Contemporary architecture in San Francisco is certainly on the conservative side, but the Chronicle's top 10 list for the decade highlights a few buildings of some interest, if not innovation.

rusty bolts

At least Grace Cathedral cares enough about the bells of its almost-but-not-quite carillon to make sure the bells don't fall out of the tower. In fact, you can acquire one of the rusty bolts for a donation of $1,550.

Oil spill in SF Bay :(

About 58,000 gallons of oil were spilled into the bay after a container ship hit a tower of the Bay Bridge in San Francisco in Wednesday morning's dense fog.

The spill, believed to be the biggest in the bay since 1988, has fouled miles of coastline, closed several beaches, canceled weekend outdoor events and threatened thousands of birds and marine animals.

"How does a ship, with that much space available, how does a ship hit the bridge?" Governor Schwarzenegger asked as he was shown a map of the bay and where the vessel struck the bridge. Everybody else is asking the same question, as well as why it took the Coast Guard until evening to announce the massive extent of the spill.

I'm not insane after all. I do get fatter the moment I set foot back into the United States -- and so do immigrant children. Take the example of 13-year-old Adrian McHargh, who grew up "active and skinny" in Kingston, Jamaica and put on 30 lbs upon moving to Atlanta. 30 lbs on a 13-year-old is no small change, and it was accompanied by hypertension, high cholesterol and high risk for type 2 diabetes.

We live in a country of plenty. Plenty of junk.

In other news, Rochester is one of the least congested metropolitan areas in the country. That doesn't make me like the transportation infrastructure of Rochester any better, although it makes me suspect that population loss is freeing up space on an infrastructure built to accommodate more people. The study estimates that drivers wasted 2.9 billion gallons of fuel while sitting in traffic, and that a total of 4.2 billion hours were whiled away in 2005, up from 4 billion the year before. I'm sad to say that San Francisco ranks 3rd on the map for worst congestion.

Speaking of San Fran, I just came across architect Pietro Belluschi and learned that he is responsible for the BofA Building, Davies Symphony Hall, St. Mary's, as well as... Juilliard.

liberty kingdom hundred waters rainy day

I had totally forgotten Scully's approving commentaries about Friedensreich Hundertwasser (Regentag) until the NYT wrote about his posthumously completed Napa Valley winery. I had nearly forgotten about Anselm Kiefer, whose work blew me away at SFMOMA over winter break, until I came across a book on him on an orange reshelving shelf in the Art Library after playing the carillon for senior tower tours this afternoon. But I had no idea until I visited the site of Skidmore, Owings & Merrill that they were responsible for the new international terminal at SFO as well as several other buildings I've admired around San Francisco (as well as one I'm not as fond of, the 60's Bank of America world HQ) and have developed a wonderful proposal for the redevelopment of Treasure Island into a haven of sustainable living. Save a unit for me, guys!

plastic bag ban in SF!!!

Gooooooo SF for planning to ban plastic bags!!!! (Thanks to Tom for sharing.)

an afternoon of art

I am awed. I am ashamed I'd never heard of him before. I am officially a fan of Anselm Kiefer. I caught Heaven and Earth at SFMOMA during its last weeks, and although I had to take in most of the paintings from the benches to rest my leg, the works were mostly of monumental enough size, savagery in stroke and texture, and power and yet complexity of message to reach me no matter where I was standing. Born in Germany in the final months of World War II, Kiefer fashions works that confront/question/challenge/reshape not only his country's psychological and spritual response to the war, but also raise existential questions about religion, redemption, recovery, and humanity's place in the cosmos. His massive paintings of deserted grandiose manmade spaces, apocalyptic landscapes and forests, and visions of hope and despair charge the viewing experience with emotion and questions. It is easy to ignore even brilliant art, but impossible to ignore his, tempting to believe the statement by a critic that he "melted a frozen curse on German civilization." His art is the work of a thinker and an introvert deeply philosophically involved with humanity, fascinated by the past and the future, heaven and earth, at once horrifying and beautiful.

Another unlikely memorable work was a film by British artist Phil Collins, dünya dinlemiyor ("the world won't listen"). Collins postered Istanbul calling the misfits, the disgruntled, anyone at all to perform karaoke covers of The Smiths songs for the camera. The entrance to the exhibit was plastered with these posters in all their variations, the only one in English blaring "KILL THE DJ." Watching these sincere, poignant, often painfully embarrassing performances, I had difficultly chosing a reaction -- should I feel closer to the Turkish after hearing them belt out these English songs by heart and discovering an unexpected cultural commonality, or should I be disturbed as usual by the cultural imperialism of the West?

Afterwards Doris took me out to dinner at an Indian restaurant and I took her out to dessert at the Canvas Gallery. It was wonderful to reconnect after two years and to share the turns our lives have taken. I'm starting to realize that, despite having been out of college for a year, I'm only now learning what it's like to be a graduate student, to connect and be able to talk about it, and to realize that in a sense, whether we're working in music or medicine, the challenges we face have a common thread. A study found that best friends tend to only stay best friends as long as they share similar problems. Chicken or the egg -- my friends and I continue to share problems even as those problems change. To ramble more, I'm struck by the balance my friends have found between pursuing crazy dreams around the globe and taking on serious long-term programs. So many are in doctoral programs already; everything that's happened is wonderful and puzzling and contradictory and logical.

Scanning through my Google alerts for "carillon," I got a surreal surprise from the following excerpt (having skipped over the headline, which contained important info): "They have also started advertising more in The Carillon, the U of R student newspaper. Judging by the first half of the season, it just might be working."

I wondered if at any time in the history of the universe I would have missed a student publication at the UR named after my obsession, but of course the article was about the University of Regina in Saskatchewan. Whew.

Joya no kane

We pulled up to the Asian Art Museum and pulled straight into a parking space just across the street -- even closer than the space reserved for the disabled. This was sheer luck, as plenty of other folks were hunting for parking. The line to the museum stretched around the corner.

I did a quick spin through the latest special exhibits, Hidden Meanings: Symbolism in Chinese Art and Pioneers of Philippine Art: Luna, Amorsolo, Zobel, which began with Fernando Zóbel's stunning rendition of the myth of Icarus, but my forearms weren't strong enough to carry me through the museum for more than three quarters of an hour on my new aluminum forearm crutches. We lucked out again when we arrived in Samsung Hall, because there were two empty seats left for the disabled and elderly. Nobody objected when I made myself at home.

Nick and I used to talk about "Yale moments," moments when we were confronted with the magnitude of the privilege and extraordinary luck and sheer impossibility of being at Yale University. This morning I had a San Francisco moment. I was sitting in a magnificent Beaux Arts chamber with a Rococo ceiling, once used to house books and now used to showcase the arts of Eastern cultures, with hundreds of people from black to white and many colors in between, from babies to young couples to the elderly, from tourists to Japanese (and white) monks, entranced by the haunting strains of a shakuhachi improvisation, followed by the deep, throaty singing of the monks that I had only heard before on some of my most treasured recordings, punctuated by the high floating ring of a ceremonial hand bell, and concluded with 108 strokes of the 2,100-pound 16th century Japanese bell.

I was in group 34 and set my crutches aside to ring the joya no kane with a small group of adults and children. I have heard and played 16th-century bells before -- the Waghevens dynasty was flourishing in Mechelen when this bell was cast -- but ringing the sho was an entirely different experience. It sounded ugly to my ears at first, with its harsh strike tone a ninth above the hum tone and intense beating of the fundamental. But after the first few strokes it became spiritual, meditative, reminiscent of thoughts not yet recovered. I could understand why the Japanese considered this an annual cleansing ritual. My only regret was that the room became a bit of a madhouse with everyone clamoring to participate, and the MC didn't insist on maintianing a respectful silence.

The afternoon was uneventful besides a ridiculous amount of young carillonneur network building on Facebook that could only be accomplished by someone in whom intense bell fever and OCD were united, but in the evening we went to Mifune for my favorite comforting slurpalicious udon. While waiting for our food at table 34, I crutched over to the bookstore and marveled at its wares, resisting Hokusai and Hiroshege to the best of my abilities while scoping out potential belated holiday gifts. When I returned, the Daimyo tray was sitting on the table, laden with sashimi and steaming, thick udon. Culinary heaven.

I had really been looking forward to playing the carillon all day at Berkeley, but I suppose some things still weren't meant to be this year what with the accident and all. This afternoon I at least got to peel off my bandages and shower. There's not much to say about the incisions since they're still under surgical tape, but the main incision was definitely extended to about 3 inches or so. I can't wait to see how the scars turn out.

Conversing this evening with a drunkenly gregarious Andrew, I wondered at his talking to me from 2007 while I was still in 2006, as if we were in parallel universes. I also realized after having my father flip through a couple of channels (being too good myself to near the television) that the networks record the NYC celebrations to broadcast 3 hours later on the west coast. Seems lame, but if they didn't, they'd be broadcasting the new year around the world for 24 hours straight.

That would be kind of fun. Kind of sickening, but fun. Let's see if I make it to midnight, since my parents both went to bed while I was jabbering on the phone. For mysterious reasons Andrew has assigned me the impossible task of calling him at Pacific midnight.

city of light

It's a different experience to return to your home city and state when you realize how particular they are. The home of forsaken Candlestick and Robin Williams, of plummeting hills lined with skyscrapers and two bridges always aglow in the distance, all set to a soundtrack of hip hop and r&b and techno and people who definitely still employ the words "hella" and "moded." Amazing.

don't go!

I never cared for football. But for the 49ers to relocate to yuppie Silicon Valley? Will the Stick just become another spelunking spot? The plans for a renewed complex might have done good for Hunter's Point. Now we may never know (not to mention not get to come home to the Olympics).