Drought intolerance: A Piece of My Mind

Four years into it, and almost everyone but the Santa Clara Valley Water District is admitting that our drought is a reality that won’t go away. (Hello-o-o, SCVWD? Still insist on building those catch basins in Rancho San Antonio Open Space Preserve and McKelvey Park for flood protection?)


For someone, it is a nightmare: No Shoes, Please

Last month, on a cold and rainy day in Japan, I was waiting for a train to carry me on a tedious but necessary errand. Glancing around, I noticed a piece of luggage – a black, vinyl bag decorated with pastel-pink teddy bears and delicate cursive writing; you easily could have mistaken it for a large diaper bag catering to a baby girl. The writing was difficult to decipher because the letters were tiny, and the script was fine and lacy. But eventually, I made it out. It read, “For someone, it is a nightmare.”


Familiar icon pops up in Los Altos: A Piece of My Mind

I was walking to my car parked on State Street when my eye fell on an old familiar acquaintance from my early childhood, totally unexpected to meet in Los Altos. It was the “Steinway” logo over the door of the new Steinway Piano Gallery, recently added to the Los Altos merchant roster.


Statute of limitations: Haugh About That?

“I can’t believe he’d do this to me,” I cried hysterically. “After all we meant to each other.” Curling into a ball, torrential teenage tears melted my mascara as my entire world came crashing to an obliterated end.

Annoyed at yet another gusher, Mary, my 16-year-old best friend, had had enough. “Get over it!” she barked. “You only dated him a week.” Little did I know, when it came to broken hearts, there was a statute of limitations for my sorrow.


A genocide forgotten – and repeated: Editor's Notebook

“Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” The prophetic 1905 quote from philosopher and author George Santayana has been revisited after every human tragedy that has occurred since.

The problem is, we have short memories. Slaughters of innocent people continue to occur.


Home of the brave

When I was 13 years old, I was working on a Coke truck in Washington, D.C., over summer vacation. Our next-door neighbor, who drove the truck, would deal with the owners of liquor and convenience stores, while I would slog 10 cases of soda at a time into the stores on a hand truck.

One day we showed up and the store to which we were delivering was surrounded by police cars, in the midst of an armed robbery. The robber was trying to escape using the owner as a hostage when the owner tripped and fell. The robber accidentally let off a shot with his gun and the police filled him with bullets.


Ending the debate: No Shoes, Please

In a general sense, everything is up for debate with me: What do I cook for dinner? Did I do the right thing? What color paint for the bedroom? Do I really want to go? Has the team improved? What difference does it make? Should I give him a call? Is it worth that much money? What is the truth?


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