Stakeout

It was a Sunday like any other Sunday, yet different.

I don't know what had cut into my early-morning dreams — perhaps the upstairs neighbor's fourth trip to the bathroom. More likely, it was two smacks against the pavement by tightly wound newsprint encapsulated by thin plastic. The Times and the Chronicle — they were like sausages tossed from a car to the entryway of my San Francisco apartment building but without the big, meaty mess.

As it was, the building’s not much to look at: three floors of wood and sea salt from the early 1960s, awaiting the next six-point-something so the owner could have it red-tagged, collect the insurance money and sell the hilltop lot to some tech tool.

But if you squinted long enough, through the fog and between the scaffolding of the million-dollar homes across the street, there was a view of the bay. You could even see Oakland’s Coliseum, not that you’d want to see what was going on inside.

The building’s got four units, including a home for me and my dame. She’s a lithesome blonde number, straight from one of those online catalogs. Yeah, she comes across all nicey-nice, but she's an ink-stained wretch like me.

But I didn't know her history when she walked into my office 22 years ago. She had legs like Lolo Jones and a voice like Bacall — measured, asking, but already knowing the answer.

"Are you, Ron?" she said.

I didn't look up from the computer terminal on what passed for a desk underneath piles of worn-out clichés, candy wrappers, yellow sticky notes and old newspapers covered with words printed so long ago even they had forgotten why the electrons were wasted on them.

Let's just say the cleaning lady didn't give a damn; neither did I.

Dangling like the participle on my screen, I let my pen hang from my mouth as I typed.

"That's what they call me."

I slowly hit the period key, finishing my sentence but knowing I could return for an umpteenth rewrite. "Just one of many things they call me."

My eyes finally fixed on the vehicle for that voice. I grinned at the doll.

"Of course," I said, grinning, "you can call me anything you wish."

Long and short of it, about a year later, she ended up calling me "husband." I liked the job and the benefits.

Yeah, a rug-rat eventually came along — a kid named Benny, who the stork plopped on our doorstep 12 years ago. He's a good kid. I only hope he can keep his nose clean in this snot-filled world.

Call me his tissue.

That's why I was on stakeout this particular Sunday. I had some cleanup work to do.

Someone had been stealing our Sunday newspapers, our little luxury in this hardscrabble world of sound bites, “likes” and retweets. I was here to make sure that didn't happen again.

Here's the skinny: The dame and I like to read. We like to be informed. We don't like it when someone tries to get the news for free.

You see, there are two kinds of stupid — one where a man takes off his clothes and dances naked in Dolores Park; the other when he does the same thing on your doorstep. The former you can ignore — after all, it is Dolores Park — the other you're kind of forced to deal with.

All of which parks my butt on this fake-marble stairway at 4:17 in the blessed a.m., trying to keep the naked man off my stoop.

You see, I'm a journalist — not a blogger, not a "citizen journalist" — and I get paid to cover the news.

Gubbio

Close your eyes, sleep.
Inside here, it still is dark.
It is safe — maybe not comfortable, but safe.
Take advantage of the shelter.
Rest.

No, that isn't Breadman. He'll come.
And breakfast is not far off,
Now … you must sleep.
Like a child.

Listen to The Snorer.
His uneven gasps punctuating
the stale, early-morning air.
(Giggle.)
I like your giggle; it gives me hope.
Now … listen to his snores, the uneven rhythm.
Up and down.
Let it rock you to sleep.
(Giggle.)

Please. Rest now.
The day, then the nigh
will push you away,
at least until tomorrow morning.
But you have hours left here.
In shelter.
In safety.
Close your eyes.
Sleep.

Running lessons for life

• Every uphill also is a downhill.

• The wind in your face one way will be at your back as you return.

• The hill in your way at one point protects you at another point.

Shattering the myths of the modern office

It all started when the Brown sisters fell off the wall.

San Francisco's geriatric, heavily madeup and seemingly omnipresent twins -- Marian and Vivian -- were dressed to the nines, smiling broadly for the camera. Their framed photo was a fixture atop the shelf of "The Happy Box," my editor's office/reservoir for dry cleaning. Steve never really used the office as offices are designed to be used. He preferred doing his business, so to speak, in his cubicle in the heart of the newsroom.

The Happy Box was for one-on-one meetings. Those could be viewed through the glass front by anyone who walked along the office's main hallway or by anyone who peered through a mysterious side-wall window. More often than not, they also could be heard by other parts of the newsroom, in part because Steve's tenor laugh -- typically accompanied by a "Boom, baby" and a high five -- would gush through the poorly constructed walls.

If ever I was an editor again, I vowed, I'd take a page from Steve's playbook. After all, he was my best boss: understanding, enthusiastic, funny and a barking news hound, as he would say in the ads he placed for reporters. His laissez-faire style suited me to a certain degree. Having no office -- no literal or figurative walls -- equaled enlightened leadership. I still believe that.

When I did leave the newspaper to take an editor job, however, I succumbed to the trappings of the office. The publisher and general manager had it all planned before I arrived. They ordered a huge desk for my spacious office that formed a peninsula for my chair, took up parts of two walls, partially covered a window and still left enough space in the room for a nursery or a small herd of grazing cows.

When I moved to another editorship, I was set up in a pseudo-office: four walls and a door but the walls went up only about 10 feet, so anything said in my glorified cubicle could easily be heard by anyone. In one of my more angry, insane moments, I tried to strip down the walls, much to the dismay of the co-workers to whom I wanted to be closer.

"Stay where you are, Ron. Really. Please," I'm sure they thought.

When I returned to San Francisco a few years later, Steve's office had officially been dubbed The Happy Box. I know not of the origin of the name, but with Steve leaving our flock in the next week, I'll have to ask.

I tend to believe that a new editor will be someone who uses his office more traditionally, and I -- and the staff as a whole -- am not taking well to the prospects of those changes.

"Change is a function of desire," a recent corporate webinar attempted to instill in us. I believe that is not true. Change is a function of good leadership and good, honest communication. Desire will follow.

After my dad died, and I broke down while telling Steve at his cubicle, Steve led me toward The Happy Box. He turned slightly at the door with his arms out. I took that opening to hug him. I remembered the pain he shared with me when his father-in-law passed away nearly a decade earlier. But maybe I hugged him because Steve shares a lot with my brother: They're both named Steve, they're tall, lanky dudes in their 50s with a carefree veneer and a penchant for the wacky. Starting in a few days, too, they'll both be unemployed, though hardly unemployable.

Mind you, I've seen people leave The Happy Box unhappily. Myself and a real estate reporter were summoned there after we were scooped by the Chronicle on a story about the owner of the Bank of America building putting the San Francisco landmark on the market. We don't get beaten by the Chronicle, Steve would say, much less on a real estate story. How could this happen? he wanted to know. What are you going to do about it now?

I was just the banking reporter, I remember thinking, there's no way after arriving in San Francisco a little more than a year before that I had the sources to get that story. My bad, yes; my fault, no -- so I pondered more on the what-are-we-doing-to-do-now aspect.

Our real estate reporter caught the brunt of Steve's rare reproach. But that's OK; that was 2000, and The Happy Box wasn't known as The Happy Box at the time.

Actually, I focused more on Steve's picture of the Brown twins. There was something reassuring about them, dressed in the way that people would walk around town in the 1950s or '60s. They were the twins that time forgot. Getting out for the Brown twins was about the adventure, not the functional or mundane. Look your best. Have fun. Let people take your picture.

So when someone closed the door to The Happy Box a few months ago and the frame holding the photo of the Brown twins slipped off the shelf and suddenly crashed to the floor, it was the end of an era. The photo was safe, but the glass was shattered, and everyone knew Steve wouldn't get a new frame.

My bicycling - 2013

My goal for 2013 is 500 bike miles. I put in close to 45 miles in mid-July alone -- making up for lost time.

Dec. 1 6.65 (518.98) in 40:34 / 9.83 mph / 929' elevation - SportsBasement-CrissyFieldAve-Lincoln-BatteryEast-Merchant-Lincoln-Presidio-Arguello-Conservatory-KezarDrive-Frederick-Home

Dec. 1 6.91 (512.33) in 31:06 / 13.32 mph / 510' elevation - Home-KezarDrive-Arguello-Presidio-Lincoln-McDowell-OldMason-SportsBasement

Nov. 30 6.97 (505.42) in 34:41 / 12.06 mph / 844' elevation - Work-Market-Wiggle-Home

Nov. 26 4.8 (498.45) in 31:21 / 9.18 mph / 501' elevation - Grattan-Haight-Wiggle-Market-Sansome-Work

Nov. 23 15.87 (493.65) in 1:26:24 / 11.02 mph / 2,196' elevation - HawkHill-GGBridge-Presidio(LincolnBlvd-McDowellAve)-LegionofHonor-CliffHouse-GGPark-Frederick-Home

Nov. 23 9.76 (477.78) in 53:14 / 11.0 mph / 1,583' elevation - Home-Frederick-GGPark-Arguello-Presidio-GGBridge-HawkHill

Nov. 20 1.38 (468.02) in 12:29 / 6.64 mph / 364' elevation - Church-Home

Nov. 20 5.2 (464.64) in ~35:00 / ?? mph / ??' elevation - Work-Market-Wiggle-Panhandle-Church

Nov. 13 3.77 (459.44) in 25:47 / 8.77 mph / 414' elevation - Home-Work

Nov. 10 1.7 (455.67) in 15:00 / ?? mph / ??' elevation - Church-Home

Nov. 10 6.57 (453.97) in 34:50 / 11.31 mph / 658' elevation - Work-Market-Wiggle-Panhandle-Church

Nov. 10 5.35 (447.40) in 30:58 / 10.38 mph / 496' elevation - Church-Panhandle-Wiggle-Market-Work

Nov. 10 1.68 (442.05) in 8:38 / 11.69 mph / 40' elevation - Home-Church

Nov. 4 6.54 (440.37) in 36:06 / 10.87 mph / 810' elevation - Work-Market-Wiggle-Panhandle-Home

Nov. 4 6.94 (433.83) in 37:48 / 11.01 mph / 602' elevation - Work-Embarcadero-Fisherman's Wharf-Cow Hollow

Oct. 29 4.68 (426.89) in 29:38 / 9.47 mph / 466' elevation - Home-Work

Oct. 26 11.98 (422.21) in 1:13:13 / 9.82 mph / 1,328' elevation - Work-Sansome-Embarcadero-Ft.Mason-MarinaGreen-Presidio-GGBridge-Arguello-GGPark-Home

Oct. 24 4.03 (410.23) in 24:24 / 9.92 mph / 388' elevation - Home-Work

Oct. 23 5.58 (406.20) in 41:53 / 8.00 mph / 838' elevation - YMCA-Home

Oct. 23 1.57 (400.62) in 4:55 / 19.19 mph / 150' elevation - Work-YMCA

Oct. 18 4.86 (399.05) in 29:30 / 9.88 mph / 465' elevation - Grattan-Haight-Duboce-Market-Work

Oct. 17 6.00 (394.19) in 37:03 / 9.72 mph / 802' elevation - Work-Wiggle-Home

Oct. 17 3.91 (388.19) in 24:10 / 9.70 mph / 425' elevation - Home-Work

Oct. 15 9.39 (384.28) in 53:51 / 10.46 mph / 988' elevation - Work-Wiggle-GG Park(Crossover)-Home

Oct. 10 7.64 (374.89) in 27:02 / 16.97 mph / 606' elevation - Home-Work

Oct. 6 1.94 (367.25) in 12:48 / 9.10 mph / 402' elevation - Church-Home

Oct. 6 6.48 (365.31) in 31:55 / 12.18 mph / 854' elevation - Work-Wiggle-Church

Oct. 6 4.97 (358.83) in 20:08 / 14.81 mph / 442' elevation - Home-Work

Oct. 4 6.23 (353.86) in 32:31 / 11.48 mph / 654' elevation - Work-Wiggle-Home

Oct. 4 6.91 (347.63) in 25:45 / 16.11 mph / 552' elevation - Home-Work

Oct. 1 7.19 (340.72) in 35:40 / 12.10 mph / 784' elevation - Work-Wiggle-Home

Sept. 30 5.21 (333.53) in 24:37 / 12.69 mph / 566' elevation - Home-work

Sept. 27 16.73 (328.32) in 1:50:43 / 9.07 mph / 1,707' elevation - Critical Mass-home

Sept. 23 6.03 (311.59) in 24:45 / 14.61 mph / 640' elevation - Home-work

Sept. 22 13.00 (305.56) in 1:08:38 / 12.17 mph / 924' elevation - Church-Great Highway/Sloat-home (Distance inaccurate - GPS going crazy.)

Sept. 22 1.70 (292.56) in 9:48 / 10.37 mph / 36' elevation - Home-church

Sept. 21 6.06 (290.86) in 33:49 / 10.76 mph / 647' elevation - Work-Wiggle-Home

Sept. 17 4.6 (284.8) in 19:27 / 14.2 mph / 423' elevation - Home-YMCA

Sept. 16 6.66 (280.2) in 35:33 / 11.24 mph / 854' elevation - Work-Wiggle-Home

Sept. 16 5.58 (273.54) in 23:55 / 14 mph / 464' elevation - Home-14th-Market-Work

Sept. 13 7.58 (267.96) in 37:13 / 12.22 mph / 873' elevation - Work-Wiggle-Home

Sept. 12 3.66 (260.38) in 26:59 / 8.14 mph / 402' elevation - Home-14th-Market-Work

Sept. 4 7.28 (253.75) in 23:23 / 18.66 mph / xxxx' elevation - Home-YMCA

Aug. 30 5.95 (246.47) in 41:09 / 8.67 mph / 1,076' elevation - Work-Wiggle-Home

Aug. 20 5.64 (240.52) in 25:45 / 13.14 mph / xxxx' elevation - Home-YMCA

Aug. 15 5.01 (234.88) in 22:39 / 13.28 mph / xxxx' elevation - Home-YMCA

Aug. 14 6.19 (229.87) in 36:37 / 10.15 mph / 833' elevation - Work-Wiggle-Home

Aug. 6 4.02 (223.68) in 23:50 / 10.13 mph / 643' elevation - Home-YMCA

Aug. 3 15.27 (219.66) in 2:06:13 / 7.26 mph / 1,214' elevation - Home-Frederick-GGPark-GreatHwy-Sloat-reverse-home

Aug. 3 1.59 (204.39) in 10:56 / 8.73 mph / 335' elevation - Church-Frederick-home

Aug. 3 1.77 (202.80) in 8:12 / 12.94 mph / 36' elevation - Home-Frederick-church

Aug. 2 5.43 (201.03) in 35:42 / 9.13 mph / 883' elevation - Work-home

July 22 4.11 (195.6) in 23:53 / 10.3 mph / 564' elevation - Market Street-YMCA

July 19 4.72 (191.49) in 35:17 / 8.0 mph / 810' elevation - 16th/Vermont-home

July 19 4.03 (186.77) in 26:03 / 9.3 mph / 719' elevation - Work-Third Street-16th-Vermont

July 19 6.48 (182.74) in 36:49 / 10.6 mph / 1,490' elevation - JPMurphy-Market St-work

July 19 2.74 (176.26) in 30:17 / 5.4 mph / 1,161' elevation - Home-JPMurphy (w/ Benny)

July 18 5.68 (173.52) in 37:06 / 9.2 mph / 1,873' elevation - Work-home

July 18 9.0 (167.84) in 44:30 / 12.1 mph / 1,043' elevation - JPMurphy-Presidio-YMCA

July 18 2.59 (158.84) in 30:56 / 5.0 mph / 994' elevation - Home-JPMurphy (w/ Benny)

July 17 5.25 (156.25) in 33:16 / 9.5 mph / 922' elevation - Work-home

July 16 4.14 (151.00) in 24:32 / 10.1 mph / 630' elevation - Market Street-YMCA

July 12 9.42 (146.86) in 55:49 / 10.1 mph / 2,316' elevation - Work-GG Park-home

July 10 4.15 (137.44) in 24:13 / 10.3 mph / 577' elevation - Market Street-YMCA

July 8 5.34 (133.29) in 35:43 / 9.0 mph / 1,306' elevation - Work-home

July 8 4.24 (127.95) in 24:15 / 10.5 mph / 906' elevation - Market Street-YMCA

July 7 5.02 (123.71) in 44:28 / 6.8 mph / 1,125' elevation - Near GG Bridge-home (w/ Benny)

July 7 6.2 (118.69) in 48:52 / 7.6 mph / 1,122' elevation - Home-GG Bridge (w/ Benny)

July 6 8.0 (112.49) in 1:04:40 / 7.4 mph / 1,519' elevation - Home-GG Park

July 5 5.21 (104.49) in 37:26 / 8.3 mph / 1,414' elevation - Work-home

May 8 5.2 (99.28) in 41:40 / 7.5 mph / 538' elevation - Market Street-work

April 9 12.5 (94.06) in 1:05:23 / 11.5 mph / 928' elevation - Home-GG Park-Great Highway-GG Park-Market St.-work

April 6 4.6 (81.56) in 33:27 / 8.2 mph / 856' elevation - YMCA-Market St.-partial Wiggle-Haight-Buena Vista

April 6 4.1 (76.96) in 22:54 / 10.7 mph / 312' elevation - Market Street-YMCA

April 2 8.9 (72.86) in 1:06:03 / 8.1 mph / 1010' elevation - FinDist-Wharf-CowHollow-Presidio-Arguello-home

March 25 3.6 (63.96) in 22:10 / 9.8 mph / 420' elevation - Market Street-work

March 24 2.1 (60.36) in 17:51 / 7.1 mph / 62' elevation - Home-Rossi Park

March 22 5.0 (58.26) in 34:12 / 8.8 mph / 755' elevation - Work-Wiggle-home

March 10 9.45 (53.26) in 1:27:44 / 6.5 mph / 755' elevation - Embarcadero Sunday Streets

March 8 3.95 (43.81) in 21:48 / 10.8 mph / n/a elevation - Market Street-work

March 3 8.82 (39.86) in 1:19:53 / 6.6 mph / n/a elevation - Seventh Avenue-Golden Gate Park-home

March 3 1.81 (31.04) in 38:20 / 5.3 mph / n/a elevation - Home-Seventh Avenue

March 1 5.27 (29.23) in 38:20 / 8.2 mph / n/a elevation - Work-Wiggle-home

Feb. 26 3.8 (23.96) in 28:00 / n/a mph / n/a elevation - Market Street-work

Feb. 17 5.3 (20.16) in 35:41 / n/a mph / n/a elevation - Golden Gate Park

Feb. 17 3.6 (14.86) in 21:25 / n/a mph / n/a elevation - Golden Gate Park

Feb. 7 1.57 (11.26) in 15:30 / n/a mph / n/a elevation - Seventh Ave.-Parnassus-home

Feb. 7 5.71 (9.69) in 36:00 / n/a mph / n/a elevation - Work-Wiggle-Seventh Ave.

Jan. 2 3.98 (3.98) in 22:36 / n/a mph / n/a elevation - Market Street-work

My running - 2013

Nothing more here than my mileage for the day (and my year-to-date mileage). Snoozer city, really, but it's as good a way to keep track of it as any.

Dec. 28 10.42 (506.57) in 1:44:10 / 10:00 avg. (GPS inaccurate) - 934' - Home-Panhandle-GGPark-Ocean-Panhandle(all)-Baker-BuenaVistaTerrace-UpperTerrace

Dec. 23 10.36 (496.15) in 1:41:22 / 9:47 avg. (GPS inaccurate) - 930' - Home-Mt.Olympus-Panhandle-GGPark-GreatHwy

Dec. 20 9.1 (485.79) in 1:17:35 / 8:32 avg. (GPS inaccurate) - 446' - YMCA-Embarcadero-AquaticPier-FortMason-CrissyField

Dec. 15 9.3 (476.69) in 1:32:53 / 9:59 avg. - 861' - Home-Panhandle-GoldenGatePark-Ocean

Dec. 13 5.52 (467.39) in 55:35 / 10:04 avg. - 522' - Home-Panhandle-GoldenGatePark-Transverse

Dec. 4 3.71 (461.87) in 28:36 / 7:42 avg. - 220' - YMCA-Embarcadero-AT&TPark

Dec. 1 3.29 (458.16) in 30:15 / 9:11 avg. - 225' - CrissyField (Run Wild SF 5K, official time: 27:20 or 8:48 avg)

2013: 206th of 1,051 overall; 126th of 411 males; 33rd of 103 in M40-49; 48th of 181 masters

2012: 29:55 or 9:38 avg; 400th of 1,112 overall; 242nd of 438 males; 66th of 103 M40-49; 113th of 204 masters

Nov. 28 2.66 (454.87) in 28:23 / 10:40 avg. - 544' - CityHall-Polk-Market-14th-BuenaVista-BuenaVistaEast-UpperTerrace-Home

Nov. 28 3.95 (452.21) in 29:36 / 7:30 avg. - 379' - 3rd-King-Embarcadero-Howard-7th-McAllister-Hyde-Fulton (Turkey Day 5K, official time: 29:06)

Nov. 28 4.28 (448.26) in 40:02 / 9:20 avg. - 143' - Home-CliffordTerr-steps-VulcanSteps-17th-Market-Noe-17th-Mississippi-16th-UCSF-4th/South-TerryFrancois (to start of Turkey Day 5K)

Nov. 25 6.18 (443.98) in 59:18 / 9:35 avg. - 599' - Home-KezarSteps-KezarDrive-AcademyofScience-Panhandle-Baker-BuenaVista-UpperTerrace-MountOlympus

Nov. 22 4.66 (437.8) in 44:06 / 9:28 avg. - 410' - Home-KezarSteps-KezarDrive-Panhandle-Baker-BuenaVista-UpperTerrace

Nov. 18 4.27 (433.14) in 39:05 / 9:09 avg. - 390' - Home-Panhandle-MusicConcourseDrive (cramping calf)

Nov. 12 3.04 (428.87) in 27:46 / 9:08 avg. - 267' - Home-Frederick-Kezar steps-Home

Nov. 9 7.03 (425.83) in 1:05:29 / 9:19 avg. - 579' - Home-Frederick-Kezar(closed)-GGPark-bridge-Panhandle-Masonic-UpperTerrace

Oct. 30 12.69 (418.80) in 2:09:28 / 10:12 avg. - 1,487' - Home-Panhandle-Arguello-Presidio-GGBridge (first tower)

Oct. 26 5.24 (406.11) in 52:35 / 10:03 avg. - 556' - Home-Masonic-Sacramento-Work

Oct. 20 9.85 (400.87) in 1:33:37 / 9:30 avg. - 927' - Home-GGPark-GreatHighway

Oct. 17 5.03 (391.02) in 40:09 / 7:59 avg. - 293' - YMCA-Embarcadero-4th St.-Terry Francois

Oct. 12 10.57 (385.99) in 1:35:58 / 9:05 avg. - 1,034' - Home-Arguello-Presidio-Lincoln Blvd.

Oct. 6 6.79 (375.42) in 1:00:27 / 8:54 avg. - 368' - YMCA-Embarcardero-Fort Mason-MarinaGreen (Bridge-to-Bridge run) Official Info: 57:50 chip time / 9:19 Compared to 2012: 1:06:56 chip time /

Sept. 29 9.4 (368.63) in 1:31:21 / 9.45 avg. - YMCA-Embarcardero-Fort Mason (GPS had 10.24 miles.)

Sept. 26 6.40 (359.23) in 1:00:04 / 9:23 avg. - YMCA-Embarcardero-Fort Mason (Questionable GPS mileage)

Sept. 21 3.64 (352.83) in 38:51 / 10:40 avg. - Home-Roosevelt-14th-Market

Sept. 21 1.45 (349.19) in 11:55 / 8:13 avg. - Home-Roosevelt-Buena Vista Terrace

Sept. 14 5.18 (347.74) in 50:49 / 9:49 avg. - Camp Meeker-Occidental (Sonoma County)

Sept. 9 5.69 (342.56) in 50:58 / 8:58 avg. - YMCA-Embarcadero-Fort Mason

Sept. 6 6.35 (336.87) in 1:00:09 / 9:28 avg. - Home-Twin Peaks-O'Shaughnessy-Piedmont Terrace

Sept. 1 5.53 (330.52) in 54:21 / 9:50 avg. - Home-Twin Peaks-Portola/Woodside-Piedmont Terrace

August 28 5.69 (324.99) in 39:58 / 7:01 avg. (gotta be wrong!) - Y-Embarcadero-4th-Terry Francois

August 18 12.77 (319.3) in 1:58:18 / 9:16 avg. - Home-GG Bridge (first tower)-Mt Olympus

August 14 9.6 (306.53) in 1:25:40 / 8:55 avg. - Home-GG Park-Great Highway

August 8 4.29 (296.93) in 42:33 / 9:55 avg. - Home-GG Park-just past DeYoung

August 4 9.17 (292.64) in 1:27:24 / 9:32 avg. - Home-Presidio (Immigrant Point overlook)

August 1 5.60 (283.47) in 52:51 / 9:27 avg. - Home-Twin Peaks-Portola/Woodside-Piedmont Terrace

July 30 5.63 (277.87) in 51:44 / 9:11 avg. - Home-Panhandle-GG Park-Transverse Drive

July 24 5.77 (272.24) in 54:13 / 9:24 avg. - Home-Twin Peaks-Portola/Woodside-Roosevelt

July 21 7.32 (266.47) in 1:09:01 / 9:26 avg. - Home-Panhandle-Spreckels Lake

July 14 11.68 (259.15) in 1:48:14 / 9:16 avg. - Home-Panhandle-Arguello-Presidio-GG Bridge

July 10 4.54 (247.47) in 39:38 / 8:44 avg. - YMCA-Embarcadero-AT&T Park-McCovey Cove-Mission Bay Blvd.-Fourth Street-Mission Creek

July 2 9.49 (242.93) in 1:28:50 / 9:22 avg. - Home-Panhandle-Arguello-Presidio-Immigrant Point

July 2 6.66 (233.44) in 1:04:49 / 9:44 avg. - Home-Panhandle-Arguello-Presidio

June 27 5.39 (226.74) in 54:46 / 10:10 avg. - Home-Twin Peaks-Portola/Woodside

June 22 5.97 (221.35) in 1:02:42 / 10:30 avg. - Home-Panhandle-Arguello-Presidio

June 17 1.64 (215.38) in 20:52 / 12:43 avg. - Paris: Apartment-Tuileries Gardens-Place de la Concorde-Tuileries Gardens-Apartment (w/ Benny)

June 13 5.72 (213.74) in 58:40 / 10:16 avg. - Paris: Apartment-Rue de Rivoli-Place de la Concorde-Champs Élysées-Arc de Triomphe-Eiffel Tower-Quai d'Orsay-Pont de la Concorde-Tuileries Gardens-Apartment

June 9 3.61 (208.02) in 35:39 / 9:52 avg. - Canterbury, England

June 1 5.10 (204.41) in 47:05 / 9:14 avg. - YMCA-Embarcadero-AT&T Park-McCovey Cove-Mission Bay Blvd.-Fourth Street-Mission Creek

May 27 4.65 (199.31) in 41:55 / 9:00 avg. - YMCA-Embarcadero-AT&T Park-McCovey Cove-Mission Bay Blvd.-Fourth Street-Mission Creek

May 19 7.73 (194.66) in 1:12:11 / 9:20 avg. - Bay to Breakers: 3,629th of 22,467 (officially 7.46 miles in 1:10:37 or 9:29 pace)

May 12 7.41 (186.93) in 1:12:31 / 9:47 avg. - Home-Panhandle-Arguello-Presidio

May 5 8.37 (179.52) in 1:22:20 / 9:50 avg. - Home-Panhandle-Arguello-Presidio

May 3 5.55 (171.15) in 56:36 / 10:12 avg. - Home-Panhandle-GG Park-Hellmann Hollow

April 29 4.24 (165.6) in 38:04 / 8:58 avg. - St. Joseph, MI: YMCA-Hollywood-Glenlord-Washington-Maiden Lane

April 27 3.1 (161.36) in 26:51 / 8:39 avg. - Benton Harbor, MI: SuperHero 5K: Riverview Drive-high school

April 24 3.80 (158.26) in 36:44 / 9:40 avg. - Chicago: Wabash/Madison-Grant Park-Navy Pier

April 22 0.85 (154.46) in 8:34 / 10:05 avg. - Chicago: Grant Park to Wabash/Madison

April 22 3.13 (153.61) in 26:41 / 8:32 avg. - Chicago: Astellas 5K in Grant Park

April 22 1.04 (150.48) in 9:53 / 9:32 avg. - Chicago: Wabash/Madison-Art Institute-Balbo/Columbus

April 18 3.15 (149.44) in 29:19 / 9:00 avg. - YMCA-Embarcardero-Fourth/King-AT&T Park

April 16 6.14 (146.29) in 1:01:04 / 9:57 avg. - Home-Panhandle-GG Park-Hellmann Hollow

April 11 9.41 (140.15) in 1:30:42 / 9:39 avg. - Home-Panhandle-GG Park-Great Hwy

April 4 8.38 (130.74) in 1:20:05 / 9:33 avg. - Embarcadero-pier-Crissy Field

March 29 6.36 (122.36) in 1:00:27 / 9:30 avg. - Embarcadero-pier-Fort Mason

March 23 5.15 (116.0) in 51:58 / 10:06 avg. - Twin Peaks

March 15 3.8 (110.85) in 35:50 / 9:26 avg. - Hellman Meadow-Great Highway

March 14 3.18 (107.05) in 27:50 / 8:45 avg. - Embarcadero-AT&T Park

March 9 6.52 (103.87) in 1:01:04 / 9:22 avg. - Golden Gate Park-30th Ave.

March 5 6.56 (97.35) in 1:02:28 / 9:32 avg. - Golden Gate Park-30th Ave.

March 2 4.77 (90.79) in 53:09 / 11:08 avg. - Corbett-Glen Canyon

Feb. 23 5.28 (86.02) in 52:06 / 9:52 avg. - Twin Peaks

Feb. 17 6.73 (80.74) in 59:58 / 8:54 avg. - Chinatown-North Beach-Embarcadero Chinatown YMCA 10K

Feb. 13 6.54 (74.01) in 1:02:39 / 9:34 avg. - Golden Gate Park-30th Ave.

Feb. 10 7.46 (67.47) in 1:16:40 / 10:17 avg. - Arguello-Presidio

Feb. 3 13.69 (60.01) in 2:35:16 / 11:21 avg. - Golden Gate Park-Great Highway Kaiser Half-Marathon Official result: 13.1 in 2:31:34 / 11:34 avg.

Jan. 28 4.0 (46.32) in 44:17 / 11:05 avg. - Twin Peaks

Jan. 25 9.98 (42.32) in 1:51:06 / 11:08 avg. - Embarcadero: Y-Fort Point

Jan. 21 9.23 (32.34) in 1:32:36 / 10:02 avg. - Golden Gate Park to ocean

Jan. 19 6.07 (21.11) in 1:06:10 / 10:54 avg. - Arguello-Presidio

Jan. 6 5.26 (17.04) in 53:34 / 10:11 avg. - Twin Peaks

Jan. 4 6.51 (11.78) in 1:00:41 / 9:10 avg. - Embarcardero: Y-Fort Mason

Jan. 1 5.27 (5.27) in 57:25 / 10:54 avg. - Twin Peaks

Thank you, Louis Simpson

Tonight's news that the poet Louis Simpson had died returned me to the second floor of the Shaman Drum bookstore in downtown Ann Arbor. Mr. Simpson was giving a poetry reading, but I was in attendance for a purely selfish reason: My professor, who had brought Mr. Simpson to Ann Arbor, had selected one of my poems and that of another student at Eastern Michigan University for Mr. Simpson to read and critique.

A Pulitzer Prize winner … reading my poem … and then giving his thoughts on what I had written. I was puffed up, ready to hear Mr. Simpson praise my poetry as the ripplings of the literary world's next tidal wave. He must, he would say, read more.

And in Ann Arbor, to boot. This was not Ypsilanti, or even Detroit. This was the center of the academic and free-thinking universe, as far as I was concerned.

Perhaps he would call me "the next Allen Ginsberg." Perhaps even Ginsberg himself would call after he and Louis Simpson discussed me over coffee in a chic cafe in New York or San Francisco or while they strolled along the Seine. ("Al, old pal, I came across this kid in Michigan who will make your 'muscles big as a vagina' howl!")

As I've described the critique to friends since then, Mr. Simpson savaged my poem. Ripped it. Left no word unscathed. He played Sherman to my Atlanta.

"Overwrought" may be one of the words he used.

I should have been upset, but I wasn't. "How many people get their poem ripped by a Pulitzer Prize winner in front of the literary elite?" I told myself.

I fear that the words of poetry's next revolutionary leader, written during and for a few years after that class, unfortunately have been scattered in one of my many moves to, within and from Michigan, Prague and San Francisco over the past 25 years.

Perhaps Mr. Simpson's death is a sign to start writing poetry again with a clean slate.

Regardless, in remembrance of Louis Simpson tonight, I say thank you to Mr. Simpson and to my professor, Lawrence Smith, for the opportunity to be shredded by one of poetry's best.

I hate shin splints

I'm trying to concentrate on writing a short blog post, but it is difficult when NBC is broadcasting the women's synchronized diving competition. I never knew there was synchronized diving, but then the camera keeps showing what appears to be a hot tub every time the Italian women are in it. Tough to keep my focus. Anyway, today I went for a run for the first time since running in Wisconsin on July 5. My right leg was in pain all that night and it really didn't let up for a couple of weeks. It hurt when I slept. It hurt along the shins. It hurt along the calf muscle. It hurt when I walked. It … hurt. Well, it was shin splints. The best thing to do was to rest. And buy new shoes just for running. I used my old shoes for running, walking, working out at the Y, bike riding, hanging out -- everything. But Saturday I bought new shoes, Brooks Beast 10 is what they're called, and my feet and legs love me for it. I have flat feet, and I've had seven knee surgeries, so I shouldn't be playing around. Now I'm not. Benny and I walked to Kezar Stadium today. With the walk itself, my leg felt better. Benny and I ran six laps around the track, stopping after each lap to assess how we both felt. He was fantastic, finishing each lap at least a minute ahead of me. At home tonight, my legs still feel good. Now if only I had a hot tub with the Italian women's synchronized diving team.

Confessions of a (new) running addict

I flew to Boston last week to cover a biotech industry convention. I always look forward to the annual gathering -- the only only out-of-town, work-related trek I get to make each year -- but this year I was excited about something more: Running in Boston.

After nearly 47 years, seven knee surgeries and the discovery of a heart murmur, I have become an unlikely running addict.

Mind you, I run like an old man. It takes more than a mile into a run before my knees stop sending nasty messages to my brain. Even then, I must consciously work on relaxing my muscles -- all my muscles -- so my body doesn't go on strike in mid-stride.

I've even hit a couple of At-One-With-The-Universe moments, when my mind sees clear of any obligations and the running is easy. That lasts about a half-mile.

I record my routes on the RunKeeper app. I track all my workouts on Fleetly.com, which creates mini-competitions, either with others or with one's self, to spur workouts.

I joined one of Fleetly's challenges -- run 100 miles by the end of the year -- in February. I started on the treadmill, not even hitting a mile. By mid-May, I completed the nearly 7.5-mile Bay to Breakers run in San Francisco.

Now I want to do more … more … more. I made an appointment with my doctor to get her opinion on whether I could/should increase my running, especially considering the heart murmur. She sent me for a stress test. I'm having some blood work done, too. I have no doubt that everything is fine: Just checking.

My goal is to run a half-marathon yet this year.

While waiting for the stress test and lab results, though, I didn't want to miss a step, so I found a couple of routes to run while I was in Boston. I ended up running two of the four full days that I was there for a total of about seven miles, mainly along the Charles River. The total would have been greater except for the 97-degree heat that translated into 70 humid degrees at 5:30 a.m. on two of those days.

I ran on our family vacation earlier this month, taking a short, two-mile jog around the beautiful Oregon Gardens, and a slightly longer route in Cascade Locks, Ore., that took me across the Bridge of the Gods into Washington state. When visiting family next week, I'll run in Wisconsin.

Years ago, I didn't have to train to run 10 kilometers in my native Michigan.

So, that will be Michigan, Wisconsin, Massachusetts, California, Oregon and Washington. Only 44 more states to go.

Yeah, I'm addicted.

Baseball, Father's Day and simple lessons

While cleaning up around the apartment today, I came across this piece I wrote as editor of Business Direct Weekly — later Ann Arbor Business Review — around Father's Day eight-plus years ago. It may be particularly apropos with our Tigers in the playoffs for the first time since 2006.
I've tried to clean up some of the more atrocious writing, and I've added what I hope are less clunky transitions, but the column is otherwise how it ran on June 5, 2003.
.................................................................................
It was a warm summer night and the Detroit Tigers were on national TV — back in the day when networks carried baseball during the prime-time hours.

The Toronto Blue Jays were knocking on the Tigers' door in early June, threatening to banish the Detroiters' record 1984 start to the league of could-have-beens.

My mom had gone to bed innings before utilityman Dave Bergman strode to the plate in the bottom of the 10th inning of a tie game. My dad and I, however, held out in the darkened living room, the tension building with each pitch.

Bergman fell behind, as I recall, but eventually took the count full. He then fouled off seven consecutive pitches.

When the last pitch finally flew off his bat, climbing toward the darkness of Tiger Stadium's right-field upper deck, my dad and I bolted from our chairs. It was a moment that defined the season and a memory of unadulterated joy with my typically conservative dad that I'll always cherish.

No, this column isn't really about business. But it is about mentally taking time away from work for more important things — something to keep in mind as we head toward Father's Day or as co-workers' summer vacations cause their workloads to fall onto our shoulders.

Bergman's homer, during the slim couple of weeks that I was home from college, has always seemed like a turning point in my relationship with my dad. Perhaps it was a simple transition from childhood to adulthood.

As my friends' parents saw their jobs melt away in the foundries, metal fabrication shops and auto parts factories, unemployment — defined as those who hadn't already lost hope and exited the workforce — climbed over the 40 percent mark. My dad did whatever it took to stay employed at the shop where he was an industrial motor repairman before the industrial economy collapse of the late 1970s; as the factories that his shop serviced closed their doors, he mowed the lawn of his employer and he made deliveries as the shop shifted from fixing motors to selling new ones.

Through it all, my parents sent four kids to college. My dad coached our sports teams. He drove a packed family station wagon — which included his mother-in-law in the back seat — on at least one weeklong vacation each summer. He and my mom kept vigil at marching band practices and concert band performances.

Every morning, Dad and I would have breakfast together, and every night the family gathered around the dining room table for dinner.

These were subtle lessons; others were more jarring.

I reminded him of one recently, after I called before he entered yet another surgery to find yet another blocked artery — the same problem that was acute enough a couple years ago to force a quadruple bypass.

I had just covered our incredibly ineffective City Commission as a 19-year-old reporter for the local community weekly newspaper, and I had returned home frustrated and ranting about the stupidity of elected officials. I threatened to use my pen as my sword. "Report the news," he chastised, "don't be the news."

There were other lessons about respect, kindness, loyalty, humility and dignity. When one-time Tigers relief ace John Hiller was bounced out of a game late in his career, I booed him from the right-field stands of old Comiskey Park in Chicago. My dad, in a few stern words, let me know that was wrong and, well, just plain stupid.

It's appropriate then that my early Father's Day gift to Dad was a trip to Milwaukee to visit my sister's family and to see the Brewers play Boston. Baseball, it seems, is the string around the family core of our relationship.

A father, my mother once told me, was the best thing she gave my siblings and me. That's an amazingly simple truism in this era when so many parents are prodded to be Super Dads or Super Moms.

Some of the best lessons we teach our children are the simplest — sometimes while sitting and watching the late innings together.

One Pokémon to Rule Them All

As I throw a playing card marked "Mamoswine" onto the floor, Benny just laughs.

"Are you kidding?" he says, the 7-year-old boy mocking his father. "He's so weak."

Benny slaps one of his cards alongside Mamoswine, a cross between a walrus and a tick that looks like it's been caught in a snowstorm. Or is it Wilford Brimley?

"That was too easy," he says.

"Whoa — wait a minute, ringmaster," I say. "How so? How does Magmortar beat Mamoswine?"

The time has come. I want to know. I want him to know that I am onto his little game.

"Magmortar has 130 life, Daddy," he says.

"But Mamoswine has 140," I retort, with the confidence that my logic surely will pull the curtain back on his charade.

Without a blink of an eye, he asks, "What's 130 minus 70?"

"It's 60 — just like 13 minus 7, but put a zero on the end."

"Oh," he says. "Yeah, Magmortar wins."

Sure, he may have wiggled out this time, but I'm working my way inside the world of Pokémon, like a CIA agent infiltrating the KGB. I'm learning their language, their ways, their code for moving messages back and forth.

Pokémon — is the plural form "Pokémen"? — is a game developed by Nintendo about 15 years ago. A Romanized contraction of the Japanese brand Pocket Monsters, according to Wikipedia, it has been commercialized in video games, playing cards, toys, books and movies.

But, really, this isn't some cutesy card game. Don't let their "rules" — "this one has lightning power, but the other one only has a water defense" — disarm you. They know that adults will chalk up Pokémon talk to just another phase when kids learn socialization skills or some other psycho-social babble.

I know the truth: These kids are out to take over the world, one Pokémon card at a time.

They build up huge collections of these cards, with print so fine that it induces migraines in adults that try to decode it. Seemingly innocuous trades are made, back and forth — Kricketot for Geodude, for example — but it's really a trade of information. About what? I don't know yet, but give me time. Deciphering is a slow process.

How else can you explain that Venonat would beat Kingdra? It makes no sense to the undiscerning eye.

Yet these first-grade Saurons make it look so academic, so easy. All the while they make adults untrained in the language of Pokémon believe that it's all so childlike.

"I know about you and your people," I tell Benny.

He glances up at me, his blue eyes twinkling with mock 7-year-old innocence. "What, Daddy?"

I move slowly.

"I know about your 'cards,' your people, your plans for world domination, what it means to have 130 hp" — actually, I don't, but why should he know — "and I can put an end to it."

"Oh, Daddy!" he says. "You're funny."
Yeah, we'll see who has the last laugh, my friend.

Every day …

It's more fun to read blogs than to write them — at least for me it is.
That may seem a betrayal of my profession, but I write all day. Must I really tap out scintillating commentary here?
Not that anything I've written here is groundbreaking, earth-shattering, Lady Gaga-in-an-egg sort of stuff. I just don't have the energy.
I feel like that old cartoon character, groaning over and over again at the slightest hint of promise, "It'll never work."
Besides, all I could ever hope for now is the occasional reader willing enough to let me slip onto the figurative psychiatrist couch. We could talk about how sorely I miss my dad, who died more than three months ago; how, every day, something happens that I say, "I've got to tell Dad about … Oh, yeah, I guess not"; how I wish he could be here to watch Benny's upcoming first baseball practices and games. We could talk about how I have to tell myself not to push Benny too hard into baseball as a way to reconnect with my dad; or how baseball season's started again, and it's the first one where we can't discuss the Tigers' prospects.
Everyone's been through the loss of a parent, but having both gone just bites.
I'm trying to channel my energies into other things: I've joined the handbell choir at church; I'm working out more regularly; I took my first yoga class tonight, and if I can get out of bed tomorrow morning without my muscles contorted into some weird pose, I'll be just dandy; and I've even started working — ploddingly, mind you — on a novel and a kid's book.
Every day, and in every way, I'm getting better and better.
Really.

Be it resolved …

What's the start of a new year without some resolutions.

Reading
OK -- I'm cheating. Christine gave me Laura Hillenbrand's "Unbroken" for Christmas. I finished it in three days. I'm using that energy to read more. I bought another book, "The Imperfectionists," by Tom Rachman, on Thursday.
I recommend "Unbroken" to anyone. It's not just about an Olympic runner, World War II bomber, survivor of 47 days stranded at sea, and the legacy of Japanese POW camps. His life up to that point is amazing enough -- and accounts for two-thirds of the novel -- but how he conquered his post-war life and helped others even more is incredible on its own.
I'm only 48 pages into "The Imperfectionists," which is a fictional story about people working at an English-language newspaper based in Rome. After my days working for an English-language weekly in Prague, the storyline intrigued me. The structure of the novel put me off at first, but Rachman is a great storyteller, and I'm starting to see the big picture coalesce.


Run and Get more sleep
Here's the plan: Get to bed by 9, rise by 5. That way I can bang out a few pieces for the company website or on Twitter before Christine and Benny wake up.
Rise by 4 on the one day (initially) per week that I go running. I went running with Benny at the Kezar Stadium track last week, and I actually found it relaxing.

Save more money
Not a good start — I just bought this new computer, a Flip camera and a printer. But after seven years of working on the same computer, which technology has passed by — it's time. The goal here: roughly $1,000 a month, not counting restarting the 401(k) contributions. Recommended reading: "Your Money or Your Life." My mother gave it to me and my siblings years ago, but Christine and I finally started living it three years ago.

Stay focused at work
Simple goal here: Continue what I've been doing, but try to turn out at least one enterprise piece every quarter.

Help others/get involved
The church that I joined last June — Seventh Avenue Presbyterian Church — does a monthly gig at a soup kitchen. I've also meant to volunteer at Benny's school's library, and I'll be volunteering with the SF Little League as Benny starts playing baseball this year. I also talked to the choir director at church about playing in the bell choir, something I haven't done for years.
Since I mentioned church, the other thing I want to do is try to figure out this God thing. That isn't too much to do this year, is it?

Eat right/exercise more (consistently)
I've been working out at a club for the past two years, but I need to bring more consistency to that routine. I figure two times working out at the gym and one run per week — so that means eating better.
I cut soda out of my diet in July, and in 2010 I drank a lot more water.
Goal: Lose 5 pounds a month, maintain and finish the year at 170.

Take more trips
In California: Death Valley, Mono Lake.
Midwest: Family in Michigan and Wisconsin.
2012: England, Scotland, France.

Spend more time with family/friends
Whether that means friends from work or friends outside of work, Dad's memorial service reminded me that it's friendships, not achievements that are the longest lasting.
I'm not sure exactly what I think about this little bit from "The Imperfectionists," but it also got me thinking. The character, who is sick, is being interviewed by a reporter for her obit:

"But my point, you see, is that death is misunderstood. The loss of one's life is not the greatest loss. It is no loss at all. To others, perhaps, but not to oneself. From one's own perspective, experience simply halts. From one's own perspective, there is no loss. You see? Yet maybe this is a game of words, too, because it doesn't make it any less frightening, does it." She sips her tea. "What I really fear is time. That's the devil: whipping us on when we'd rather loll, so the present springs by, impossible to grasp, and all is suddenly past, a past that won't hold still, that slides into these inauthentic tales. My past — it doesn't feel real in the slightest. The person who inhabited it is not me. It's as if the present me is constantly dissolving. There's the line of Heraclitus: 'No man steps in the same river twice, for it is not the same river and he is not the same man.' That's quite right. We enjoy this illusion of continuity, and we call it memory. Which explains, perhaps, why our worst fear isn't the end of life but the end of memories." She considers him searchingly. "Do I make sense? Does that seem reasonable? Mad?"

My dad's obituary

Father, husband, coach and friend, Robert "Bob" Leuty, 77, died Nov. 11 at Lakeland Regional Hospital.
A memorial service will be held at Sarett Nature Center at 2 p.m. Sunday, Nov. 21.

Memorials may be made to the Boys and Girls Club of Benton Harbor (c/o Janet Farley, 1200 E. Main St., Benton Harbor, MI 49022 -- please be sure to note that it is a Bob Leuty memorial) and Hospice at Home, 4025 Health Park Lane, St. Joseph, MI 49085.

Whether catching tadpoles on Ox Creek, teaching kids how to bunt or walking alongside the Benton Harbor High School marching band with an armful of coats during the Blossom Parade, Bob lived his life with a quiet dignity and always treated others as he would like to be treated.

Bob loved to be out in nature, if that meant just puttering in his seemingly ever-growing garden on Pavone Street, fishing, riding his bike to work on Klock Road or picking apples at Higbee’s orchard. He loved sports, from his beloved BHHS Tigers to the University of Michigan to the Detroit Tigers.
Most of all, Bob loved his family — his wife, the former Joyce Curtis; his four children; and his grandchildren — and his friends, especially those since childhood.

Bob was born on Nov. 27, 1932, in Grand Rapids, and raised in Benton Harbor by his parents, grandparents and cousins in the Flats, and other locations, including the house his dad built at Parker and Marion streets.

After graduating from BHHS, where he played baseball and played trombone in the band, Bob and many of his friends entered the Air Force during the Korean War. He stayed stateside throughout his service.
After he was discharged, he and his returning veteran friends welcomed in 1956 at a New Year’s Eve party, where he met Joyce. Ten months later, they were married. As they drove to their honeymoon destination the next day in Traverse City, Joyce talked on about their beautiful wedding, and Bob seemingly listening attentively. The car radio playing in the background, however, was where Bob’s ear was more tuned, as Don Larsen was pitching his World Series perfect game for the New York Yankees.

A little more than a year after their honeymoon — or the perfect game, whichever stands out more — their daughter, Marlene, was born. Diane, Steve and Ron followed over the next eight years.
Bob’s activities usually centered around those of his kids. He was president of the Benton Harbor Band and Orchestra Parents, he coached his kids’ baseball and basketball teams (and rarely missed one of their games, whether he coached or not) and taught Sunday school, sang in the choir and played in the bell choir at First Congregational Church in Benton Harbor.
During baseball season, Bob usually could be seen around Benton Harbor with a car full of neighborhood kids heading toward baseball practice. He helped build the Fairplain Babe Ruth field off of Union Street, coached for many years in Benton Harbor youth baseball and, later in life, assisted with teams in St. Joseph.

In particular, he enjoyed helping coach his son, Ron, and a rag-tag group of inner-city kids, known as the Pearl A’s, to a Babe Ruth championship at the Eaton Park baseball tournament in 1981.

Bob loved animals and bowling. He loved to watch old movies, especially Westerns, was a voracious reader of mysteries and mowed the lawns of many elderly neighbors.

Bob ran unsuccessfully for Benton Harbor City Commission in 1972, but continued to serve the city over the next two decades on the planning commission and parks and recreation board. At First Congregational Church, he served on many boards and choirs, but kept a keen eye on the church grounds and Roosevelt Park across the street.

Bob will be sorely missed by family, friends, and all the kids whose lives he touched through coaching, and all those who simply were recipients of his kindness.

He is survived by his children — Marlene (Ron) Robinson of Copemish; Diane (Michael) Venn of Kohler, Wis.; Steven (Maureen Lannon) Leuty of Kalamazoo; and Ron (Christine Kilpatrick) Leuty of San Francisco — and grandchildren, Christina Venn, Nicholas Venn, Raymond Venn, James Robinson, Ian Leuty and Benjamin Leuty.

He was preceded in death by his wife, Joyce, in 2000, and his parents, Berniece and Steve, in 1988.

Beautiful day in Michigan!

Naked sellers should cover their assets

The SEC made the right move today by limiting naked short-selling.
In fact, I say the agency didn’t go far enough: It should ban naked short-selling on the public market.
Imagine if everyone at the E-Trade office at Market, Sansome and Sutter— full of windows, mind you — started naked short-selling. One or two naked sellers is bad enough — but a whole office full of them exposing their assets?
If someone wants to naked short-sell in the privacy of his or her own home, go for it. But there’s no way the market should support this kind of behavior.

Michael Vick's new sentence

If there was truly justice in this Home of the Free and the Atlanta Braves, disgraced pro quarterback and amateur dog-fight operator Michael Vick would face a probation that included watching the Detroit Lions.
"But, judge …," Vick would say at his sentencing, moments before breaking down in tears.
"I don't want to hear it, Mr. Vick," the judge would say. "And if you can't handle it, you'll have to play for the Lions."
Vick would be sedated and placed on a stretcher headed straight for Ford Field.
Just put a bag on your head, Michael -- like the rest of us who have taken our punishment during the 45-year William Clay Ford Era.

Bike to Work Day

Ever since a cabby forced me to ditch my bike -- or get hit -- on a ride to work seven years ago, Christine has more or less put the kibosh on me pedaling into work again.
The fact that I wrenched my knee, had surgery, the doctor pulled a floating, one-inch piece of bone out of my leg -- and then I actually got hit while riding in Ann Arbor a couple years later -- only adds to her case. She tries to hide it, but I can tell she's nervous even when I ride on the weekends.
* sigh *
So I was thrilled to ride into work today as part of Bike to Work Day. Totally uneventful -- which is good, considering Market Street, from what I hear, can be a real bear for bicyclists. But I've biked down Market a half-dozen times now with no problems.
Someday. Someday. Maybe I can bike to work throughout the workweek.
A biking boy can dream.

Hi-ho, hi-ho, it's off to hike we go

I'll let Christine tell the story at her California Dreamin' blog.
(I think that's what's called "cross-marketing.")

Weird hair day

Benny's preschool had "Weird Hair Day." I think we found Benny's theme: Early '80s British punk rocker.
Rock on, dude!