Three Good Things:

1. My local bank does not have bulletproof glass in it.  It’s quaint, and I like it.  I do my business banking in Oakland, where I’m separated from the tellers by a thick layer of bulletproof glass.  Most banks I’ve been in are like this.  In fact, now that I think about it, I feel a bit vulnerable without the glass, like the tellers could pull glocks on me at any moment.  But I already know what I’d say: “this doesn’t have to end badly.  I’m reaching for my wallet.  You can have my ATM card.  I’m guessing you already know my PIN number.”
2. The tall, skinny fast talking guy at the soup kitchen where I serve lunch once a week.  Yes, “fast talking” is a euphemism for “tweaker,” but since I don’t know that for sure, I just prefer to think of him as buoyant.  He always opens with the same line: “Positive people, man, you can’t beat ‘em.”  Coming from anybody else this trite nugget would sicken me.  Coming from him, it restores my faith in humanity.  Then he went on to tell me about how he used to show up at middle school with twenty to thirty thousand dollars in his pocket, and how he’s the captain of his own ship who goes to sleep when he wants and wakes up when he wants.  Aye, aye, cap’n!
3. I had not properly shut off the TV the other day – the satellite box was off, but the monitor was on – showing static.  My thirteen year old son came home, noticed the static, and tells me, “I hate this show.  The characters suck and the plot goes nowhere.”  I had the same notes.  Brought tears to my eyes.

Three Bad Things:

1. There’s a cool little boutique in Berkeley I love called Tail of the Yak.  The woman who owns it teaches calligraphy and all the stuff she sells is weird imports, like reproductions of illustrated insect guides from Victorian-era France.  But they keep short hours, so I checked on line to see when they opened.  Couldn’t find a listing for hours, but did get a phone number, which I put into my cell phone (my brilliant plan was to call first on my way home from Oakland, making sure they were open, so as not to waste time).  But for some reason I didn’t call first, went by anyway, and naturally it was closed.  This is how we Virgos torture ourselves: we get 90% anal about planning for something, then somehow flounder on the last 10%.  How Virgos ever find live-in girlfriends or spouses is beyond me.
2. Somehow caught ten minutes of Maury Povich in which former geeks have made themselves over into “cool hotties.”  One guy went from looking like a sweet kid with a slight monobrow to a hairless, oiled gay model.  Another woman went from being a chubby, insecure blonde to a plastic surgery disaster who gave obnoxious shout outs to her porn employer, Naughty America.  Next Maury brought out her best friend from high school, a girl who, despite having been popular back then, was nice to the chubby insecure girl.  She was shocked at her old friend’s transformation – positively shocked, ostensibly – although I’m certain I detected in her eyes a millisecond of disgust at her friend and despair at the human condition in general.   All I could think was, man, the unmade-over friend looks 100% better than the Barbie Doll.

3.  I ran into a neighbor of mine at the supermarket.  We don’t know each other that well, but our sons are friends, so it’s always been pleasant small talk at least.  But he seemed different that night.  He looked overwrought, exhausted.  After some small talk about the current cold snap, he asked me if I had heard the “update about Grace.”  Grace is his beautiful 16 month old daughter who everyone admires.  She’s absolutely beautiful, she dances to any beat, and she’s just…you wanna bite her cheeks.  But she’s been having trouble walking.  They thought it was “juvenile rheumatoid arthritis.”  (I didn’t know it existed, either).  But now the doctors aren’t so sure.  They gave her blood tests and her immune response is off the charts.  She has to go in for more tests.  They’re putting her under tomorrow to take a bone sample.  Jesus Christ.  I lamely offered to do anything I could.   She’s 16 months old.  She can’t even tell her dad what’s bothering her.  He feels powerless to help his own baby girl.  He told me all he wanted for Christmas was for the doctor’s to tell him it’s just arthritis.