George Thomas Clark
Death of a Teacher
Immersed in my own trivial but heartfelt concerns, the principal of which was that my six-week summer vacation had, as ever, lasted at least a fortnight too long and, despite a couple of stimulating vacations, left me feeling isolated and resentful and anxious to return to the camaraderie and energy of a large adult school.…
Read MoreImpressions of Madrid
Would I ever want to live in Madrid? I didn’t know. I hadn’t been there so before going prepared vigorously, studying maps and scouring cyberspace and printing out stacks of material that bulged from three folders. In Madrid I annotated my reference material and encouraged local citizens to also do so. I jumped into dozens…
Read MoreDining at the Hotel Ritz in Madrid
The double-deck tour bus with top open had just completed its modern Madrid route north of downtown on shady Paseo del Prado into the chic Salamanca neighborhood where renowned Real Madrid plays soccer in a massive stadium and the most exclusive shops are found, and then back down Calle Serrano past several elegant foreign embassies…
Read MoreWillie Mays is Eighty
I can recall no adolescent experiences nearly as vivid and pleasurable as going to Candlestick Park, that cold and blustery point on San Francisco Bay, and watching Willie Mays play baseball. I first saw him live the last game of the 1962 season. With but three games to play, the San Francisco Giants had come…
Read MoreThe Eternal Jack Lalanne
On a fall late afternoon in 1975 I was watching the news when legendary master of fitness Jack Lalanne celebrated his sixty-first birthday by performing a physical feat unimaginable to most. For the ensuing thirty-five years I recalled that he’d swum handcuffed from Alcatraz Island to Fisherman’s Wharf while towing a thousand-pound boat. But, reviewing…
Read MoreLetter to my Cable Company
Dear Cable Company, Please excuse me for annually asking you to send a technician to upgrade my service from a “limited-basic” menu of twenty-one channels to the still-merely-“basic” package of seventy-five, and then a few months later recalling your cable guy, always a different one, to climb the telephone pole in my back yard and…
Read MoreShooting Baskets in Dreams
Generation after Hal moved from two small dingy rooms connected to old house in battery-stealing part of town, he thought dreams had disappeared so was saddened to see himself there shooting baskets. Old friend sat behind and watched errant shots. Damn ceiling’s too low to shoot right. Friend should’ve agreed but only stared as Hal…
Read MoreSkipping Toll on the Golden Gate Bridge
Oh, what a foolish risk it was. It really should be illegal. I don’t know why it isn’t. All rational people understand it’s dangerous to drive while listening to Jim Morrison sing “Light My Fire.” Actually, I had been thoroughly reasonable all day, easing out of my motel in San Francisco and carefully driving through…
Read MoreHistorian Offers to Write Screenplay about Hitler Here
How pleased I recently was to receive an email with the subject “Screenplay” and addressed to “Illustrious Sir”. The correspondent introduced himself with news he’d been reading my biographical novel Hitler Here and thought it was “great” and “what an ordeal (I) must have gone through to produce it.” Since the book took twenty years…
Read MoreSpeeding on Interstate 5
For three days Robert chased fun in the Bay Area then realized he had nowhere to go but the home he’d been so anxious to leave. Driving back on blistered and dreary Interstate 5, he repeatedly inserted and ejected rock and classical CDs that no longer roused but irritated and urged him to conclude seventy…
Read MorePreps Speed in Beautiful Fresno
Don’t roar by Fresno on Highway 99, especially if you’ve just come up from Bakersfield. Head east on Highway 180 through a growing city then turn north on 186 until you exit and move into leafy suburban Clovis highlighted with custom homes and spotless stores and offices. Then follow temporary signs where to park for…
Read MoreThe Moth Strikes
Jason felt foul and too tired to get up when the radio alarmed so he slapped it and cursed the world he still had to wake early because when young he hadn’t done what later enables middle-age men to rise when they want. On aching feet and tender ankles he stepped to the closet, retrieving…
Read MoreEdna Wallace: 1916-2009
This is a tribute I wrote for a family anthology about my Aunt Edna Wallace, whose memorial tribute is Saturday One of my most exciting memories as a kid came when I was about 12 in the mid-1960’s and visited the Wallaces in big L.A. I thought it was cool I had an aunt, Edna,…
Read MoreElbow Revolt
Late last summer my left elbow all at once began aching when I dressed and undressed or opened and closed a door. It groaned during light exercises, throbbed as I sat with bent arms poised over the computer keyboard, and wailed in the bleak hours of night. You can no longer deny it’s a problem,…
Read MoreCrisis in the Sink
Harold wasn’t going to let them blame this crisis on shoddy housekeeping. Granted, the aged food covered with starving ants on the floor between refrigerator and cabinet must have been his responsibility since he didn’t see anyone else throw it there and couldn’t plausibly explain who might’ve committed such an act. That, at any rate,…
Read MoreTaxi Tips In Mexico City
In order to help you avoid being overcharged, introduced to sexy but unscrupulous companions, ensnared in business ventures by smooth talkers, or kidnapped and robbed, I have compiled a nearly foolproof list of advice about how to deal with Mexico City taxi drivers, who, during my several trips to this magnetic metropolis, have been unsuccessful…
Read MoreA World of Protests in Mexico City
“To the Museum of Modern Art, please,” I told the taxi driver. “I can’t go there. The street’s closed.” “Paseo de la Reforma?” “That’s right.” “What’s going on?” “A big demonstration.” “What are they protesting?” “Don’t know. I can’t keep track of all the protests.” “Please drive as close as you can, and I’ll walk…
Read MoreThe Ant versus the Spider
Harold’s apartment was small and messy. He hadn’t vacuumed the faded green carpet in weeks and its odor suggested dampness and rot. Even more distressing, books new and worn, tall and short, hardcover and paperback huddled in too many bookshelves, and papers were strewn all over a large drafting board, and all that was a…
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