But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit, sin’ auld lang syne

New Haven. Spring 1995. Room 123 in the Kline Geology Lab. Reknowned professor Elisabeth Vrba lectures on Paleontology and Evolutionary Theory. I doze fitfully near the back of the darkened hall.

I trudged dutifully across campus for nearly every lecture, I listened, fascinated, scribbling notes with frantic intent. Yet inevitably within 15 minutes my eyelids would sag, my writing would become unintelligible as my pen left a series of parallel marks trailing off from half-formed words. I would shift in my seat and struggle to pay attention, fighting with all my willpower to remain aware and focussed, pinching my cheeks, tapping my foot, leaning forward. I'd guiltily calculate the tuition dollars that were uselessly dissolving away with my glazing vision and shot at an A. But it was hopeless.

The lecture would melt into the elaborate and ridiculous dreams from the grey area at the edge of oblivion, where tusked antelope roamed across my subconscious with herds of 3-toed horses who'd tell me of the wrinkled peas plucked by the titanothere which awaited me in Gould's rose garden while Mendel wrestled Lamarck amidst the precambrian muds. And in what seemed like mere moments, the lights would brighten, the reading assignments were being handed out, and I would close my notebook, rubbing my eyes and wondering what had just happened.

And so it was with 2006. I have just emerged from a dreamworld wormhole where the many things that have happened seem as though they may have not occured at all but for within the torporific haze of daydream. The lights are raised, people are collecting their things, 2007 has arrived, and my 2006 is littering the alley, scattering before the breeze.

So, here's to being enrolled in a new year. May the best of last year be the worst of the new; may it capture our attention, engage our imagination, thrill us, teach us; may it proceed at a comfortable pace; and may it be memorable beyond compare.

Oh, and...

Happy Birthday, Ms. Adams, Proph Prof Broc Doc!
Welcome to your early mid-thirties!

Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we

I've been listening to Christmas carols all day today and waxing nostalgic. I usually don't get too wrapped up in the holidays because I'm not religious and I go all humbuggery at the commercial buy-a-thon. Christmas sort of melted into the distance with the geographical miles between me and my family, and it's hard to conjure the spirit of the season when in the shadow of palm trees.

But this year was a little different for whatever reason. I actually enjoyed being out in the shoptastic masses, grinned at the whiff of woodsmoke on the cold breeze, and reveled in the unusual frosty air (well, low 40's, but still). And talking to the family back home several times over the past week and hearing about the crazy blizzard and snow drifts and treacherous driving and shoveling and the nephews home from school and hoping for Santa to bring them an air hockey table -- well, it made me miss home and the holidays of my youth.

And I'd forgotten how much I love Christmas carols. Seriously. Even the religious ones. They're all tied up with tangled ribbons of bygone Sunday school pageants, church ritual, family gatherings and gift unwrappings, tree decorating, grandma's house, stocking stuffers and twinkling lights of warmth and peace. The First Noel, We Three Kings, and O Holy Night can totally make me a weepy mess.

The greatest of all, though (not counting "What Do You Get a Wookie For Christmas When He Already Owns a Comb" from the Christmas in the Stars: Star Wars Christmas Album which I'm praying Dad still has on vinyl in his basement somewhere because that thing has got to be worth some money), will forever be John Denver and the Muppets, singing directly to me.

The season is upon us now,
a time for gifts and giving.
And as the year draws to its close,
I think about my living.
Christmas time when I was young,
the magic and the wonder.
But colors dull and candles dim
and dark my standing under.

Oh, little angel, shining light,
you’ve set my soul to dreaming.
You’ve given back my joy in life,
you filled me with new meaning.

A savior King was born that day,
a baby just like you.
And as the Magi came with gifts,
I come with my gift too.
That peace on earth fills up your time
and brotherhood surrounds you,
That you may know the warmth of love
and wrap it all around you.

It’s just a wish, a dream I’m told
from days when I was young,
Merry Christmas little Zachary, Merry Christmas everyone.
Merry Christmas little Zachary, Merry Christmas everyone.

I feel the Earth. Move. Under my feet

Huh. For a while this week I was relieved I was not trying to travel home for Christmas what with the 3-day closure of DIA, the thousands of strandings, and the tales of my family digging out from the Holiday Blizzard of '06. But now I'm not so sure...

This morning brought with it the third (third!) earthquake in less than 4 days. Yes, they've all been small -- minor really. But they've still made my apartment creak and shudder, rattling my shelves, windows and nerves. And weirdly, they've all been centered in the same spot on the Hayward Fault, directly beneath Berkeley on the other side of the Bay, maybe 12 miles away as the crow flies.

First was Wednesday evening just as we were leaving work. Then last night as I was sitting in my living room playing Guitar Hero -- until the couch abruptly lurched, that is. And now again this morning as I lounged in bed reading. Two 3.7s and a 3.5.

Are these little readjustments that are relieving some pressure along the fault and therefore decreasing the liklihood of a larger earthquake, or are they preliminary foreshocks, as it were, adding to the mounting strain and increasing the odds for the Big One? An occasional tremblor is interesting enough and to be expected in these parts, but given that I've just felt more in 63 hours than I had in the preceding two years, well, it makes one wonder. The Christmas Quake of '06 has a certain headline papery inevitability to it.

In any case, I'm getting dressed and going to replenish my water and canned-goods supply.

What a way to make a living

I'm not going to say a whole lot about work here because I suspect there are some folks from my office who have happened upon my blogosphere coordinates. Not that that's a problem, really, but it does force me to be clear which side of the line I'm on between non-specific venting and disparaging commentary. Because the latter is what has gotten some people into trouble in the past. Such as my roommate. Ostensibly.

Anyway, for the record, this is the former: general griping that we all do about our jobs because we'd frankly rather win the lotto and be sipping mimosas aboard our yacht on the way to Santorini than slugging grande non-fat no-whip mocha lattes while slumped over a keyboard.

It's been a long week, for a short week (we get Friday off! Hooray!). Because schedule was the primary driving factor over quality on a particular Dilbertesque project (into which I was thrust at the tail end with very little familiarity), we rolled into production some new software and systems this week - right before the holidays when everyone's gone and when it'd be very difficult to recover from potential problems. But whatever. The upshot was that I was at work until 3am this morning, and back at the office at 10am. And I'm tired.

I'm not sure what my point here was. I've gotten carried away thinking of sailing around the Mediterranean. Must remember to buy a lottery ticket tomorrow...

Pay it backward

I was at IKEA this weekend, which isn't terribly interesting in and of itself. Nor was the drive (in a City Carshare car) there or home. I don't often drive across the Bay Bridge to the East Bay, and today coming home was a good reminder why: the traffic at the toll booths! Ugh!

I also screwed up which lane to get in and had to cut over sort of late in the game, cutting off a lot of schlubs who'd already been in stop and go for a half mile. I felt really bad about it and was thrilled that a car paused to let me in -- not something I'm likely to have done were I in the other lane. So the karmic guilt kicked in and I suddenly decided I needed to do something nice in return.

Fortunately the opportunity was right there. I glanced in the rearview a few times and an unremarkable middle-aged couple in the pickup that let me in was still behind me. So I paid their bridge toll. It was only $3, but I was surprised how good it made me feel. And, though I sort of hoped it would be regarded as a mysterious random act of holiday season kindness, they swerved dangerously through traffic to catch up to me on the Bridge and wave and smile their frantic appreciation.

Too bad there's not a good reward system for thoughtful drivers -- it might reduce the number of jerkweeds on the road. But yay! Not everyone out there is a maniac.

Miracle on Lombard Street

I happened to look at my Driver's License a few weeks ago (it's surprising how rarely that happens for something I have on me at all times) and had a sudden panic attack -- it was set to expire on my birthday in January. Now, clearly that's a ways in the future but my horror didn't stem from the deadline so much as the realization I was going to have to deal with the DMV.

Oh that universally-hated level of hell that is the DMV, with its interminable queues, ESL-speaking clerks, and frustrations galore. I have painful memories of getting my CA license the first time when my WY one finally expired. It was 2001, I think -- at least that's what my old license says. There aren't too many Wyoming driver's licenses in the world, and I was disinclined to give up mine, though even I am a little surprised I was here for 4 1/2 years before giving in.

So at the DMV, due to a weird California rule requiring you to get a CA license within 10 days of moving here or getting a job, I had to lie first of all, and I'm a terrible liar. Thankfully I did not have to take the driving test back then, and I passed the written exam relatively easily. But there was also the issue of establishing my citizen status, since apparently a license from another state is not adequate, and my expired passport still had a photo of me as a 1st grader. Try explaining to a Russian woman that I'm really a US citizen despite my birth certificate being written in German, and that, since it wasn't stated anywhere that the State Department papers explaining this had to notorized or original, the copy I had ought to suffice because otherwise it'd be months before I could get an official copy through normal channels.

Anyhoodle, I didn't relish the thought of dealing with that place in any way, so I immediately went to the internet to figure out how to renew online or via mail. Frustratingly, it said I could renew online but only after they'd sent me an official registration number. But I could not request this number nor would they explain when it might be sent if it was to come at all.

Low and behold, last Monday my number arrived in the mail all on its own, so online I went. The process was as easy as confirming my address, entering the number, verifying nothing about my record, eyesight or medical history had changed, and hitting 'submit'. It made no claims about when my new license would arrive, leaving me to imagine the worst. And that was that.

I shit you not, my new license arrived today. Four days later! I'm stunned. Shocked. Awed, even. When doing it originally, it took over a month to arrive.

Also, it's good until frickin' 2012. !!! I mean, I've seen dates past 2009 in print before, but it all seems so far in the distant future as to not concern me much -- Arctic ice gone by 2040, people on the moon in 2020, Bay Bridge complete in 2013. Whatev. But shit, I'll have this same piece of plastic in 2012! 5 years doesn't seem like a long time, but damn does 2012 seem like forever from now. Yet it's not - it's right around the corner. Right there, in print, on my freshly-renewed pain-free driver's license.

Darlin' it's better down where it's wetter

Welp, it's that time of year again. The company holiday party was Friday night, so I dug out the suit and a fancy tie and joined in the milling about with a napkin of food in one hand and a weak drink in the other.

This year's shindig, like last year's, was only a few blocks from my apartment, which I always appreciate when it's time to stumble home. But unlike last year, I did not throw a pre-party get-together since my apartment's a mess and I've been knocked out the past two weeks by the plague that everyone seems to have (cough, wheeze). I'm feeling somewhat better, though, thanks for asking.

Anyway, this year's party was at the aquarium down at Pier 39 on Fisherman's Wharf, which was pretty interesting. It pales in comparison to Monterey's aquarium (obviously), but was a fun place to hold a party, what with the drinking while sharks swim overhead, the dessert tray nearly falling into the ray petting tank, and such. I'll admit it was a little weird, however, to be staring at the crustacean tank while chowing down on crabcakes.

Also, the rainy season has kicked into high gear, so despite the ginormous umbrella, by the time we finally found the proper entrance, we basically looked as though we'd been in one of the exhibits.

The thing is, this was my 9th office holiday party. Ok, actually I missed 3 in there for various reasons, so it was really only the 6th that I attended, but still. The last 3 years I've had a suicide pact of sorts with a coworker who has been along the entire ride with me, where we both committed to not being around come the next party, or else. This year he finally ditched the party, if not the company, so I'm still alive. But I'm telling y'all this right now - if this time next year I even have the option of attending the same company's soirée, kill me. Just shoot me in the head, dead.

Ticking away the moments

I've reached a milestone today and I'm not sure what to do about it. Do I celebrate or quietly weep?

You see, as of today, I have been drawing breath for 12,000 days, no shit. The sun is sinking on my 12,000th day in this existence, and what have I got to show for it? Well, I'm sitting on my bed trying to decide if I should finally shower today or if maybe a nap is the best way to put off doing my laundry.

Dude. 12,000 is a lot of days. Seriously.

Sometimes I wish I was wrong

Well, as best as I can tell, nothing has been touched in the kitchen. 24 hours later and the piece of turkey is still sitting out, the oven door is open, and the remains of the glass pan still litter the area. And I'm pretty sure neither of them went to work today, though they're not here now. The hell?

I'd be laughing if it hadn't belonged to me

Last night as I was sitting peacefully in the common room, actively ignoring my deteriorating health (welcome to cold & flu season, cough wheeze) and knitting*, there was a sudden huge and unpleasant boom, crash and tinkling in the kitchen. After a few minutes, my roommate (we'll call him "J") came in and explained.

Apparently, his girlfriend (whom we'll call "T" and also lives with us) wanted him to cook this chunk of turkey for her. It seems they have an arrangement where he does all the cooking and she complains about the dishes. Anyway, we're out of butter which he usually uses liberally in his cooking, but there was some urgency to the turkey-cooking which precluded him from running out to get more. So the turkey was roasting away in 11x9 glass pan which is more for, say, brownies than it is for roasting. But I digress. So he was checking the bird and decided he would use a little milk to help brown the bird since, as he pointed out again, we were out of butter and couldn't do things the way he wanted to. Of course, the pouring of cold milk from the fridge onto a hot bird in a glass pan is not the best of ideas, which he learned when the glass exploded, spraying the oven, part of the kitchen, and J with chunks and shards of glass, as well as hot turkey juice and grease.

Being short on patience and already frustrated, this sent him over the edge, which is to say that he had to walk away, leaving the mess to cool with his temper, and describing the situation to me in the context of his puzzlement that T was now frustrated with him for not finishing the bird.

I relay all this to you as the latest example of the dysfunction in their relationship, as well as to mourn the loss of my brownie pan. And, to express my own annoyance that the kitchen was in the exact same state this morning as I left for work, complete with a now-room-temperature hunk of turkey flesh laying on top of the stove.

Any guesses as to whether it will be cleaned up when I get home tonight?

*I'll save this footnote for a full post in the near future.

Even pearls are dark

Because my company is in the advertising business, we tend to come by lots of new products as samples, for video shoots, and the like. Periodically, when the store room is full, there will be a frenzied give-away free-for-all which has provided me with everything from cookie dough to Rolaids chews, Strawberry Mini Wheats to toothbrushes, detergent to battery-operated razors. I haven't had to buy shampoo in years. Not all the products are so great, but I try not to look a gift horse in the mouth, as it were.

I mention this merely because, a year or two ago, I tried bleaching my teeth with one of the new teeth-whitening strips of the variety you're supposed to slap on and wear for a while each day. I honestly haven't given any real thought to bleaching my teeth before, but ended up with this product because it was free. Sort of like how I ended up with the car wax, even though I don't have an automobile. Anyway, it was a short-lived bleaching attempt because I was unable to keep the damn thing on my teeth for more than ten minutes before the mind-numbing pain shooting through my teeth and resonating in my skull became too much to bear. Not exactly root-canal exposed-nerve sort of pain, but more hot/cold-sensitivity teeth-about-to-shatter pain. Clearly the peroxide bleach thing is not for me.

It occurred to me today, however, as I was washing down my beet salad with some pomegranate-blueberry juice, that perhaps it's time to revisit this and look into the whole laser/light variety of whitening procedures...

Where you're terrific, if you're even good

Ok, I'm done traveling for the immediate future. I've flown enough this past year that I seem to have gotten past my landing anxieties (at least in part). There were the two trips home, the work trip to the Carolinas, the college reunion back east, the Labor Day trip to KC MO, L.A., and... where was that other place? Oh that's right, Hawaii. Sure, sure, I've made no progress on my international destination list (New Zealand, Antarctica, Australia, Argentina, Peru, Nepal, China, Mongolia, Japan, Iceland, France, Norway, Switzerland, Croatia, Turkey, Tanzania, Madagascar, Malawi, Mauritius, the Seychelles, India, Indonesia... to name a few), but I have yet to win that damn lottery. Or hook a wealthy man.
Anyway, I digress.

So L.A. for Thanksgiving! Until I visit, it's easy to forget how much I like L.A., as different as it is from S.F. Dinner was terrific, as was the company of Jen's welcoming friends. The rest of the weekend was spent chillaxin', watching tv in our pajamas and eating cake and pie (curse you, House of Pies, in all your banana creamed glory!), though we did venture forth amongst the masses to fill ourselves with the frenzied 4-weeks 'til Christmas spirit of the season. Alas, I did not use my camera, nor cross-post, so this paragraph is all you'll get till the DVDs are compiled and released in a few years once all the music rights to my memories are obtained. Rose, always a pleasure! I'll see you at New Year's!

The flight home was a fitting way to end my year's travels: chaos. Never have I seen so many people crowding the airport gates. While check-in and security were no problem, the overbookings, smaller plane exchanges, and weather delays meant I sat in the fetal position on the floor forever, trying not to be trampled, draining my cell phone playing sudoku. That's enough of that. Until I go snowboarding in Colorado with the fam in Feb, of course (yay!).


...My god. I used 'chillaxin' in a sentence. You have my permission to smack me.

...Or the turkey gets it....

Happy Thanksgiving y'all! Hope everyone enjoys lots of food, family, friends, and whatever else makes this the best holiday ever.

I'm off to LA. Maybe if you're lucky, you'll get a little Electric Mayhem crossover blogisode.

Trees of green, red roses too

Where to begin, where to begin...
I'm back from Hawaii, and it was exceptional. It's been on my destination list for a long long time, so even I am a little surprised it all came together so quickly and so well. Thank you Zoe, for planting the seeds over Labor Day, and for being a terrific travel partner!

Sadly, I've only ever taken one other vacation to a tropical destination (and as great as Puerto Vallarta was, it's got nothing on Hawaii); most of my time off is burned in less glamorous places. I was, therefore, quite excited, though not entirely prepared.

First, the Big Island is BIG. I mean, I knew it was bigger than the others combined and that it takes a couple hours to drive around, and that it has 5 main volcanoes, two of which top out over 13,600 feet, but still I was taken aback by the sheer bigness. Second, it's warm and muggy. Obviously, right? But when you're used to sweaters and heat lamps year 'round, it's pretty novel to be in flipflops and short sleeves after dark. Also, ocean water is salty. Well duh. And warm! So clearly I'm never in the icy waters of NorCal, and it was a revelation to be in the bathtub blue there, swimming, kayaking, snorkeling (gasping, choking), body surfing.

The trip in brief: Landed in Hilo. Swooned over the blue-eyed Brazilian "Paulo" at the car rental counter. Drove off in our banana-yellow Jeep Wrangler Sport, winding our way up the spectacular (!!) Hamakua Coast. Hit the fog at nightfall in Waimea but found our way to the hotel in Kona. Barely squeaked into the restaurant reservations and got a little lost getting back from dinner. Went to Wal-mart. Sunscreen. Lay on the beach, pet sea turtles, explored the Kona coast. Ate cinnamon buns the size of my head. Sunscreen. Kayaked into a sea cave and had an entire bay to our snorkeling selves. Drove back across desolate lava fields, ate local ice cream in Hawi, checked into our B&B on the slopes of Kohala. Sunscreen. Lay on the beach, swam. Looked out over the stunning Pololu Valley (trails down in closed due to the earthquake), drove (top down!) the mountain road to ranch country, failed to find internet cafe. Sunscreen. Drove Saddle Road between the volcanoes back to Hilo. Shopped, walked to waterfalls. Fish tacos. Went to Volcanoes National Park, hiked, dined, dropped. Doorless helicopter tour of the volcanoes. Sunscreen. Hiked across the floor of a huge crater, trailblazed across the floor of the caldera. Turned off our headlamps at the back of a long and deserted lava tube. Sunscreen. Hiked and explored the remainder of the crater trails, saw nene, hiked to petroglyphs, hiked across frozen lava flows into the dark to see red hot lava pouring into the steaming surf. Knit.

And just like that, the week was over and I was back at work almost as though it had never happened, with hardly a tan to show for it, what with all the sunscreen.

I ku ka makemake e hele mai, hele no me ka malo`elo`e

I had the best of intentions of getting two more posts in this week before saying farewell for another week (one post about that Haggard fellow and one about the elections), but those will have to wait. For you see, as usual when I travel, things have come down to the last minute and gotten crazy busy and I'll be up late packing and take too much stuff, none of which will actually be weather appropriate, and there will be things left unfinished and I'll be stressed until I throw my stuff down in the hotel room.

Which, in this case, will be tomorrow evening in Kona on the Big Island of Hawaii.

Aloha, y'all! I'll be back in a week.

Louise, no matter what happens, I'm glad I came with you

Two things:

1) I just got back from my five-year-ish physical, and I'm in good health! My cholesterol is low, my blood pressure is low, my blood sugar is in the right place, etc., etc. So, weird maxillary pain aside, I've got nothing to worry about. I can go on eating bacon to my heart's content. You know, for now.

2) Just before I went to the doctor, I dumped my sister off at the airport. She was only here for the weekend so it was too-quick a trip, but I was sad to go back to the apartment without her. I miss her! And we had fun while she was here.

I mean, we both missed the boys, of course, but it was also the first time just the two of us got to hang out for any extended period in roughly 10 years, I think. So we could stay up late, sleep in late, skip meals if we felt like it, eat sushi, linger over brunch, go shopping, spend the afternoon museum-hopping... all without interruption, complaint, or naptime. So we did!

We also went to see Chicago (the musical), and, best of all, drove through the Wine Country on a glorious autumn Sunday with the top down in our Dollar-rent-a-car convertible-for-the-price-of-an-economy-class lucky mistake. I could definitely get used to that.

Anyway, a number of people during the weekend commented how nice it was to see siblings out together having fun, as though it were an unusual thing. I mean, I know we haven't always gotten along perfectly, but that was just part of growing up under the same roof sharing space, attention, the bathroom, and not sharing all the same tastes, opinions, inclinations, perceived opportunities. Whatever animosity we might have felt towards each other when we were younger has largely dissipated as adults. And I guess I find it hard to believe that that's terribly rare.

In any case, yay! Here's to health and family!

It's not a contest, but...

Ok, in truth, it was not raining cats and dogs when I posted the previous entry. It was raining, but not terribly hard. It's just that it was only the second time it's rained since last spring, so I was still enjoying the surprise of water falling from the sky. The picture, of course, had nothing to do with anything. I don't even know the story behind it. It's a photo that is in a frame at a co-worker's desk (an actual photo, mind you, on photo paper - not a magazine cutout or new frame insert). And because I crack up every time I see it, I took a photo of the photo so I'd have a copy of my own. So if anyone comes up with the story behind the photo (actual or fictional), pass it along. The winner of this non-contest will get their very own copy.

Cats & Dogs

It's raining!

Trick or treat

The kids were out in force this evening as I walked home from work, and many of them were costumed in terrific disguises. But what's with all the lazy jokers wearing street clothes and carrying a plastic grocery bag? So what if you put a little glitter in your hair, what kind of costume is that? It isn't just free candy night, people, you're supposed to hold up your end of the bargain and at least try to put some effort into it. If trick-or-treaters actually came to my doorstep, the ones without a detectable costume wouldn't be getting any of my candy, that's for sure. Little moochers.

In other news, I went out amongst the hordes in the Castro tonight. That'll be the last time I do that. 100,000 drunken people in disguise jamming the streets with other rowdy revelers just isn't as much fun as it used to be. It took me over an hour just to catch a cab home. Although it could've been worse since at least I narrowly avoided getting shot, I guess.

I sound like an old coot, but what ever happened to the good ol' days of homemade costumes, popcorn balls, and peaceful drunken revelry?

If your friends jumped off a bridge...

So, as you've no doubt realized if you've flipped through my Flickr photos, I kinda have a thing for the Golden Gate Bridge. Not exactly an obsession, but it's a) nearby; b) kinda hard to miss; c) moody; d) freakin' gorgeous. I've been over it and under it and above it and on it and near it and on sides of it hundreds of times and it's always changing despite it's stoic immutability. It happens to be one of the few man-made landmarks that not just fits into, but actually enhances, the surrounding scenery.

But I have now seen another side of the Bridge, which, while somewhat tainting, adds yet another dimension to its complex place in the landscape. A few friends and I went to see "The Bridge" on Friday night - a documentary ostensibly about the engineering marvel, but actually about something quite different. With cameras trained on the Bridge over the course of 2004, the filmmaker captured 24 people climbing over the rails and leaping to their deaths in the cold hard waters 24 stories below.

Rather than an exploitative snuff film, though, it turned out to be a fascinating, if disconcerting, look at the diversity of human experience. Through uneasy interviews with friends and family we learn about several of the jumpers - the mentally ill woman who stopped her meds, the exasperated man who never caught a break, the once-happy guy who hit a rough spot, the kid who had felt trapped in the wrong life for its entire duration, the outwardly jovial man whose suicide note exposed a deep self-hatred and unhappiness. And equally interesting were the people left behind - the friend who felt responsible, the brother who refused to believe his sister jumped, the parents who shrugged and said there was nothing they could have done, the woman who encouraged her friend to at least put her name and number in his pocket so she would know when he was found.

One woman described her elaborate planning so she could travel from Texas to meet her end here, while in footage you could witness the very moment one man made his decision, took off his backpack, set it gently on the sidewalk, and leapt. There's no reason to think that 24 suicides in one year is out of the ordinary, which is heartbreaking enough. But when set against the interview with a kid who survived, describing not only the drawn-out period leading to his decision to jump, but the 4 long seconds he had to regret it before he hit the water... well, it makes you pause. Or it should. And maybe hope that you yourself never reach that point, no matter how impossible it may seem now.

And the Bridge goes on standing there, and I suppose I'll go on taking pictures.

Welcome to my new home

I decided to mix things up a little here at the blogspot. I never was all that happy with my old "wyomingbruns" moniker since it really didn't relate to much of anything beyond an imagined Indiana Jones alter-ego that has nothing to do with my current or foreseeable sitch. Nor did it match the "Work In Progress" title which, while a more apt description, was importunately weighted with pressure to actually make some advancement. Plus, the address was already taken.

I toyed with various nicknames I've been called -- Zach attack (too taken), Zach-mandu (too nonsensical), Zach-a-doodle-doo (too silly), Zach-osaurus rex (too mortifying), Dru (too personal), Ziti (too obscure) -- but none seemed precise enough.

And so we arrive here. May you, as I do, forever hear my name in everyday conversations when someone indicates agreement.
It's annoying, isn't it?
Exactly.

Looking for someone to let you go

I'm not sure why I'm the one who gets called on when there's a wild animal on the loose -- maybe it's because people know I grew up on a farm, so they assume I'll know something about critters. It's a myth I don't mind perpetuating only because it's a convenient excuse when I'm an oaf... "Oh, oops. What do I know about etiquette, I grew up on a farm."

Anyway, I was called on when my friend's cat brought in the live mouse. I was called in when the lizard emerged from behind the picture frame in the hotel room in Mexico. I was the one the freshman girls came to when the bat came out of their fireplace in their dormroom. Believe me, in all cases I wanted to be standing on the bed squealing in terror too, and it's not like I actually have a clue how to proceed. In the case of the bat, I cornered it in the bathroom, and spent several heart-stopping minutes gently lifting each towel and robe from their hooks steeling myself for a flutter of membraneous wings in my face, before finding the poor creature flailing helplessly in the toilet bowl. I then donned winter gloves and plastic bags to pluck the thing out of the water and place it in a cardboard box to dry out before setting it out on the windowledge while it gnawed furiously at my finger with its sharp little rabid nippers. The other times mostly just involved a broom and some fancy dance moves.

Tonight was only upsetting because I felt so bad for the little critter. I got back from my jog and my roommate casually tells me, "there's a hummingbird stuck in the back room." He'd apparently tried to swat it gently out the window with a towel, but gave up for fear of injuring the little thing or forcing it to expend its energy and sputter out. I know they can fly non-stop across the Gulf of Mexico and all, but they sure seem fragile. Especially when tapping lightly against the window glass or resting in the ficus chirping pitiably.

Fortunately one of the back windows isn't painted shut or jammed, so I pulled the top down, leaving the opening up near the ceiling. I then put a little red jar on the sill hoping it would be drawn by its resemblence to a feeder. After several more minutes of confused buzzing about, out it flew into the night. I hope the thing can see in the dark.

I'll take this as a sign that my apartment is lush and inviting. And thank god it wasn't a pigeon in the house; I'd have to install screens.

Call me Ishmael

Having grown up in the heartland, I'm not all that comfortable around large bodies of water. I mean, I can swim more or less, thanks to summer morning swimming lessons as a kid (one humid whiff of chlorine today and I'm immediately whisked away to the cold rough concrete on my wet bare feet with my clothes in a wire basket as I slap my way from the cement shower stall to stand shivering in the lineup at the edge of the frigid outdoor municipal pool). But aside from the occasional dunking while river rafting, my exposure to large bodies of water is fairly limited. So the vast immensity of ocean at my doorstep is especially intimidating with its hypothermic chill, crushing waves, and unfathomable depths.

It was not without some trepidation, then, that I stepped aboard the 56-ft Salty Lady on Sunday. Now, I've been on plenty of ferry boats of course, but crossing the Bay is to the open ocean what fetching caulking at the hardware store is to browsing at IKEA on a Saturday afternoon. Yet that's precisely what I was up against as my friend Beth and I were going on an all-day whale watching trip to the Farallon Islands, which sit at the edge of the continental shelf some 27 miles due west of the Golden Gate.

The Farallons are a National Wildlife Refuge in the midst of a Marine Sanctuary and off-limits to everyone but researchers. Eerily beautiful barren granite crags, they're the largest sea-bird rookery in the lower-48 and are home for thousands of seals and sea lions, including some endangered ones. The surrounding waters are filled with great white sharks and 18 species of whales and dolphins, and were the site of the famous footage of an orca attacking a great white a few years ago. Intriguing, right? I've been wanting to visit since I first spotted them on the horizon in the rare glare of fair sunset air.

I've never really suffered from motion sickness before, but I've also never spent time on the high seas, so I took no chances and dosed up on Dramamine, ate a "high protein low fat" breakfast as recommended, had my little pressure-point wrist bands, and packed snacks of ginger snaps, ginger granola, and candied ginger. Of course, the nice weather probably made the most difference, and the Pacific uncharacteristically lived up to its name as, for much of the trip, the waters were calm and glassy smooth.

We greeted the beautiful sunrise (along with 15,000 women running a marathon), boarded our boat, and disappeared into the fog as we motored beneath the Bridge and out into open water, hitting the large swells of the Potato Patch shoals and crossing the calm waters of the gulf beyond, accompanied by dolphins and gulls and the vast expanse of steel-grey sea and sky. The deck-hand caught a beautiful turquoise rock cod, the naturalist got giddy at the site of a tropical brown booby, I nearly fell off the boat as it braked for a mola mola, and I vowed never to release a helium balloon into the air again since we literally saw more of these littering the sea waiting to kill a sea turtle than we saw wildlife. The humpbacks we encountered were indifferent to our harassments and we were never thrilled by close encounters or breaches.

Still, alone amidst the blinding vastness it was easy to understand the lure of a life at sea (though romantic notions fade somewhat when imagining sailing for 3 years at a time, eating hardtack and saltpork, getting in a little dingy to row out and harpoon a leviathan, or butchering and rendering the blubber onboard. What a peculiar piece of history, that). Had there been swells or chop, I surely would have been wan and wretched, but as it was, I had a luminous adventure and plan to repeat it periodically... especially if the food supply rebounds and the blue whales return... If for no other reason than so I can shout, "There she blows! Off the starboard bow -- there she blows!"

We're Number Three! We're Number Three!

The 300 millionth person arrived in America today. Because there's a birth roughly every 7 seconds, a death every 13 seconds, a new immigrant every 31 seconds, there's a new American basically every 11 seconds. And we just passed the 300 million mark.

Discuss.

Why do you ask if I drove here?

To conclude, for now, the ongoing upper maxillary saga, I went to the Ear/Nose/Throat guy yesterday and he doesn't know what it is either. But he knows what it's not, and that includes sinus infection, tumor, egg sac, and bone irregularities. So that's good, I guess. And now I've had a CT scan of my face and skull, which was pretty interesting.

I'd been wanting one of those just because it seems like I've had a lot of sinus issues over the past few years, and I was picturing my sinus cavities as these crowded gunk-filled mazes ready to flare up and wreak havoc at the first sign of a virus or pollen. Apparently that's not the case. I have a lot of air in my head.
[Insert joke of choice here]
He said my sinuses looked large and healthy and it was obvious that I grew up in a rural setting and never suffered from sinus problems or infections as a kid.

Anyway, since nobody has any idea, and it's more just annoying than a problem, we do nothing now. And if it doesn't go away as mysteriously as it arrived, then he'll either blame my dentist or send me to a nerve specialist. Neat.

As long as it's not a tooth problem, cancer, or an egg sac, I'm fine. And now I know what the bones in my inner ear look like. And that the CT-scan technician validates parking.

Leader of the Plaque

My gums hurt. My jaw is sore. And feeling has just recently been restored to my nose, tongue and palate. Yes folks, I just spent two hours at the dentist, one of my least favorite places on Earth. No offense to my current dental professional. You'd think that years of orthodontia, tooth-pullings, etc. would inure me to the torture of the dental chair. But you'd be wrong. If anything, it's made things worse.

Now my current dentist is actually a pretty good guy (though anyone who chooses dentistry as a profession is automatically somewhat suspect). And he knows I'm not a fan. My white knuckled deathgrip on the reclining chair is a dead giveaway. He commented today while propping open my jaw that I seem to be more at ease than I used to be -- which... may be true but isn't necessarily saying much given that our first shared experience involved a root canal and pain that I can only describe as twanging my nerve endings like guitar strings, to which he responded with a casual "Hmm, the higher acidity from the infection tends to reduce the anesthetic's effectiveness. I'm going to need to inject some directly into your nerve."

So, given that I hadn't been in, even for a cleaning, in a couple years (yes, I know. I haven't exactly reconciled the necessity of regular visitations for the prevention of future such traumatic horrors with the vile loathing. It's not an easy balance to strike), we scheduled this one after last week's verification that my weird sinus issue wasn't a crippling tooth problem. And at that time we discussed a problem area I have with flossing that he said he'd take a look at and maybe replace the filling if necessary. Well it turns out he tricked me, the evil bastard genius.

After enough x-rays to give me brain cancer, as I tensely settled back for a little scraping and polishing, he instead pulled out this ginormous needle and, before I could object, shot me full of Lidocaine so I could go numb while he cleaned. On the upside, I was mostly droolingly deadened during the cleaning. However, he then proceeded to replace not one but three fillings. On two different sides.

In fairness, the extra two were ones we'd talked about years ago. My last remaining old amalgam one, for example. But since there was nothing actually wrong with it -- you know, other than the mercury -- I had balked at the time. So frankly I gotta give him credit since, as he assumed, I'd have run for the hills with any advanced warning. I guess I should be relieved that now, in one fell swoop, the last bit of necessary dental work has finally concluded. Barring a freak popcorn-coated carmel-apple accident or an unlikely-unless-you're-me leaky root canal tragedy, I can settle in to an uneasy routine of biannual cleanings with little to fear.

Or so I'm led to believe...

Primal [Jet Engine] Scream

In other news, the weather has finally sort of turned not so cold. Whoo-hoo Indian Summer at last! Or, you know, something like it. At least the sun is shining and the fog has rolled back briefly.

Just in time for Fleet Week! Apparently there's all sorts of stuff that goes on during Fleet Week, but the only part I never miss is the annual Blue Angels air show. Rather hard to miss it, frankly, what with the scream of jets roaring low overhead. Which, if you can imagine, some people actually complain about. For reals!

I mean, yes it's noisy and distracting. But it only happens once a year. For 3 days. And the planes are only in the air over the City for 30 minutes, tops. Please. Bitching about it is so lame. The ground-shaking roar of motorcycles sets off more car alarms than the Blue Angels, and I don't see anyone whining from their couches that they can't hear their precious TVs and writing editorials about banning them.

Also, because this is San Francisco, there's always the people who bitch about needless displays of military power. But come on, people! How can you not feel that roar or see the jet streak overhead and just jump in giddy glee? I mean, that's a heavy chunk of metal and stuff defying gravity up there! Humanity is capable of creating that! And there's a person inside! The things fly faster than sound! They can stay airborne upside-down! They can nearly stall out, then disappear into the wild blue yonder in the blink of an eye, level out, streak towards the earth, and roll sideways, slicing through the air like, like... like an F/A-18 Hornet, I guess.

But how freakin' cool is that?! I don't know how you can watch and not get chills. It taps into something deep and primal for me, and I just can't stop grinning like an idiot. Thankfully my rooftop has the perfect view, up above the crowds. Comically, almost every rooftop in sight was crawling with people. Love that.

So yeah, Fleet Week. Yay! Plus... Sailors!*

*Jered, I assure you there are sailors. Friday was an aberration in the neighborhood's social scene; the rest of the weekend was packed with people. Anyway, it was terrific seeing you & Paul and hope you made it back home safe! You're both to come back and stay any time!

So clearly I lied

I wasn't really back at all, there, was I?

Not for lack of things to talk about, but for all sorts of other good excuses. Like internet being down at home. Like being busy. Like good weather. Like being lazy.

Anyway, let's try this again, shall we?

For the last few weeks I've had this odd pressure behind my face, on the left side, directly below my cheek bone and about halfway closer to my nose. Now, I've had sinus infections before, and besides usually being quite painful, they've usually started with an allergy attack or a cold or something that involves a seriously runny nose and a lot of gunk... or, you know, "post-nasal drip." What's weird about this is that it's just a strange feeling; there's no pain, there's no snot, there's no feeling of general ickiness.

Also, when I poke at this point on my face, the feeling goes from pressure to serious discomfort, though still not exactly painful.

Now, I know better than anyone when something isn't quite right with my body, having lived with it for a few decades. And while I'm admittedly a complete hypochondriac about certain things (what if that tiny little tremor in my hand was this first sign of Parkinson's instead of a sign of too much caffeine?!), after that heart thing, I've learned when something's not right enough to get the doctor involved. As I have done in this instance.

Of course, as it turns out, neither my doctor nor my dentist know what's up any more than I do, nor has an x-ray elucidated the matter any. Nor has a full course of antibiotics made a difference. So now it's up to the specialists.

On the one hand, I'm glad they don't think I have a tooth problem, because there's no way in hell I ever want to experience anything remotely like a root canal again. On the other hand, if it's not that or a sinus infection, I'm left with something tragic or mortifying. Like brain leakage or a spider's egg sac in my maxillary sinus.

Oh god I feel woozy.

I'm BAaack

So, obviously I've been on a little hiatus here. As summer rapidly drew to a close (happy Autumn everyone!) I had other things to do. Like a Labor Day trip to Kansas City*. And the weather has turned nicer, so the outdoors needed enjoying. And last weekend was Paul's wedding - which I was in as an "usher" but which really meant I was one of the groomsmen so I got to wear a tux.

The highlight of the past week, by the way, was being mobbed by the Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill. I was walking home on Sunday after returning my tux, and veered towards a little park on the edge of downtown where I heard the familiar cacophony of the flock. There was a woman with sunflower seeds who offered some to me, and before I knew it there were parrots on my shoulders, arms, and hanging off my hands. They were raucous and rambunctious, curious and cautiously friendly, and I feel like I've ticked another uniquely San Franciscan item off my list.

Anyhoodle, I'll try to get back on task with more regular postings.


* "Kansas City?" you may ask. "Why?" Well, a few years ago I finally joined the ranks of the Labor Day Gang - a few folks and extended friends from college who have gotten together every Labor Day weekend for the past 8-ish years. They've been meeting in random places we might not ordinarily go (Memphis, Austin, etc.) to experience someplace new. Remind me to tell you sometime about the Spirit of Texas. But anyway, KC was great - barbeque, baseball, fried chicken, rotating lounges... who'd'a thunk?

Old news

For the record, it's actually the 23th of September, but this back-dated post was sitting half-finished from several weeks ago, so I felt obligated to pick up where I left off.

Finally, a weekend that struck the perfect balance between busy fun and abject lethargy. It began Friday night with a "bachelor" party for my friend Paul - a former coworker with whom I applied for The Amazing Race. I use quotes only because there were as many women there as guys. And it was at a karaoke bar, which held about as much appeal for me as lap dances at a strip joint. Which is to say, none.

The main focus of the evening, since the singing kept Paul occupied, was trying to determine if one of his cute friends is gay or straight. You'd think shouldn't be a tough challenge, but even with some of the best evil minds working on it, it remains a mystery. Dumb faulty gaydar anyhow.

Saturday, I did absolutely nothing save nurse my headache, but made up for it by getting up before sunrise on Sunday, walking up Telegraph Hill to the base of Coit Tower, and waiting to meet my friends Nichole and Lea for a photo-taking date. They were late, but it was foggy anyway, so sunrise was a bust. Plus, a Pepsi commercial was being filmed there, which caught me by surprise as I walked around from the peaceful south side right into the middle of the shoot on the north side. I came around the sidewalk into the glare of lights, bustle of equipment, and all these faces looking right at me. A guy on a megaphone was saying, "Can you hear me at the top of the stairs?" and, frozen at the top of the stairs as I was, I thought for a moment he was talking to me until he said, annoyed, "No, sir, not you." At which point I ran down the steps and out of the shot they were setting up. Awkward!

So from there, we went to the Presidio to take photos in the fog, and then made our way through Dim Sum brunch to the Legion Of Honor for the Monet exhibit. But there was a huge line to get in, so we gave up. I then went to the Giants/Reds game with another friend and porked out on garlic fries and bratwurst.

And finally, back home to help the roommate load up their car with 8 tons of crap for their week at Burning Man. (Hooray! I have the apartment to myself for a few days!) Overall, a very satisfying weekend, don't you think?

Like floating questions, why?

I ended up walking home by myself this evening, and was mostly lost in thought and the music coming from my ipod. But as I turned up Columbus at the base of the Transamerica Pyramid, where the dark canyons of the Financial District suddenly give way to the open sky and building height restrictions of North Beach, I was faced with a most amazing sight.

It was marvelous. The sun had mostly set already, leaving the sky something to behold. First, there was a thin layer of gauzy cirrus in the upper atmosphere, still lit up by the sun, shimmering and pale. Much nearer to earth was a 2nd layer of clouds, rippled in long undulating pink strands across the heavens, like choppy seas of unraveled cotton candy. Below that, rolling over Russian hill was the fog, breaking up in swift-moving puffs of grey lavender. Adding to the drama, all three layers were moving at different speeds and in slightly different directions across the darkening sky to dizzying effect.

It seemed as if no one else bothered to look up or take notice, like I was enjoying my own private private show on a grand scale. The rest of the walk home I barely watched where I was going as I was staring skyward, smiling the whole way.

The Cookie Divine

Every afternoon around between about 2:30 and 4 at the office, I'll start to crash. Sometimes I'm truly tired. Sometimes I just get the munchies. Sometimes I zone out from the tedium. Sometimes I'll be in the post-lunch food-coma phase. But pretty inevitably if I'm sitting at my desk working (as opposed to running around the office flailing my arms, or sitting in a meeting. Although sometimes even sitting in a meeting...), my eyes will start to lose focus, my eyelids droop, my fingers start typing half words. And every once in a great while, my brain will helplessly slip into that limbo la-la land where it can't tell the difference between responding to an e-mail and rolling through a field of poseys while covered in peanut butter and being chased by cows mooing in cockney accents.

I'm sure you could probably argue that this is caused from too much sugar in my diet already, but on the worst of days, I find the only solution (since actual power naps are frowned upon in the office) is to get up from my desk, walk the 3 blocks to Specialty's bakery, and buy myself a warm chunk of gooey chocolatey chippy heaven. Partially this is about getting the blood flowing with a brisk walk in the fresh air. But mostly it's about the dense blood-sugar-spiking buttery heart-stoppingly delicious cookie. Seriously, the things are like crack. You can smell the bakery a block away and be rendered helpless to resist.

Specialty's, I praise and curse you.

These pages must show

Not that I claim to know his original state of mind, but David Copperfield has clearly gone insane:

Copperfield Says He Owns 'Fountain of Youth'

Can't have that upstart media-hog David Blaine stealing all the spotlight.

On the other hand, he does look like he's been around an unnaturally long time..

To the place I belong

Somewhere in my dad's basement sits a disorganized collection of slides and negatives, amongst which are pictures of my sister and me sitting on a log. Taken every August save a few, they're not terribly thrilling separately, I suppose, but when viewed in chronological order they're like a time lapse of the two of us growing up from the time we were toddlers to the time she had a toddler of her own. The photos also chronicle the changes to the place: trees growing, trees cut down, the disappearance of our fallen log (chainsawed for firewood), etc.

For as long as I can remember, my family has been visiting the same campsite up in the Snowy Range of southeast Wyoming, along the Medicine Bow River where it flows out of the woods and into a large meadow called Stillwater Park. But surprisingly, perhaps, for all the added wear and tear from countless other campers, the place remains largely as I remember it. I hadn't actually been there in 5 or 6 years, so I was glad it worked out to join the family there again. I could still practically navigate my way around in the dark, from the bowed Douglas fir at the edge of the slope towards the water to the patch of wild huckleberries near the old 4-wheeler trail, from the sentinel tree in the meadow through the knee-deep grass to the wild strawberries by the willow thicket, from the fish-cleaning rocks in the stream to the Black Forest around the first bend upstream, from the rough entrance off the road through the old clear-cut area to Little Creek. In some ways, it feels more like home than anywhere else.

Time has certainly had its way with the family, though, and the nuclear unit has sort of detonated all over the place. But despite the potential for conflama, the weekend went smoothly with my dad and his wife in their trailer tucked away amongst the trees, Mom and her boyfriend in a tent nestled behind the pop-up trailer housing my sister and her family nearer the water. Across the small dusty clearing a gaggle of cousins on my father's side had also set up camp - none of whom I had seen since Grandma's funeral 4 1/2 years ago. And I borrowed a tent from Dad which I set up in the middle distance.

So even though my tennies didn't hold up so well in the wet grass with all the rain Saturday, it was a lovely weekend. I didn't want to leave. If I could figure out how to live up there, I'd totally do it.

Oh dammit, we forgot to take another photo of Nikole and me.

I'll be what I am

So, anyhoodle. I actually had a good trip I think. I mean, despite the chaos. I could have fared much worse. I mean, I made it where I needed to go, eventually my luggage did too, there was plenty of room on my flights so I could choose window or aisle depending on my mood and even angle across 'em all to prevent my knees from being crushed by the reclining seat backs in front of me. And, weirdly, I think I'm getting past my landing anxiety.

(Landing never used to bother me, having grown up flying around in a little single-engine Cessna piloted by my Dad and all, but I never really used to think about it either. That changed on a puddle-jumper flight from DC to New Haven while I was in college. I swear the pilots forgot where they were going, because I was looking out the window thinking, "hey, that's campus clear down there... shouldn't we be...?" when suddenly the bottom dropped out from under us as we began to plummet out of the sky. Seriously, I could see Tweed Airport out my window not actually going anywhere, just getting larger and larger as we dove straight down. That was the first time I was ever terrified in an airplane. I honestly didn't think we were going to be able to pull out of the dive in time to not leave a smoking crater at the foot of the runway.)

Anyway, now it's more the people that scare me than the flight. A true sign of my burgeoning curmudgeonhood, perhaps. It began at 4:15 in the dark and cold morning when SuperShuttle picked me up. The next to get on was a wet-haired sorority sister just past her prime and looking a little worse for the wear. She smelled of stale beer, cigarettes and shampoo, and wheezed out a throaty "sure is early" to my nod of acknowledgement. I couldn't think of a single thing to say for fear of striking up an actual conversation.

Next, standing in the ridiculously long security line, drinking my bottled water so it wouldn't go to waste and surrounded by people frantically rummaging through their carry-on, was a pleasant older gentleman with a woolly cardigan and nothing but a leather satchel. Of course everyone was feeling chummy because of the unusual circumstances so he struck up a conversation, and because it's hard for me to be completely rude, I learned all about his early days with punch-card computers and the cutting edge of engineering computing technology at Stanford during the 50's-80's. Yes he was perfectly nice and harmless, but I find it difficult to waste energy connecting with strangers I'll never see again. Which is probably pathological, given the magic of being human and blah blah blah, but still, it was 6 in the fucking morning, I had just parted with my Chapstick, and all I wanted was some personal space.

Also, the beautiful broad-faced brunette woman in line behind me on the jetway, as we were waiting to have our carry-ons searched again: she couldn't stop talking about how much she needed to pee since she, too, had downed all her water before security so it wouldn't go to waste. Ok, so she built up to that revelation with some giddy chitchat about trying to decide if she should throw out her favorite Aveda/BodyShop/Sephora products or miss the flight, but hello? TMI.

I certainly can't leave out the obnoxious blond tween twins and their brute brother in front of me on one leg. I feel sure this was their first airplane experience given their level excitement and ignorance, but sadly their enthusiasm was mostly exhibited by pummeling each other, arguing loudly in ogre-speak, and slamming their seats back into my kneecaps. Also, who takes off their shoes while the plane is still at the gate and places them in the overhead compartment? Who?! It took me at least 20 minutes to adjust the overhead air properly to keep from gagging at the smell of seriously sour feet the whole flight.

Most alarmingly, though, was the big-armed guy who sat next to me en route back to Phoenix. He still had hospital tags on his wrist, and some amber iodine stains beneath his well-formed (but soul-patch adorned) chin and streaking across his clean-shaven jawline and veiny neck. I couldn't see any actual surgical signs, though he still had gauze taped on the back of his smooth hand and in the crook of his arm. He didn't actually speak to me, or show any signs he knew I existed, which was just was well - the last thing I wanted was to become Patient One, because Patient Zero had breathed on me. But he kept falling asleep with his leg in the aisle, so the flight attendant kept asking me to poke him so she could get her drink cart through. I was not thrilled at this. For all I knew, he had just escaped from the psych ward and was on the lam. I mean, who gets on a plane directly from the hospital without even taking off the wrist tags? I did relax a little later when he pulled out a paper with the header "Post-Procedure Discharge Instructions," though he could have snagged that from the nurse he strangled.

So yeah. Maybe I need a car. I like driving. By myself.

Maybe they've already won

Well, that was something. Lessons learned from my latest travels:

1. Don't fly on days that terrorist plots are thwarted causing the TSA to raise threat levels to orange;
2. Don't check baggage because it may get lost... twice;
3. Just plan on buying all new gels and liquids when reaching my destination since I can't carry it on and it'll get lost anyway if I check it;
4. When the ticket stub says "US Airways by AmericaWest for Mesa Airlines" you're asking for trouble;
5. Perhaps it's worth the extra money to fly direct;
6. Phoenix is fucking hot and anyone who chooses to live there is clearly not right in the head.

Should I be worried?

Huh. So this morning, long before I needed to be up, I started to emerge from dreamland in the quiet of the predawn morning, when my bed shuddered and the apartment rattled and I felt another earthquake. I looked at my clock and it was 5:57. This one was dinky (a mere 2.9 acccording to the USGS), but eerily reminiscent of the last one.

I'm a little alarmed for several reasons. First of all, I find it a little strange that I should have awakened a few minutes immediately prior to both of them. Not that I'm claiming psychic abilities or anything, though that would be useful. It's just disconcerting is all. Second, after going several years without feeling any earthquakes, it seems there's been a slight uptick in their frequency. And lastly, this one was directly under Berkeley, along a stretch of the Hayward fault that has been quiet for long enough that the seismologists are worried. Was this the first sign that the Hayward is going to slip? I shudder at the thought. And think I'll get to creating that little earthquake kit for the office.

Yeah yeah yeah

I was going gangbusters there for a bit, at least retroactively, but y'all's gonna hafta wait a bit longer for sumpin new. It's not that I don't have schtuff to say, because I do (how's about a Happy Birthday leonid roar out to my mom, sister, and nephew Caden, for example). But you see, things have been busy. I've been busy. And I took up reading again -- which was nice while it lasted -- so when I wasn't busy I was still occupied. And now, dear ones, I'm off for a weekend in the Wyoming woods. I'll write when I get back.

Time it was and what a time it was

The illimitable, silent, never-resting thing called Time, rolling, rushing on, swift, silent, like an all-embracing ocean-tide, on which we and all the universe swim like exhalations, like apparitions which are, and then are not: this is forever very literally a miracle; a thing to strike us dumb, for we have no word to speak about it.
- Thomas Carlyle (1795-1881)

A moment ago, it seems, that I set out on my grand adventure into the unknown, waving goodbye to one life as we turned the aptly-named Explorer towards the new one ahead.

It had been a disorienting summer for me. After having the metaphorical rug pulled out from under me with much pomp and circumstance, I found it difficult to regain my balance at home. Where once I would have found bedrock, there was little solidity for me to grasp onto that might help me feel my way through the impenetrable fog of my looming future. My time back home was necessarily temporary.

Mom already had an apartment at the time, though she was still living at the house as she and Dad worked through the divorce settlement. With me there, it was too easy for all of us to fall into old habits, which is exactly what it no longer was. Dad & Mom were both struggling to pick their own separate paths forward and I felt like my presence -- the last vestige of normalcy, the life that was -- was holding them back in a way, too.

And so it was that they both came home at lunchtime that Wednesday afternoon to see me off. I had spent the previous two days madly sorting through my belongings, picking what to keep, what to discard, what to take, what to leave behind, with Bryan patiently idling by. But finally our stuff was stowed in the U-Haul, Dad had some last-minute trailer advice, and I hugged my teary goodbyes on the edge of the gravel drive. I suspect my parents wanted to stop me as much as I wanted them to, but my future was now officially in my own hands. Not only was I headed down an unknown road, but we all were, and my leaving this time somehow underscored the big change in all our lives; nothing would ever be the same.

These thoughts and more accompanied me on the first leg of the journey that led me here as we traversed the lonely hills and distant mountains, the enormous sky broken by solitary thunderclouds with sheets of rain trailing beneath. Bryan and I switched drivers at each gas stop, the passenger reading aloud from On The Road, as the miles and hours blurred by... Casper. Sheridan. Billings. Bozeman.

...Ten years ago, today.

When as a child I laughed and wept, Time crept.
When as a youth I waxed more bold, Time strolled.
When I became a full-grown man, Time RAN.
When older still I daily grew, Time FLEW.
Soon I shall find, in passing on, Time gone.
O Christ! wilt Thou have saved me then?
Amen.
- Henry Twells (1823-1900)

Were closer now than light years to go

Oh Amazon. We go way back, you and me, and I cherish the time we've spent together. I remember when we first met, almost ten years ago now, and how taken I was with the idea of you. You were shiny and new and smart and well-read and even in your youth before you moved beyond books, you covered a vast amount of territory, were quick and revolutionary in your own way, a fusion of what was with what would be. You were my first, you know. Yes, and after that first online purchase, there was no turning back.

But lately I've been a bit worried. I suppose it's natural to lose focus a little with age, and while I appreciate your offers of fulfilling my every need, whether they be intellectual pursuits or kitchen appliances and groceries, I'm not sure this is working for me anymore. I'll admit, it's kind of cute that you think I pursue ophthalmic microsurgery as a causal hobby, but really. It's almost like you don't know me at all. You've seemed a bit muddled and confused of late; you're all over the map and have been leaping to conclusions -- often wrong ones -- with scanty evidence. I think maybe it's best if we take a brief break from each other for a little while. Just a little while. I need some time to think and maybe test the waters out there, and perhaps you can use the time too. Take a look at yourself, sort out what's important, upgrade your recommendation algorithms...

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Dear Amazon.com Customer,
We've noticed that customers who like A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle also purchased books by Marian Macsai. For this reason, you might like to know that Marian Macsai's Ophthalmic Microsurgical Suturing Techniques will be released soon. You can pre-order your copy by following the link below.

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Ophthalmic Microsurgical Suturing Techniques Marian Macsai (Editor) Price: $139.00 (August 2006)

Book Description
Microsurgical Suturing Techniques is a reference text for both the novice and the accomplished ophthalmic surgeon. In 15 richly illustrated chapters this book imparts basic information on tissue tactics and knot tying and demonstrates the applicability of these techniques to various microsurgical situations, in both the anterior and the posterior segment of the eye.

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*sigh*