ties. 3. Take earliest flight to San Francisco 4. Don't pack aerosols in carry-ons. There'll be others. Touchdown 10:06.

 .

We negotiate with the lady taxi driver whether to head directly to the motel to drop off our luggage or head directly to the service; decide to do the drop off. Adrenaline rush.

Fast luggage release, 15 minutes to go. Lights. Sticker on car ahead: "I'm so gay I can't even drive straight." Driver says she's got to get one of those. (Uh huh.)

IT'S AT BEATBOX BAR AND EVENT SPACE SO. OF MARKET

The place is a real bar. Dark. Red gel lighting. Mine is the only tie. "Old men in silly costumes," says Bob. (Referring to their out-there leather drag. Ouch.)."We bring a note of middle class respectability." And it is Gay People's Time--we don't start until a half hour later. There's Brian, Danny's husband. We get to hug him at last. This will be an occasion for many hugs. Tears. And some laughter too. The place for the service is actually a former warehouse South of Market, fitting I suppose for a memorial to a comedian--Danny--who entertained at bars like this whenever asked especially during the height of the AIDS epidemic. But because it's a bar, Brian's nephews are not allowed in, upsetting the already upset Brian even more.

photo of the 4 of us

What an extraordinary event. Ray Tilton, an event producer, and former Mr. San Francisco leather (Verry former) has put it all together, photo montages, videos, although his AV "pup" in the control booth seems to have messed up and a final video doesn't work. We do see the photos we sent Brian, the one of Danny in a dress starting off the program. And there's the one of the four of us in Puerto Vallarta celebrating Bob's 70th 6 years ago when they visited with us at the condo we'd rented there. There are entertainers, two dyke comediennes, who are as you'd expect funny and raucous in their tributes, a woman singer accompanying herself on a guitar, and a more recent Mr. San Fran leather, dressed in that vein, who sings an emotional song, rather long. Then there are the speakers, of whom I am to be one, interspersed between the entertainers and those photo montages of Family, Husband, Performer.

Interesting for us is the perspective of Danny in his San Francisco years. First up is Carl Wolf, one of Danny's early partners, who speaks extemporaneously (as others do--I'm always in awe of that ability) of their long relationship in San Francisco. When we arrived Brian whispered that we're the only ones here who know where the bones are buried and yes we do know the backstory behind Danny's and Carl's breakup, though many details of this and that familiar in Danny's and Brian's life have been lost in the fog of time and booze. And it takes a while especially into the after-service to sort out personae, Danny's niece (his only relative attending), Brian's sisters, their families, this or that friend and we attempt to weigh how close they might have been to Danny and Brian. We've heard many stories of betrayals and reunitings over the years.

When it's my turn to speak almost at the end of the service punctuated by a bar break of course (and someone has placed a martini in front of Danny’s urn—Brian thinks it must have been us—not this time) I say that everyone has stolen my material and in this instance Danny would have approved of that practice and that I'll try to get through my notes. There's the rub because I barely do, trying to control my sobbing, apologizing "I'm an emotional person", saying I'll take big breaths. Supportive Bob later says that made it all the more authentic and people come up over our ensuing time together today to speak kindly of my words.

“REMEMBERING DANNY

It’s hard to believe our dearest Danny is gone. He was so present in the life of my husband Bob Grinchuk and me, Reuel Olin.

When we first met him we hadn’t actually met him. We just thought we had like so many thousands who were hosted by him at RSVP Cruises. That may have been 20 or so years ago in the infancy of that company, one it must be noted that owes so much to him for its image and its success over the years. We were on something called a land cruise in Puerto Vallarta. We felt immediately isolated because in RSVP’S wisdom then it required that all participants be identified with a colored bracelet as either committed (which we certified to and collected our appropriate matching bracelets), committed but open to opportunity wink wink, or absolutely committed to trawling for sex. Anyway we were personae non grata in this context. It turned out that our rescue from this untenable position was the master of ceremonies, one Danny Williams.

He was everywhere hosting. Making us laugh, making us feel part of one big gay family. We felt taken under his genial wing and that colored our experience then.

But our real knowing Danny started about a dozen years ago when we purchased a resort in Palm Springs, The Villa Resort, where no branding bracelets were required; it was decidedly just plain Gay. We knew he lived in Palm Springs, was a realtor there, and we nurtured the hope that he’d act in some entertainment capacity, perhaps as our master of ceremonies.

So one day, we invited Danny and Brian to come by and I made my pitch. Danny was enthusiastic over the opportunity to perform, his great love, (next to Brian of course); performing after all was the most natural expression of who he was. His happy heart that day was on his sleeve (where we were to discover he usually wore it). Brian on the other hand sat silent, staring at me through assessing eyes, clearly suspicious that I was out to exploit his Danny. He was Danny’s unofficial manager, the self-appointed guardian of all things Danny. He knew his husband's precious value if others might not.  And thank god for that. Danny, too giving, too trusting, needed his lovely Brian to ride defense. As it turned out Brian’s intuition was right--we did exploit Danny (he was after all to become the indefatigable comedic face of our resort). He presided over bingo where every call was an in-joke (B 18! [Jailbait]). At brunch he did what he did best, interview guests. “So you’re an airline pilot? (Flight assistant)”. We were all in on his ribbing. He created and acknowledged Family.  And despite our taking advantage of the treasure Danny was, over time Danny and Brian generously let us become closest of friends.

We spent a lot of time together, dined and caroused together, and often traveled together. Hawaii, the Caribbean, Mexican Riviera, the Danube, and weeks in oceanfront condos in Puerto Vallarta.

I found my diary notes of an RSVP Alaska cruise where of the newlywed game he hosted there was Quote, “lots of embarrassing stuff about the sex lives of participants—poor bastards”. And Quote “Danny is hysterically funny at his dating game hour—pretends to want one of the ‘bachelors’ for himself, sits on his lap and answers for him—“I have warts”. Costume night, I, at Danny’s direction, paint “Miss Bering Straight” on the red banner of his costume, a glittery dress and coat, red pumps; it’s a hoot. Danny’s a hoot.” End self-quote.

The other side of that traveling experience that the other passengers could not know was that Danny was often in intense pain. We’d be sitting at dinner and he would suddenly quiver and wince with aching spasms. This was from the neurological damage that years earlier a quack doctor in a routine surgery had inflicted on him. Nevertheless, he’d excuse himself, and minutes later, he’d step on that stage with that inimitable laugh (when Danny laughed you knew something was truly funny) and that inimitable wit. He confided that when he was performing he forgot his pain. He was so intensely there. As a performer he was the essence of professional. His comedic brain was a wonder. Like watching a master organist. Fingers dancing over rows of keys pushing levers, his feet dancing over pedals. He had that kind of spontaneous and intuitive comedic presence.

And especially, Danny was a Master of humor uniquely gay, plugged into a sensibility that like for so many great comics was born out of oppression. When Danny started his riffs we were all complicit. We were more a community. Despite the snarky witticisms, “So you're a marketing manager at Bloomingdales--snap--ribbon clerk”. It was genial humor. There was no blue language, no meanness.

As to the real offstage Danny. He was a Lover. Danny loved.

He loved his animals and the dogs they'd rescued from abusive homes. Pop psychology note—like his own early home. Danny with his nurturing protective love taught them to trust human beings again. Of course there was Squeak, Danny and Brian’s wary cat, who knew--just knew with every fiber of her feline being—that she held the title to their house. The more strange and debilitated his animals, the greater his love for them. When Danny and Brian visited our home in San Diego, the aged dog Coco kept bumping into our wall mirrors, knocking things over. Danny cried with apology. Then there was his last rescued dog, Dora, who when Danny was most debilitated himself, unable to get out of bed in his pain, lay next to him, refusing to leave his side. Dora too understood the value of her precious charge.

And then in that home there were the animals who were stuffed.  The guest bedroom was filled with stuffed creatures, mostly and unsurprisingly a gang of bears, teddy or otherwise, one otherwise having been outfitted in full leather.

And in Danny's den, the walls were covered with plaques that reflected the generosity of his time and enormous talent to all matter of charities over the years. On his desk were piles of puzzle books. Always present was that ferocious intelligence and intellectual curiosity. He occupied himself, besides collecting and absorbing arcane movies, learning languages, studying calculus, and doing complicated logic puzzles. Ever creative (he was a produced playwright after all) he devised puzzles of his own which were published in puzzle magazines and collections for other restless brainiacs.

Danny was always a warm and concerned host. He loved gourmet cooking. His gourmet kitchen’s shelves supported a colossal collection of cookbooks. He often served us elaborate meals that took him hours to prepare. Just another illustration that if he loved something, he embraced it consumingly. In fact he was one of the most passionate people we've ever known.   

For example, he loved movies but in typical perverse fashion the movies he truly loved were bad, achingly bad. The more wooden the acting, shabby the sets, ridiculous the plot, the greater his delight as he recited from memory gems from the stilted dialogue. Invasion of the Planet of the Ants, anyone? But he loved these our pajama parties, plenty of popcorn chased with vodka, and those carefully curated campy movies. And truth be told, beguiled by his infectious enthusiasm, we too were taken in.

For so canny a man, Danny was often childlike. This was especially apparent at Christmas time when he brought out his collection of wonderful mechanical toys. If one again indulges in pop psychology, it might be said he was compensating for a cold parental environment when he was growing up. And he did lay many things at the doorstep of a forbidding household that until he broke loose, denied him the expression of who he was.

And who he was was a man of many parts. There was Danny, the real estate agent with scrupulous integrity. (Now there's an oxymoron.) He refused to be a seller’s agent who works both sides of the deal; that offended his sense of right. Instead he had concern for his clients and took delight in finding a home for them, even the occasional straight ones, on the stage of his beloved Palm Springs.

And when five o'clock came along, he knew the best cut-rate happy hour boîtes serving the best cut-rate drinks where there usually happened to be some fans around to hug him and reminisce. 

He was generosity itself. He would do anything for you. Perhaps therein is the difference between a comic stage persona and the real Danny. (Sweetness isn't funny. Read Robin Williams.) As with so many great clowns, there was in Danny other dimensions than evident in that stage person.  Seismically sensitivity to others feelings, he would apologize profusely for offenses he thought he might have committed but clearly hadn't. "Danny what are you talking about?"

Our only consolation at this time is that sweet Danny will always live on in Bob’s and my memory. The other that the love of his life, will still be our great friend, always a "mensch" as a mutual friend described Brian, a dear, kind man (in that so like his Danny with whom there was such mutual devotion); a man with whom we can share those special times we had with both of them and share precious memories of a unique and wonderful human being we are grateful to have known and loved. Danny Williams.”

While some head to bar 440 where there's supposed to be free drinks and food, we, the inner circle are invited to scatter Danny's ashes at the AIDS grove. (Although he didn't have AIDS he was a champion of the AIDS community).

In his former partner’s, lawyer Carl's, car we circle and circle the grove nestled in Golden Gate Park where parking is nigh impossible until--thank you Danny we say--a space opens up across from the entrance. We get to speak with some of the group there, Danny’s niece—a charming young woman--and Brian’s sister who we’d apparently met at the Villa and Tom, their Palm Springs friend who with Brian’s sister was there at the end in Gaitersburg. We create ritual, retiring after waiting almost an hour for the full group to arrive—Brian’s other sister has the urn after all—to a grove behind the AIDS circle where Danny’s name is already engraved—flowers marking the spot. Here we each scatter his ashes—Carl introduces the ashes of Danny’s first partner (unlike Bob and me people have multiples, well actually . . .)—but I try to keep the handfuls separate because it is Brian and Danny I know.  Bob scatters his handful of ashes by a tree, one of the beautiful redwoods I think. Wish I’d thought of that.

 

BRIAN AND HIS SISTER

BRIAN AND CARL

BRIAN AND DANNY'S NIECE

After collecting our drinks at the 401 bar—noisy—not possible to communicate but part of the ritual--our little group decides it’s going to a restaurant, the Sausage Factory. We say our goodbyes pleading tiredness. No lie. This was stressful.

 

Our room at the Beck's Motel (where we'd stayed years ago) is one of the renovated ones overlooking Market. Clear it's been gutted and outfitted with the latest in strange but welcome contrast to the fusty, pink mid-century Beck's. At $149 a night (renovation rate) it's a deal. The third floor location--they're working on the elevator--is a bit hard on those of the arthritic persuasion and despite shutters light seeps in from the busy street. But you can't have it all (even when you do).

We're exhausted. My feet ache from wearing my party pumps and are grateful for a trade to walking shoes. Bob dozes on the firm bed. But we are hungry--nothing to eat since early morning's airport pastry and an hour later we set off to find sustenance. Up, down and across the Castro we discover that restaurants are either gone (the ones we used to frequent), unbeckoning (Bob's not up to sushi, Thai, or fish) or too expensive. We pass the Sausage Factory and lo and behold Brian comes running out calling after us. We say our final quick goodbyes to everyone, Carl and his boyfriend, Art, a friend from Danny's early years who knew him even when he was a parentally abandoned street hustler), and Lisa his sister and after continuing our search decide what the hell let's try this sausage factory, by its own description a Castro institution for 40 years--we beat it by one.

 We're ready for a little unpretentious and comparatively cheap (San Fran comparative) food. Bottle of chianti. R. Spaghetti and ravioli with meatballs. Mediocre. Plentiful. Nice to leave half behind. No point in doggie bags.  B. Eggplant Parmigiana. Bob likes. When questioned further. "Serviceable".

 

It’s going to be an early night.

MONDAY DEC 8 SAN FRANCISCO

We're at Chow, an organic restaurant, of course--it's San Francisco--for an organic breakfast of Quinoa ragout, winter veggies and poached eggs (Reuel) and veggie scramble, spinach, with mushroom and cheddar (Bob). My herbal tea (sorry "organic") is berry black. We're delighted. Absolutely delicious. Especially my salad and his hash Browns. Everything is worthy of telling "all our uptown friends" says Bob. I say we don't have any. And then we expend time thinking who our uptown friends might be. 

ANTIQUE TROLLEY

We pass by mixed use apartments being built. Bob asks where is the entrance. I say you have to pay extra for that. (Expensive here yuk yuk). I ask if his Bethlehem PA family growing up lived above Dr. Sinoway's optometrist office. Next door he says. The Sinoways were my parents best friends and we would visit and also have our eyes examined by Ben. We marvel at the coincidence. "We were destined to meet," Bob says and we consider how we can add that to our narrative of greeting one another at a faculty tea when people ask how we first met. I say we can make it concise and get in our respective birth places, how my family traveled to Bethlehem from Jersey City. "Kick over that creche thing," I say in my best Yiddish accent. "I'm allergic to the straw." This (it's sort of funny with the accent) tickles Bob and I'm pleased but when I reread it, lame. Back to the room, put on our jackets and hop on (well not literally) the F trolley (an old imported Italian treasure I remember) downtown for 75 cents being seniors. The driver greets us; she is pleasant and we are taken aback by that anomaly.

GRAFFITI EXPRESSION

Our new philosophy, in for a penny in for a pound (love the phrase) so we'll ride to the end of the line. Next stop Ferry. Jingle jingle.

 

Ferry market is wonderfully exclusive and boutiquey. And huge and atmospheric and we always enjoy it. We pass Cowgirl creamery where step-niece in law (or did I make up that category--sister in law Dorothy's daughter in law might clarify) Jasmine, used to work before she started making her own cheese.

CREATURES WONDROUS AND STRANGE AT THE FERRY

ACCUSTOMED TO HUMANS

Our real objective--gotta have one--is to buy a hostess gift for Susan of our dinner club who has invited us to her house this week for December's dinner. We survey soaps, jams, and candles and find a Christmas tree candle at Sur La Table, a great kitchen items store. One for Don too. Just the sort of thing he too might like.

WATER WATER EVERYWHERE

HEY BIG FELLA

THE OLD FERRY BUILDING

Then the trek uptown for a quick preview of the Palace Hotel (its gorgeous Christmas display)

before continuing on to the Jewish Museum which, as always , is absorbing.

JEWISH MUSEUM

The main exhibit on their 2nd floor is fascinating

DESCRIPTIONS OF NEWMAN'S FAMOUS PHOTOS OF THE FAMOUS

 The photographic work of Arnold Newman who photographed, it would seem, every artist and major personality of his time often for Life Magazine. He started as a painter so his works have a painterly quality, beautiful lighting, meticulous geometries and careful posing. He usually photographed his subjects in their natural work environments, Stravinsky by his piano, Picasso in his studio. I love the photo of Carl Sandburg and Marilyn Monroe drinking a martini. Shows nice relationship, she looking a little blowsy. Beautifully curated exhibit.

We remember touring this museum with Dorothy; she loved it. A first floor exhibit in their AV gallery features videos of Jewish Klezmer bluegrass bands (now there's a specialty) at their own festival, Not Strictly Bluegrass. "I'm really a Jew. I drink 3.2" [beer]. Then there's a charming exhibit of J. Otto Siebold's Mr. Lunch (a humanoid cat who gets into scrapes) computer generated children's illustrations and stories.

We love this museum and its store and I buy the book of Old Jews Telling Jokes (we've seen the play and have the DVD) vowing to learn to tell these jokes in the manner of our friend Gary and his remarkable capacity to remember and deliver jokes. Gotta keep the aging mind agile. "Did I just see three rabbis walk into a bar?" “A grasshopper walks into a bar, orders a drink. Bartender says, Hey we’ve got a drink named after you. Grasshopper: You have a drink named Arnold?” Then we get some dreidels for the ladies who dine.

We fill out the survey. It takes 5 minutes but we're in no rush.

THE VISIT WAS GREAT

The Hyatt lobby is fabulous. It's a huge shrine to the holidays. Icicles hanging from the rafters 100 feet above us.

HANDS UP. DO SHOOT. (OUCH)

Uptown walk passing glorious sights of SF’s Downtown.

Walking back to the Palace Hotel (once owned by Sheraton when I was an employee of its parent company, ITT, And where I sometimes stayed when in San Francisco--at $80 a night—even in a suite (I phoned Bob from the bathroom telephone—will wonders never cease) now it's $500 minimum for a standard room. I notice some men who I say look very intelligent. Owl glasses, beards, portfolios. They're probably hematologists. There's a convention here. He says we could pass for hematologists. “More we could pass for proctologists.” I say. “We could pass a proctology exam.” “Rather not,” he says. And by now we're seated at our favorite corner table at the Pied Piper Lounge at the Palace hotel as planned.

We order the well-remembered giant martinis (probably will cost a third mortgage) and cheeseburgers ($20 for a cheeseburger? If you can I guess.) It's after 2 pm so we're allowed to eat again. It's the holiday season and other feeble excuses. Having a good time.

I say we're happy. Having a great time. He says “Yes we both have our cell phones out. I'm glad I brought mine.” (There's a tone there.) I say I'm happy that you are occupied and are not impatient and angry with me. But why shouldn't I be, he asks. I think. That's worth reflection. “Ah because it makes me sad and I'm an emotional person.” (I've a new mantra now from my excuse for breaking down at my Speech at Danny's memorial. It's very satisfying and Bob knows I think it is. Ahem.) How we underestimated. The Martinis are only $13 apiece. That's class.

I realize it's been a rather large martini when my laugh arouses the attention of a man who looks like Sigmund Freud from something funny Bob says I think about gay men and their love of bling. (Of course he knows that the person sitting across from him is not immune to delight in glistening objects.)

WE'RE STAYING PUT

50% of the F trolley is crazy. There's a man at the driver's face laughing at each stop, rapping at him and refusing to get off. There's a woman who says to each passerby. "Get your hand from in front of my face. I feel your hand lady." Someone's playing music at high decibel. Tourists shift nervously and exchange furtive glances. Bob says the driver isn't friendly. Wonder why?

It's the city. It pulses.

We get off at the Safeway, a short walk from Beck's. A screw top cab (we didn't bring a corkscrew) some sandwiches and chips though we're certainly not hungry after our late lunch.

Are we in for the night? Nope. A little walk is in order as we approach 6 pm. "Get a little air", says Bob.

THE PRICE IS RIGHT

Pleasant stroll through the Castro, pleasant weather. Back to unwind (were we wound?) at 7. And pleasant too in one's Jammie's to have our vodka mini bottles from the Golden Princess suite (me) and the cab ((bob) with a shared chicken salad sandwich while watching Lawrence O'Donnell on MSNBC who doesn't declaim (like the Reverend) and is an adult.

Then Bob goes nuts with the remote trying to find the ultimate channel. I say. How about this one, how about that one. He says just keep your mouth shut and your eyes closed and everything will be alright. What am I a furry pet cat? But a protest in Berkeley intervenes and there's no escaping this, looks like this "die in" protest is a big deal. Bob says, "This is bad. These people don't know what they want." I think we do need a revolution. True it does require uniformity of vision not inchoate anger; It's not just law enforcement revision; it's addressing social disparity, primarily economic disparity. "Shouldn't these kids be taking their final exams?" This from Bob, former dean.

G'night.

TUESDAY. DEC 9.

Open the curtains. It's been raining. And now it's -surprise - misty out. But since SF is so not Southern California the weather condition is exotic, nice even. Perfect for snuggling, which occurs (why it shouldn't?).

BOB'S MORNING MUST-HAVE

I'm using the Yiddish American cadence because I've been reading from my Old Jews Telling Jokes book.

Bob wonders why I'm laughing so hard and I read him jokes. I read him those jokes and he doesn't laugh. Death jokes. Mother jokes. How can you resist? I say maybe it's the way I tell them. He agrees. I'm mightily offended. I taunt him and tell him I'm going to tell him a joke a day, every single day. That'll get him.

    On TV there's a Viagra ad. The spokeswoman says beguilingly, “Sometimes a woman likes to curl up with a favorite book. But a woman prefers to curl up with a favorite man”. I say to Bob do you prefer to curl up with me? “Prefer to what?” "Your favorite man." Bob. "I see. This is gonna be a day of jokes."

On the news, release of the congressional report on CIA torture techniques. Cheney, again big surprise, says "It's a crock."

Then it's Senator Feinstein delivering the scathing and damning summary report on so-called EIT's. She has a, pardon, hard on against the CIA. McCain jumps aboard. A rare moment when he sounds statesmanlike and principled.

This is an important issue.

Like good soldiers we deposit our bags at the Beck's office at 11 freeing us to march around Castro. Let's see, need an assignment. Buy earbuds at Castro's venerable store, once Cliff's Hardware now Cliff's Variety--and variety it is. Earbuds bought. No longer need to plug into the elliptical machine a purloined airline single ear set which, rather  short, threatens to realign my spine. Rummage through the campy aisles of the campy Cliffs annex. Strolling up the Avenue I see one gay man comforting another--the theme, if one will, of this trip continues. How many of those sympathetic hugs have occurred on this street epitomizing community but also broken dreams and heartache.

"Catch" on Market opens for lunch at 11:30 so we're there shortly after having perused the fabulous Castro Theatre's schedule. Great if we could have such an institution in San Diego and see that camp favorite Ed Wood any old time.

I try Bob's pizza. Velly nice. Bob notes of the little clams (Linguine, clams, fennel, red bell peppers and white wine sauce--I'm not in love with it but the ingredients are fresh and I still rate this as a very good restaurant) on my dish that “For that you got a penny and a half apiece?” referring to the time after I graduated from college that my friends and I became professional clam diggers in Long Beach New Jersey for a penny and a half a clam. He knows the stories. Of course there's been a little inflation since 1963. Wow. 51 years ago. And yes I missed my big college alumni reunion.  I explain that clams depending on region vary in size.

We note en passant that Danny's memorial excursion cost us a cool (whoever's the president on a thousand dollar bill. [Prof. Google says it is Grover Cleveland. Who knew?]). Danny always had expensive tastes.

Bob says of the Chinese family of five trying to take a selfie, go over there and volunteer--which I do. Bob's a thoughtful guy. Hope I held steady.

Rafaelle is our Lyfte driver and he's very pleasant. So far it's been working except that Lyfte identified our location as across the street and I need to call him to let him know where we are and still I don't get an estimate of the fare though I think we are supposed to. Like our first driver Chuck he does this part time. His real job is as an orchid grower for a firm in SF which he says is classier than the one he worked at in San Diego. I'm sitting in the front seat and we have a discussion about orchids. Mention our visit to the Singapore orchid gardens; he acknowledges that Singapore has the best growing conditions.

Here we are in the San Francisco American Express Centurian Lounge--still in the United terminal--we could have had lunch here, there's all kinds of gourmet tidbits and our chardonnays as Bob says are "much better than I had at the restaurant". They've a gourmet chef and mixologist for the cocktails. OMG. Next time in SF (it will be next August on the way to and from Japan) we'll be in the know.

COMPLIMENTS TO YOUR TAILOR

Much conversation among other guests on how good this club is compared to the United one which several years ago said Sally bar the door to us Platinums. I ask a very open guy about the new clubs and he rattles them off--apparently a frequent flyer. It's obviously an AMEX finger in the eye of UA. We'll await news of the new lounges. (It's a hobby). They've even got a wine tasting machine--but we're content after two glasses, a lemon cake and me--hey it's there--chocolate and almond whip in a glass with a tiny spoon for the luscious bites of which I was just going to take one. Oy.

Amazing that this flight which is only less than 2/3 full affords us no space for our carry-ons. Attendants  wheel them off. Seat mate asks why they are asking for our last names. I say they are taking our luggage off and are going to throw them in the sea. He says "Wow". O ... K. I think he's watching cartoons on his mobile.

Back home. Quite a time and though much happened, we did—we do—remember Danny.