Welcome Back, Zach!

I'm back. And this time I mean it.
My little hiatus turned into a big hiatus, because, well, that's just the way those things work: You miss the gym once and suddenly you've wasted a year of membership dues without a single workout; you take a summer break from the pottery studio and 4 years go by without throwing any clay; you put down the book when it gets a little dull and months go by without reading a single page of something other than your magazines which you're only barely staying on top of to keep the recycle pile manageable; you tell yourself you'll write a little over the coming weekend and days become weeks until you don't even know where to begin so you just don't.

At any rate, I suppose a lot has happened since last I typed here, yet there doesn't seem to be much to show for it. Perhaps I'll summarize in my first entry of 2008 (and by the way, Holy Shit). Just now, however, I'm going to use the last few minutes of 2007 to bitch and moan and unload, the better to start the New Year fresh and positive and glass half-full-like.

Before I get too whiny, let me first say that I have only just returned from a lovely week in the Denver deepfreeze with the family. It was only maybe the 3rd Christmas I've spent with my fam in 11 years, so it was kind of a big deal. The nephews are getting huge, Santa was generous (I even had a stocking on the mantle!), and it dumped so much snow on Christmas Day (and two days later) that it pretty much made up for all the white Christmases I've missed over the years. I got to exercise my long-forgotten snow-shoveling skills, and even didn't die while snowboarding in temperatures of 13 below zero. So... YAY!

(Remind me, though, to fill you in on my work/boss frustration leading up to my trip home. Because -- yargh.)

Anyway, so here I am, just having walked in the door about a half hour ago. After being escorted through the security lines at DIA by a certain TSA agent I know (thanks, Shawn!), it figures that things couldn't continue to go my way. The plane departed without explanation well over an hour late, and the luggage took about 45 minutes to show up at baggage claim in SFO, which put me on public transit between 9:30 and 11pm... precisely the same time thousands of revelers were headed into the City in their loud, drunken, cardboard hat-wearing hordes. Try crowding onto a bus with a 35lb suitcase, laptop shoulder bag, and 6-ft snowboard bag when the fare is free and the masses are migrating to your neighborhood to continue getting their drink on.

So I finally arrive, looking forward to kicking back in my quiet, empty apartment, knowing that my roommates departed last week for a month of traveling in Vietnam. I had specifically admonished against incinerating the apartment in my absence, given their penchant for candle burning, and requested that they turn the heat down before departing. And what to my wondering eyes should appear, upon staggering in the door? The Christmas lights on the pine boughs over the mantle, still plugged in and unattended for days. And the apartment is uncharacteristically warm... oh look! The thermostat is still set so that the heat has been on for days, keeping things cozy for exactly no one. And hey! Dishes in the sink! Is that...? It is! The garbage was bagged up, but wasn't taken out, so instead it's moldering on the floor of the room beyond the kitchen.

Worst of all, however, my bedroom has been completely violated. In an apartment of shared spaces, my bedroom is the one space that's completely mine. It's the one place where I'm in control; if it's a mess, I'm the only one to blame. I'm possessive of the space and the belongings in it, perhaps unreasonably so. But it's my sanctuary. Now, let me be the first to admit that it wasn't exactly in a pristine state when I left. But I'm one of those people who may appear disorganized yet generally knows exactly where things are. And despite a certain amount of clutter, I have my own quirky hygiene rules that include never putting my clothes on the floor, and keeping my bed sacred space. I spend a lot of time sleeping there -- I may transfer a pile of laundry to the foot of my bed, but nothing touches the sheets and pillows but me and my pajamas. I won't even crawl under the sheets wearing street clothes. It's like throwing your wet towel on the floor and using it again later. Ew.

Now, a friend was crashing at my place while I was away. He was set up comfortably in the guest room, but apparently that space was needed for a little holiday get-together my roommates were having. Which meant my pal slept one or two nights in MY room. Which by itself isn't particularly bothersome. A quick change of the sheets and I'm good. But having spent enough nights with him in the distant past to be familiar with some of his habits, I should have known it wouldn't be that easy.

I walked in to find my bed askew, a foot away from the wall, pillows on the floor and one pillow resting in the dirt of the houseplant on my nightstand. My trash was laying on its side and its contents were spilled across the floor mingled with some of the clean laundry that had once been atop my bed. The clothing I had gotten out while packing was similarly on the floor on the other side of my bed, smooshed between the wall and the dusty storage bins which had once been under my bed. This stuff was no longer under my bed because my friend's stuff had been shoved under there instead, awaiting his next monthly visit. What had once been two distinct sorted stacks of paperwork were merged into one heap, carelessly strewn across the bed and now including some things that weren't even mine. My drawer of yarn and knitting projects in progress was upended, with the contents littering the floor and coated in the dust that had been stirred up from under the bed (obviously I need to vacuum under there more often, I recognize). And, I shit you not, someone's electric toothbrush was in my bed, under the sheets. WTF?!

I'm so annoyed I'm muttering to myself in my empty apartment and barely maintaining my composure. So much for a relaxing evening. I don't even want to deal tonight. Instead, I'm throwing my sleeping bag on the couch and camping out, leaving the mess for tomorrow.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,/And never brought to mind?/Should auld acquaintance be forgot,/And auld lang syne?

Perhaps yes.

Well Why Not

Rise Up

Speaking of building buildings, watching them going up is pretty fascinating.

There's a 22-story residential building (BLŪ) going up directly out my office window on Folsom street. I've been able to sit at my desk and observe the whole process, from the first scraping of the original asphalt parking lot to the drilling and reinforcing of the ground, the digging of the basement parking to the placement of the rebar and concrete forms. They just poured the concrete on the 21st floor, the precast facade is mostly in place, and they've framed out the rooms in aluminum 2x4s about halfway up so far.

Naturally, taking in this whole process has brought up even more questions than it answered. The crane magically appeared, so I didn't get to see how they put it together or raise it up by adding new segments. The facade also magically appeared, so I have yet to witness how they hang it from the edge of the building; I'm hoping it will become clear when they start to hang the glass panels that will clad the rest of the building. I'm also not exactly sure what the rickety wooden supports are doing on the top four floors... from here, they seem to be made of two 2x4s or 4x4s that are clamped together side-by-side, and I can't really see how that could provide useful support for the concrete floors/ceilings because any significant compression it seems to me would slide one beam down through the clamps. But I see this at other similarly-constructed sites, so clearly they serve some purpose.

Anyway, watching the crane forever lifting and lowering forms, buckets, rebar columns, port-a-potties, etc., reminds me of my last office location where I also sat in a window looking out over a construction site. This was years ago (1998) as they built the W hotel tower next to the SFMOMA. I kept wondering what would happen if -- and therefore having the secret unspoken half-hope that I'd get to see -- something dropped from the crane. One morning, shortly after getting to work and settling in, as I was taking my first call of the day and idly looking out the window, it dawned on me that I hadn't seen the usual bustle of activity, and my eyes focused onto the crane cable hanging slack. As my eyes followed the cable down, I slowly stood, leaning forward with my forehead against the window. The cable disappeared into an enormous gaping hole like a cookie-cutter cut-out through the roof of the 2-story firehouse adjacent to the construction site. I dropped the phone received.

Turns out that a few hours earlier, the axle on the winch had broken and a 9-ton piece of pre-cast cladding fell nearly 30 stories, smashing through the firemen's living quarters, the engine garage, and into the basement. Purely coincidentally, the firehouse had been emptied of people and equipment the day before in preparation for a remodeling; no one was injured. I did not know this at the time and was immediately cured of my disaster witness craving, left wondering what the crash & boom must have sounded/felt like, but relieved I had not observed it.

Anyhoodle, I'm totally hooked on the Emporis website which has all sorts of useful info on buildings existing, under construction, and proposed, for cities all over the world. I also just learned of several architectural walking tours that I think will supplement my own wanderings and wonderings. Hooray!

Alphabet of giants

Maybe it stems from growing up in western Nebraska where the tallest thing sticking up above the winter wheat was the row of decrepit elm snags and chokecherry trees serving as a windbreak outlining the farmyards, the grain elevator by the tracks on the edge of town, and the radio tower tethered in the distance, red lights lazily blinking an asynchronous rhythm. Or from my time in Cheyenne where the tallest building was the capitol, whose gilded dome can be seen glinting just above the treetops from every road leading into town. There's something about tall buildings that fascinates and exhilarates me.

Whether flying into New York past the endless architectural forest, floating along the Chicago River gazing skyward, or crossing the Bay Bridge with the city lights sprawled out above and below, the little internal thrill of excitement never ceases to spread an involuntary smile across my face. Walking amongst the dark and windy painted canyons of the Financial District every day for years now still hasn't dulled my wonder, and I'm perpetually looking skyward at the dizzying angles, claustrophobic juxtapositions, the reflections of glass and concrete and stone and steel and light.

I suppose there's always a building under construction somewhere in every city, but there has been something of a skyscraper boom in San Francisco in the years I've lived and worked here. Where 30-story towers now stand, I remember the cracking asphalt and chainlink fences of surface parking lots, or a row of sickly poplars. Things slowed down for a bit after the dotcom bust, but the construction pace has picked up with renewed vigor lately, with cranes overhanging taller and taller buildings all over between my office and the waterfront.

And now, with several plans submitted and approvals underway, talk of a new tower being built here (just miles from the San Andreas) that would be the tallest building this side of Chicago -- perhaps even taller than the Empire State Building -- that could tower over 350 feet above the city's current tallest building, the Transamerica Pyramid. Proposals, too, for a series of several other skyscrapers that would also be among the country's top 20 tallest buildings. I'm grinning just typing about it.

I'm all for stemming rampant unregulated construction and growth, for keeping neighborhoods (like mine!) feeling like neighborhoods and for preserving views. But downtown, where you've already got steel and glass and polished stone stretching heavenward, why not think big? Huge! The earthquake threat can be accounted for by modern engineering (more than ever before, anyway... if the biggest big one hits, we're all screwed anyway). The view argument seems a little weak for the proposed sites because if you wanted to look out at nature, you wouldn't live in a city with skyscrapers to begin with; a city's skyline has its own beauty in the twinkling lights and soaring heights, the illusionary permanence, in the defiance and integration and complexity and chaos and humanity.

It's not much of an argument, but if we as a civilization, a culture, a city, are capable of creating immense monuments that boast of our ability and achievement and are filled with life and work and plumbing and thrumming, shouldn't we do it? Maybe? Just for me and my idiot grinning?

The wheels just keep on turning

Seems like it wasn't terribly long ago that I was wishing y'all a happy first day of summer, and here we are already ringing in autumn. The planet just keeps on circling.

Anyway, Happy Autumnal Equinox. Enjoy it while it lasts, because today's the last day for six months that the daytime is longer than the night (unless you're in the southern hemisphere, I guess... but I don't really know anyone who is at the moment, so I don't think I have many readers down there). Well, technically speaking, because the sun is a disk and because the atmosphere refracts light, it'll still be a couple weeks before the length of visible light is shorter than the length of darkness, but the point is, the days are getting shorter and before you know it, it'll be dark when we get to work in the morning and dark when we leave. I hate that. And this is the period when that changes the most rapidly: every day is 2 minutes 25 seconds shorter than the previous one here at my latitude.

On the plus side, pumpkin spice lattes are back at Starbucks.

Don't call it a murse

I know I said I wasn't going to become a knitter. I believed it too. But here I am, with 5 different projects on the go. Only two of which are scarves.

I tend to go through phases when it comes to my creative outlets. For a while it was charcoal. Then I got bored and tried out paper sculpture. I moved on to pottery, which was one of my more successful crafts. Next was photography, and now knitting. So I guess it's likely that I'll give this up before long too.

But in the meantime, I'm having fun trying out new things and gradually moving beyond the basic scarf. I've tried out a few hats, and am giving mittens a shot. I also just discovered the joy of felting and am sort of hooked. I want to do a series of felted bowls next, now that I've finished my most complex (for me, anyway. Technically it was pretty easy) project so far.

Since I'd been carting around my yarn and needles in grocery bags, I decided I should make myself a bag. And out of all the online patterns for girly handbags and flowery frilly purses, I hit upon one for a felted shoulderbag/satchel on knitty.com that was masculine enough - almost like a small messenger bag. I'm pretty proud of the results and have already been asked to do another for someone.

I just have to keep sweet talking my neighbor for use of her washer if I plan on all these felted works. No way I can do this at the laundromat.

The pictures are before the felting and then the finished product. I'm embarrassingly proud of it.

Blue windows behind the stars

I know I've been a bit gloomy since my unheralded return to the blogosphere (does anyone still use that term? Am I like the old guy trying too hard to be hip around the young kids but making an ass of himself using long-dead lingo?), but it's just a phase. I'll get through it, to be sure. I always do. It's just that periodically all my various biorhythmic cycles seem to hit their trough simultaneously which reinforces their amplitude instead of canceling each other out and leaving me my usual level, stable self.

In the meantime, I'm going to Gore-ify you for another moment, so brace yourselves.

Word is out this week that, yes, things continue to get worse. The arctic sea ice reached its annual low on Sept 16th, which isn't unusual by itself. What's terrifying is that it melted back to a record-shattering minimum of about 1 million square miles. The previous low was 1.5 million sq miles back in 2005. That's the lowest since records began and puts the melt roughly 1 million sq miles more than the 25-year average. An extra area larger than Texas and Alaska combined, melted away this year.

Holy god.

Ok, it's true, the fabled North-West Passage was ice-free which raises the possibility of actual commercial shipments along a route that cuts the voyage between London and Tokyo to 9,950 miles instead of the 14,300 through the Panama Canal. But still.

The problem here is many-fold. Like so many of the systems we're fucking up, this one is a nasty feedback loop. The more ice melts, the less there is to reflect solar energy back out to space. So the more dark sea exposed, the more heat is absorbed by the warming ocean, making it harder for ice to form. And the latest numbers show that there's already less sea ice in the Arctic than most climate models project for the year 2050.

Aside from the increased wave erosion and melting permafrost, all the arctic animals reliant on pack ice are threatened. Walruses keep their calves on the sea ice, but feed in the shallow waters near shore. When the ice and shore are nowhere near each other, the calves are abandoned or the mothers starve.

Polar bears, too, as we all know by now, also rely on sea ice to hunt. More and more are disappearing, unable to swim back to shore or drowning trying to reach the edge of the shrinking ice to begin with. USGS scientists predicted 2 weeks ago that two-thirds of the world's polar bears will have vanished within 40 years, including all of the Alaskan population.

I think I'm feeling a little of that whirling dervish dizziness that sets in when things seem to reel out of control around you, leaving you helplessly stumbling sideways with sickening vertigo, panting and befuddled, with nothing to be done but plopping down and waiting for it to end.

Scheisa.

Auwoooga auwoooga!
Condition red, I repeat, condition red!
The defenses have been breached! Bogies from within! They've tapped into the main processor and are accessing the classified files. Begin destruction sequence Beta.
Condition red!

The worst of times

As if it weren't already fairly obvious that the world is going to hell, further evidence was presented Wednesday in the form of the 2007 Red List of Threatened Species presented by the World Conservation Union. Prepare to be depressed.

Of the 15 million currently known/recognized species worldwide, the IUCN assesses some 41,000. Things don't look good.

Despite a possible, but unconfirmed, sighting last month, the Yangtze River Dolphin hasn't been seen since 2002 and is considered extinct. No chance of recovery, even if a few individuals still survive.

The Redheaded Vulture jumped from "near threatened" to "critically endangered" status.

There are only 182 Gharial crocodiles left in the wilds of India and Nepal - a drop of nearly 60% in just 10 years.

Of all those monitored, the status of only 1 species improved. But even then, the Mauritius Echo Parakeet edged from critically endangered to just endangered, and that only via captive breeding and careful management.

A combination of illegal hunting (including the commercial bushmeat trade) and the virulent Ebola virus has also forced the Western Gorilla to critically endangered status, wiping out nearly 70% of the remaining population in recent years. Unless something changes soon, it seems certain they will be extinct inside of 15 years. Seriously.

So, in summary, at least 785 species are known to have disappeared over the last 500 years and 65 others are now found only in captivity. According to Wednesday's report, an additional 16,306 species are threatened with extinction -- 188 more than last year. Broken down a little further, 1 in 4 mammals are in jeopardy, 1 in 8 of all the world's birds, a third of all amphibians, and a full 70 percent of the plants that have been studied.

Cheered you right up, didn't it?

Around the world in 13 days, 8 hours, 33 minutes. Nevada says: Meh.

I don't know if this has gotten much press outside the CA/NV area, but the disappearance of adventurer Steve Fossett has certainly been in the headlines a bit here lately. He went out for a short flight in a small aircraft from a ranch somewhere south of Reno on the 3rd and hasn't been heard from since.

The only reason I bring this up here is because I'm fascinated by some of the numbers I've been reading associated to this story. All sorts of people, including the Civil Air Patrol, are scouring the mountains and desert basins within a certain radius of his planned flight path, and there's still no sign of him or his plane. But they have discovered 6 - 8 other wreck sites apparently heretofore unknown. And according to the NTSB, there have been 340 plane crashes in Nevada in the last 10 years alone, while another 150 planes have gone missing, according to the Civil Air Patrol.

It's just sort of jarring when you're used to feeling like nothing can go unnoticed in the world today with all the crazy technology available and the reduction in privacy and the wiretapping and Google peering in your windows; feeling fairly certain that there's very little mystery left.
When the truth is, there are still parts of the country that are so remote, so hard to reach, so inhospitable, that a famous person in an airplane can just vanish and never be found.

That's oddly kind of comforting, really.
Unless you're Mr. Fossett, of course.
Or anyone who was in any of the other 150 planes. Or have any intention of flying solo out over the Sierra into basin & range country.

So much for the Palak Paneer

Exactly what you don't want to see when you walk past your favorite curry-in-a-hurry lunch spot and glance through the window into the kitchen just as a gust of wind lifts the heavy curtain which normally obscures the view:

+

=

I mean, I know they need to make large batches, but using a power drill, paint mixer and large bucket? No wonder it's so cheap.

*sigh*

Dang it all, anyway.

Just once I'd like to come (or stay) home sick from work and have the place to myself to wallow in my self-pity and crappiness (not crapulence) without having to share the couch or the tv or the front room. I mean, I've got roommates, it goes with the territory. I recognize that. And, as I've said before, I like my roommates. I do. I just occasionally would like to not have to hole up in my bedroom for some alone time since they are always home when I want to be and the spare room is generally unusable.

Truthfully, I'm totally jealous. Although I have to say if I didn't have to work every day, I'd certainly not be sleeping til 1pm, or sitting around the apartment (well, not all time...). Lordy, the apartment would actually be clean for once, for one. I'd also know the city inside and out because I'd have climbed every hidden stairway, biked through every neighborhood, gone to every museum and poked into every hidden gem of public space. I'd be hiking through every gorgeous place within a day's drive. I'd have been to the Grand Canyon. I'd learn to surf. I'd have mastered my pottery and would sell pieces. I'd have knit presents for every family member for the next several Christmases. I'd print, frame and sell some of my photographs. I'd volunteer for the Park Service, and maybe the Marine Mammal Center. I'd grow fabulous flowers and fat vegetables in my community garden plot.

It's easy for me to say that, of course, because I can't do all those things. So my jealousy becomes a little snitty. But that's the sort of shit that goes through my head while I'm sitting on the futon instead of laying on my couch.

It sorta takes away whatever possible fun there may be in being home on Tuesday afternoon with a monster fucking headache.

Ugh

It's been six years already. How the hell did that happen? The weird thing is, when I think back on that particular morning, and indeed, the several grueling days following, I still get a bit, I don't know, exhausted. Like some weird post-traumatic emotional overuse flashback. Drawn out, of course, by nearly 5 years of international craptasm.

For now, I'll spare all the where-I-heard-the-news stories. I just thought I'd say, you know, good luck world. It doesn't have to be all car bombs and land mines and village burning and polonium poisonings and shootings and nuclear dabbling and kidnappings and beheadings. Why aren't we all cooperating and helping each other out and baking each other cookies? Doesn't that sound nice?

Unbuckling his beltway

You know, pretty much everything there is to say about Idaho's Senator Larry "Wide Stance" Craig has already been said (or set to music). And I'm clearly not the only person to think these things. I mean, is it any wonder no one is even questioning that he's been seeking out trysts in men's rooms?
A) Inadvertent foot touching in the stalls is not easy -- aren't you usually trying hard to pretend no one else is sitting next to you at all? And if you did tap toes, maybe a quick "sorry" or at least a rapid retreat would be in order.
B) Picking up paper off the floor? Really? A public restroom floor? Really?
C) You see the police badge and say "No!" instead of perhaps, "Sorry officer what's this all about?"

It kills me. So, on the one hand it makes me sad that the poor guy is so deeply disturbed by his own inner-most urges that he's out making laws to squelch them in others too. Which also pisses me off, on the other hand, and so I squee a little in delight at his being called out. Of course, I'm also frustrated that his mortifying behaviour (anonymous bathroom sex: a world of eew) is the exception that will prove to all the other conservative Republican zealots just why we gays are so icky and eeeeevil.

A last thought because he's in the news again today saying that he's going to fight to undo his guilty plea. He says the evil liberal media made him do it. Seriously. Apparently the pressure from the Idaho Statesman, in particular, was so stressful that he didn't "knowingly" plead guilty. Because obviously the very best thing to do when so concerned about an ongoing investigation into your sexual history is to plead guilty to soliciting anonymous gay bathroom sex. Ummmm, ookaaaay.

The Return

I'm not dead! I swear. At least, not that I'm aware of (as far as I know, I am not an M. Night Shyamalan character). The hiatus from writing just sort of happened. Writing in the evening after work wasn't appealing, my weekends got busy, and before I knew it, a few days had turned into a few weeks. And then all the things I wanted to write about started stacking up and sitting down to write anything became ever more daunting. And weeks turned to months. Crazy how that happens.

And here we are, summer basically over already.

Anyhoodle, quick recap of some of the things I was going to describe/discuss/write about in detail but now will now just breeze over:

The last weekend in June was Gay Pride ("Pride Not Prejudice"), which is pretty much what you'd expect when an extra 500,000 people come to town to be silly and happy and gay. Or to ogle at all the silly happy gay.



That was also the weekend that Joy and family were in town, so I ditched the parade and the four of us spent the morning at Golden Gate Park and went out to lunch, which was quite fun. But I, Uncle Yak, hereby declare that Nolan is growing up too fast and should put a stop to it while he's still a toddler.

4th of July was quiet this year, and I was the only person atop my roof, weirdly. Though the bajillion people atop all the other roofs in the neighborhood still made for an entertainingly communal experience. Fireworks were terrific. Remind me next year to discuss Independence Days of yore.

The following week I spent back home with the fam. I had a truly wonderful time camping and hiking in Great Sand Dune Nat'l Pk with my sister, nephews, and brother-in-law; driving to see my ailing Grandma in central Nebrasky with Mom; visiting my Grandad in western Nebrasky; and spending some quick but quality time with Dad at the house in Cheyenne that still feels like home, which stems in part from being able to sit in the shade beneath enormous trees that I remember planting as tiny saplings.

A sunset/full moon rise walk and tour of the Pt. Bonita Lighthouse.

Headed to LA to visit Jen and to totally band-geek out at the DCI World Finals at the Pasadena Rose Bowl. Long lines aside, I had a blast, though it became clear to me that my own Drum & Bugle Corps summer was a whole different lifetime.

I next spent a long weekend backpacking with my friend Nichole along California's "Lost Coast" up north of Mendocino. The spectacular scenery and utter lack of people totally made up for the fears of: slipping and tumbling to my death on the rocks 800 feet straight below; bears; stinging nettles and poison oak. We did see the ISS and Endeavour fly overhead on the last evening, which was unexpectedly awesome.

This year's Labor Day trip: wait for it... Omaha! Between the Nebraska State Fair, the steaks, the Henry Doorly Zoo, the Runzas and the Dorothy Lynch, and the good company, it was hard not to have an excellent time. But you know, having grown up in Nebraska, my expectations were perfectly placed.

So that was the summer that was. Without any of the detail or filler material. I now vow to update on a [somewhat] more regular basis.

Be prepared.

Obliquity of the Ecliptic

17 years ago (sweet merciful crap) this evening, I watched the sun set behind the Snowy Range from atop a pile of boulders at Vedauwoo. I remember this particular evening because I had sepnt the day chasing a careening hubcap that flew off into the prairie, trying to ditch one of the annoying kids that always seemed to glom on to me, and scrambling over rocks with a gaggle of new friends from nerd camp. Leaning back against the cool rough granite in the fading light, already late for curfew I'm sure, the last car load of us watched the stars emerge from beneath the twilight wedge, opening up about ourselves and cementing bonds while a meteor shot across the sky.

Time passes, impossibilities of youth become certainties of adulthood while possibilities are never realized, and people fade away. Two exceptions remain solidly part of my life, however, not just as acquaintances but as fast friends. And that night also began a little personal tradition I've upheld all these years as a sort of private commemoration of all that is beautiful and good and true and dear.

As the year's longest day comes to an end, I seek out someplace special from where to watch the sun disappear beneath the trailing edge of the planet. It's just a thing I do. I've been thwarted only a few times by circumstances or clouds, but only a few. It's become sort of a solitary thing for me -- a time to reflect and ponder in beautiful solitude -- though that not a necessity.

So tonight, as it happens, I was joined by my roommates, which is noteworthy because after almost two years, this was the first time just the three of us have ever done something together outside of the apartment. I scooped them up and drove to the coast where the flanks of Mt Tamalpais meet the pounding surf.

And despite the distractions (including a very random half-naked male model emerging from the brush), the fog held back, the earth kept turning, the sun sank behind the hills in blaze of color, the heavens became visible, and the planet's axis began its inexorable shift back in the other direction.

Tomorrow will already be 1 second shorter than today and I have so much left undone.

Afternoon Delight

There are many things to love about this city (I know I never stop yapping about where I live, but I drank the Kool-Aid a long time ago; I can't stop myself). Among those things is the steady stream of neighborhood festivals and street fairs and events up until the coldest weeks of summer in July and August, and the resumption of them in the warm weeks of September and October.

It starts with the Union Street Fair the first weekend in June, followed the next weekend by the Haight Street Fair, then the North Beach Festival, Gay Pride, the Fillmore Jazz Festival, and so on. Basically the neighborhood streets get blocked off, bookended by stages for live music and lined with tents and stands filled with typical fair fare: jewelry, artwork/photography, crafts, clothing, non-profit organizations, fried food, and food on a stick. On top of that baseline is the unique flavor of each area: the Haight has more tie-dye and water pipes, North Beach has its pizza tosses and the Blessing of the Animals in front of the city's namesake shrine to St Francis of Assisi, and so on.

It seems they've gotten more crowded in recent years, but that could be my reduced tolerance of the writhing masses. The deep-fried artichoke hearts, however, more than make up for it. And the fact that I can wander just a few blocks from my apartment to indulge all my senses in the warm and sunny music-filled smoky air, and take refuge again when I've had my fill of the hordes certainly doesn't hurt.

Well isn't that special

Incidentally, for those of you reading this thing via Internet Explorer, it's not supposed to look like this. All the posts are supposed to be centered between the two sidebars, not thrown below them all jankety like. It didn't used to do that, so I don't know what the scoop is, but I don't have it in me to go editing the template again. My HTML skills are rudimentary at best. If I cared enough, I'd probably upgrade to Blogger's new fancy templates, anyway, but I haven't figured out how to upgrade and still have both a left and a right sidebar. So you're left with this.

I actually just noticed this recently because I usually am using Mozilla Firefox. And everything looks grand using that browser. Not that I'm one to get snippety about how much Microsoft sucks, or anything. I just happen to prefer something else.

So that's that. Do what you will, and think what you like... just know that I don't intend for my blog to look as crummy as it might happen to.

Hard against the wind

I'm a rockhound, of sorts. I can't help it. I come by it honestly, at least: my dad would bring home interesting stones or pieces of turquoise or arrowheads he'd spot from the cab of the tractor as he plowed the fields; my mom still sticks her hands into the frigid pools of mountain streams to fish out shiny or unusual rocks; my mother's father collected interesting rocks and stones to cut and polish and turn into lovely jewelry. I grew up not half a mile from a large gravel pit where we'd all happily while away the time searching for (and finding) petrified wood, moss agates, and the occasional geode or mastodon tooth.

The result of this, aside from my Geology degree, is that I have a hefty rock collection of my own, comprised of interesting stones from all the places I've been since college. If and when I finally move, my honest answer to the inevitable question, "what on earth is in those boxes, rocks?" will be, "why yes, actually."

I'd frankly like to do something with some of these rocks, rather than have them all just sit around and collect dust (dusting them is a pain, by the way), but in an apartment setting my rock tumbler is too loud and obnoxious to run 24/7 for the several weeks required, especially given that I can hear my downstairs neighbor snoring on quiet evenings. And many other of my crafty visions won't be realized until I own a garage or other workshop space.

One thing I can do in my apartment, though, is convert a few of them from one useless dust-collecting object sitting around taking up space to a slightly different useless dust-collecting object taking up even more space. The result of my first such attempt is shown here (with one of my less-interesting rocks). I dig doing this sort of thing, but I'm not sure what good comes of it.

Maybe it's the pain meds talking

I'm totally still crushing on Paul Rudd all these years after "Clueless" when my passive obsession began (can you believe that movie is 12 years old?! Jebus, I'm old. Even weirder and not at all related: the Goo Goo Dolls have been around for over 20 years. Do you ever feel like you're in some crazy time warp and the next time you step outside and round the bend you may see the Statue of Liberty half buried. Damn you all to hell!!).

Anyway, I just saw him as a guest on "The Daily Show" and also watched "Knocked Up" -- which, while not a bigscreen necessity was still absolutely worth the $10 ticket price. He's still adorable and charming and funny.

That's all I have to say, really. Just thought I'd share. I'm only filling up space since I don't have much else to relate just now.

Dental Drama Redux

It is a positively lovely day outside as best I can tell through my apartment windows, but I will not be going out to relish it. Quite by design, in fact, I intend to spend the entire day in my T-shirt and pajama bottoms, sitting on the couch playing videogames. There will be other lovely days; this is California, afterall.

This is due to the fact that on Thursday afternoon, the oral surgeon peeled back my gums and drilled into upper left jawbone, "amputating" the root tip of my devil tooth, and removing a chunk of infected bone tissue that connected to my sinus cavity. This sounds much more horrific that the actual experience was, it turns out. The notable exception was the singularly unpleasant realization that, as they rinsed my mouth, it was draining down the back of my throat though the hole in my sinus cavity.

I was, in fact, much less unconscious than I had expected to be, and I remember the majority of the procedure. Not that I was feeling any pain, but still. I was going to ask that they up the sedative coursing into my veins please, but kept thinking perhaps the amnesia would set in later. It never did.

At any rate, given the row of stitches currently securing my cheek to my gums, I'm feeling quite alright today. The only reason I'm slumming it is because, if ever there was an excuse, this is it. Frankly I'm fine: I went to work yesterday, then went out for dinner (penne pasta with pancetta cream sauce!) and a movie (which, if you haven't seen Waitress yet, add it to your list! I had to hold the left side of my face to keep from popping stitches what with all the idiot grinning).

So anyway, almost 8 months, a CT scan, 4 rounds of various antibiotics, a re-treated root canal, and now an apicoectomy and several nosebleeds later, I still have the tooth in my head (or what's left of it). Here's hoping that in the next 6 months the bone surrounding it (and separating it from my sinus cavity) will be completely biomagically regenerated and all associated problems will be a thing of the past. And I guess it's still better than spending nearly $8 grand on an implant screwed into my maxilla.

At this point I'd almost have preferred a spider's egg sac in my sinus.

I want to ride it where I like

Quite a few years ago (nearly seven, to be exact), I took my relatively-new mountain bike out on a single-track trail with a good friend of mine, and rode about 3 miles over the hills towards the ocean without another person in sight before losing control and snapping something in my ankle.

My friend had ridden off up ahead of me so no one saw my ridiculous little maneuver that sent my body in one direction and my bike in the other... with my foot. I heard and felt the pop, and knew that something bad had just happened. It went from bad to worse, of course.

Since my friend never bothered to glance behind him to ensure I was following, some 15 minutes passed with me sitting helplessly beside the trail bleeding from my several wounds (including a doozy where the pedal spun around and punctured my shin), contemplating the possible scenarios involving manly park rangers and helicopter evacs. But when he finally doubled back to find me, he had the gall to actually yell at me angrily for wrecking the day.

So, I basically had no choice but to suck it up, limp and ride on my broken foot the 3 miles back to the car, by which time my left sock and shoe were completely blood-soaked and my right foot had swollen and turned a horrible purple color from toe to heel. Somewhere along that grueling ride back I got an apology, but honestly I'm not sure I've ever completely forgiven that friend. Sad, but true.

Anyway, I never went to the doctor for an x-ray since whatever ligament that snapped wasn't likely to get sewn back together, so I kept my foot up and on ice for two days, and hobbled around with an ankle brace for a month before I regained full range of motion. I've been on my bike many times since then, of course, but I've been a lot more cautious, certainly.

Sadly, no amount of caution can completely make up for the vast quantity of klutziness I possess.

Last weekend, being a glorious 3-day weekend, I revisited that very same trail in the heart of Point Reyes with a different friend, and we took our bikes out as far as the trail led. Nichole did amazing, I have to say, for her first trail ride; I can't say the same about me.

In my defense, I haven't been on my bike much in the last year, and I'd never been trail riding with my clipless pedals. So that will take some practice. I did come back all in one piece, though, with virtually no additional emotional scars. So, the new scabs and fading green contusions aside, I deem the recent adventure a rousing redemptive success.

Maybe a nice chesterfield or an ottoman

I know it sounds ridiculous now in the IKEA era, when civilization's great leap forward rests on the FÖRHÖJA and progress hinges on a frustrated attempt to piece together a BEDDINGE LÖVÅS tastefully paired with a PÅTÅR. But the truth is that there was a time when I had no idea what a futon was.

Then again, I grew up in rural Nebraska, which pretty much explains a lot about me. There in the heartland furniture was stout and solid -- to match the people -- and the most exotic piece was the La-Z-Boy rocker-recliner.

I remember rather clearly, in fact, the first time that I even heard the word "futon," because it occurred during my telephone introduction to one of my soon-to-be freshman roommates which basically confirmed every fear I had about going off to the Ivy League. The pertinent part of the conversation went something like this:

Smakler (in an affected vaguely-British accent): ...Oh swimmingly, I'm sure. And I was hoping you might be interested in splitting the cost of a futon for the suite.
Me: Oh, um, sure. I guess that sounds ok, but we should probably wait to see what everyone else is bringing, too.
Smakler: Also, perhaps you'd be interested in splitting a laser printer.
Me: Er... maybe, but I don't actually have a computer, so, uh, maybe that can wait.
Smakler: Blimey! Well, cheerio. Ehh, googly googly.

Incidentally, it turns out that Smakler was an ass from Philly who had spent too much time with Monty Python and was completely unrepresentative of the rest of my Yale experience. And I shouldn't have felt that bad anyway as I also recall freaking out the next day to a friend of mine:

Me: Can you believe it? A laser printer?! Does he know how much those cost?* And what the hell is a futon?
Amy: I think it's some sort of wok.

I didn't actually end up with a futon in college, as it turns out, but it has been a standard piece of furniture ever since. In fact, there are now two of them in my apartment. And I praise their simple ease and convenient duality. And they have received much use.

Yes, now I can't imagine life without the futon and all the friends who have crashed upon it at some point or another. Like Ebony. Yesterday. Yay!!


* It was 1992. They were like a billion dollars back then.

Hoping I won't be too late

70 years ago today, President Roosevelt pushed a button in Washington DC officially opening the Golden Gate Bridge to vehicular traffic.
Pretty much stood the test of time so far, I'd say.
A few facts:

• Was the longest span in the world for nearly 30 years, until 1964. Still ranked 7th.
• Length including approaches: 1.7 miles
• Distance of the main span between the towers is 4,200 ft
• Height of deck above high water: 220 ft
• Height of towers: 746 ft
• There are about 600,000 rivets holding together each tower
• There are 80,000 miles of wire spun into the two main cables
• Official color is "International Orange"
• Much of the original steel in the arch and viaduct on either end has already been replaced in part of an ongoing seismic retrofit that will also replace most of the rivets in the trusses with stronger bolts
• More than 100,000 commuters a day cross the bridge, with more than 40 million drivers a year passing over it
• In high winds, the bridge can swing 27 ft in either direction
• The deck can bow an additional 10 ft up (or 6 down) due to temperature changes as the metal expands or contracts, or depending on the weight of traffic

And now, enjoy a few more photos I've taken of this enduring icon.

Created with flickrSLiDR.

Happy 70th, Bridge!

Free Willy

I think I may be a prude. I mean, I'll laugh and joke with my peers about all things naughty in nature, and sit through conversations about friends' intimate encounters... but all the while I'm projecting a demeanor of comfort and ease, I'm totally squirming on the inside with beet-red embarrassment. Call it my country-boy sensibilities. Or maybe I'm just a touch of the dreaded C-word (conservative, that is, but not politically speaking). Upon reflection, this probably goes much deeper into my psyche since I generally do not feel nearly as cool, calm, collected, hip, sane, social, smart or at ease as I may appear.*

Whatever. In any case, I only bring this up because, living in the city that I do, I frequently find myself in a modest state of mortifaction. Like the first time I saw buttless chaps walking down the street. Or the time a co-worker paid for a lapdance at the strip club (I think the stripper felt as sorry for me as I felt for her). Or the time I was hiking along the most lovely secluded beach around in the shadow of the Bridge and scrambled over an outcrop to land, momentarily oblivious, directly between two naked gentlemen who were clearly engaged in some, uh, cruising I guess is the word? It's hard to call it flirting when they're naked already.

I'm not sure where I was headed with any of this, except that this weekend is the annual, wait for it, Masturbate-a-thon. It's not like I will be in any way involved, mind you - I just happened upon the poster.

It's a fund raiser for sex education that was started by a local sex toy shop called "Good Vibrations." And you can pledge money to the participants. Who will then take matters into their own hands. In public. Repeatedly.

There are, in fact, several awards to be handed out, including one for number (record: 6 times for men, 49 times for women), one for duration (record: 8.5 hours for a guy, 6.5 for a woman), and even distance (I'm afraid to look what the record is for any gender).

This is both hilarious, and utterly mortifying.

Also, just as another aside, all this hearkens back to college when such things were part of our regular late-night conversational study breaks. For example, One of the first things I learned about a roommate (LB volunteered it, I might add) was that he should have entered the above contest because he would have hosed the competition. And I also was introduced to the fine art of the euphemism. A few classics: To rub one out, spanking the monkey, tipping off the inspector, to choke the chicken, crowning the king, applying the hand brake, holding your own... and of course, my all time favorite (college being the era of Joycelyn Elders, whose ousting for suggesting masturbation was ok, incidentally, is what started the Masturbation-a-thon to begin with): Firing the Surgeon General.


* Which is not to say that I even appear any of those things. Let's just be clear about that.

That sinking feeling

You know, people have been sounding the alarm bells for decades now about one thing or another. It's just that that thing seems to vary in just about every detail other than the resultant End Of Life As We Know It. In the 70s the atmosphere was cooling and a new ice age was imminent. In the 80s the human population curve had no plateau. In the early 90s there was still talk of the approaching turmoil caused by the complete consumption of all the oil and gas deposits.

The latest clangor, however, is a little different. Even before town crier Al Gore won his Oscar, there were near-weekly reports from some other far-flung corner of the globe where a new study found evidence that this time we're really doomed. I mean just completely fucked.

And the pace of these findings seems to be increasing. It's not just the bandwagon, here, but really truly a fundamental shift in the workings of the planet. Just now, for example, we learn that the great Southern Ocean encircling Antarctica is basically saturated with carbon dioxide... something that wasn't supposed to happen until well after 2050.

And why does that matter? Well, it turns out that the Southern Ocean is one of the planet's largest natural carbon reservoirs, accounting for 15% of the global carbon sink. And it's full. Not only does that alter the chemistry of the sea, but it also means there's fewer places left to sequester the millions of tons of CO2 we keeping spewing forth. So it'll accumulate even faster in the atmosphere and heat the place up that much faster.

Hear ye, hear ye, revise those estimates folks, it's about to get even warmer.

It could have been a brilliant career

I'm published! Well, sort of.

A while back, I was contacted via e-mail for permission to use one of my photos from Flickr in a national ad for gay travel to San Francisco for the city's Convention and Visitors Bureau. Which of course I granted, because, well why wouldn't I?

Not that the city really needs to advertise itself as a gay destination, but it was nice that they wanted to use photos by actual residents, and they said they'd credit the photos appropriately. I didn't get any details on what the ad would consist of, but the e-mail reply assured me they'd let me know when and where I could see it, and that was the last I ever heard about it.

So here I am, sitting at my computer and googling myself for the first time in years, just to see what would come up (Ebony's fault). Not much of anything related to the actual me, it turns out, unless I've been secretly winning high school wrestling championships while I've been asleep on Ambien. But there it was, the fifth thing down: The Ad.

And my photo? Barely visible, cropped down and marginalized, and totally eclipsed by the muscled leather daddies next to it. Hilarious.

This calls for a toast

Whoo-hoo! Fruity cocktails count as healthfood! Well, sort of. To the extent that alcohol enhances the antioxidant qualities of of the fruit.

Good enough for me!

Strawberry daiquiri anyone?

Diablo wind's a-blowin'

I know, I know. But I grew up on a farm where weather is legitimately one of the main topics of every conversation. I can't help myself.

I don't know if it's because of all the microclimates in the Bay Area, or the fact that we're sitting at the leading edge of the continent and have only satellite images on which to base the forecasts rather than a series of actual observations from the ground and data from hundreds of daily weather balloons, but the predictions are not often correct around here.

Take for example, the reliable weatherunderground page for today:
Today's Forecast High: 65°F
Current Temp: 81°F

Woe is me

It usually happens only once in the spring for a few days, and once in the fall for a week or so, and I guess this is one of those times. It's HOT in the city. Like really hot. Not at all like my wimpy whiny poor me it's 75 degrees hot. I'm talking record-breaking 89 degrees hot.

Which is only a big deal because I don't have air conditioning and my top-floor apartment collects all the heat, and since it only gets this hot when the sea breeze fails so no amount of wide window opening can get the air moving through it.

And doesn't it figure that after one of the maybe 5 nights a year that are so swelteringly lay-on-top-of-the sheets toss-and-turn-in-sweaty-discomfort-half-sleep hot, with my window wide open all night long, doesn't it just figure that at 6am they decide to start construction next door and 3 flatbed semis pull up and idle right below my bedroom belching diesel exhaust and deafening rhythmic engine chug, punctuated by the shouts of constructions workers and the piercing reverse warning beep of the forklift unloading sheetrock? Like they couldn't have done that on one of the 360 other mornings a year that my window is tightly shut against the chill and noise?

And with that, let's all enjoy this photo I took yesterday while hiking to the beach, which is about the best way I can think of to escape the full force of the blast furnace. So really, I'm not complaining too much, because seriously, I live within walking distance of this.

¡Viva el cinco de mayo! No es fabuloso?!

And how did I commemorate the temporary defeat of French forces in the little-known Battle of Puebla? It was, afterall, one of those gemlike days in the city where everything sparkles blue and bright and shimmery warmth... just perfect for Coronas and limes and guacamole and salt and tequila in the sun. But no, I got my buzz from chardonnay and acetone fumes.

Just when you think I couldn't get any gayer (what with the knitting and all), I've gone and done it: I had my very first -- and likely very last -- MANicure and pedicure. In my defence, this is not something I did on my own, but rather as part of a bridal shower party for my good friend Michelle (with whom I'd traveled to Italy a few years ago). She's getting married in a few weeks in Hawaii, and our friend Carolyn put together an afternoon at the salon for some pampering of the bride-to-be. But guests had to spend a minimum amount on services while we were there too, so, well, there you have it.

I still don't know what all the fuss is about. Most of the women (and not a few of the men) I know get this stuff done semi-regularly and yak on about how wonderful and relaxing and blah blah blah. I, however, had to focus most of my energy on not cringing through the spine-tingling filing, the tummy-tensing foot scrubbing and buffing, and the chalkboard nail scraping. Not to mention my vague discomfiture at sitting in an oversize comfy throne while someone I could barely communicate with knelt below me, hunched over my soaking feet. Also? 8 hours later and I still can't rid myself of the lingering vanilla-ish scent; it's like I stepped in a crème brûlée. Gah!

I have to say, though, my fingers and toes do look terrific. And with that, I must now go do something with beer and dirt and pliers and grilled meat.

This looks oddly familiar

Add this to my list of reasons to be thankful I walk to work. Apparently all it takes to bring down two major connections to the Bay Bridge and force the rerouting of some 80,000 cars a day is a an overturned exploding tanker truck full of gasoline.

Oops.

Not sure where all those cars will have to go now, but the driver of the truck hailed a cab and went straight to the hospital.

No wonder they're endangered (Gesundheit!)

I don't know why this cracks me up so, but it does. It truly does.

I saw the sign

Another sign you've lived in San Francisco for a long time:

It hits 73 degrees outside, and despite wearing shorts and leaving both your ever-present light sweater and your jacket at your desk when you step out for lunch, you still walk on the shady side of the street, eat under a tree, and go back inside early because it's just too hot out.

This may also be a sign that I'm going to have to move to Alaska in the globally-warmed inconvenient future.

Blister in the sun

How cool is this?.
Note Sunspot 953 spinning into view (4 times the size of planet Earth!).

Taken by: P-M Hedén of Vallentuna, Sweden
Courtesy of: spaceweather.com

Lest we forget

...For the first time in all of time men have seen the earth: seen it not as continents or oceans from the little distance of a hundred miles or two or three, but seen it from the the depth of space; seen it whole and round and beautiful and small as even Dante -- that "first imagination of Christendom" -- had never dreamed of seeing it; as the Twentieth Century philosophers of absurdity and despair were incapable of guessing that it might be seen. And seeing it so, one question came in the minds of those who looked at it. "Is it inhabited?" they said to each other and laughed -- and then they did not laugh. What came to their minds a hundred thousand miles and more into space -- "half way to the moon" they put it -- what came to their minds was the life on that little, lonely, floating planet: that tiny raft in the enormous, empty night. "It is inhabited."

The medieval notion of the earth put man at the center of everything. The nuclear notion of the earth put him nowhere -- beyond the range of reason even -- lost in the absurdity and war. This latest notion may have other consequences. Formed as it was in the minds of heroic voyagers who were also men, it may remake our image of mankind. No longer that preposterous figure at the center, no longer that degraded and degrading victim off at the margins of reality and blind to blood, man may at last become himself.

To see the earth as it truly is, small and blue and beautiful in that eternal silence where it floats, is to see ourselves as riders on the earth together, brothers on that bright loveliness in the eternal cold -- brothers who know now they are truly brothers.

-- Archibald MacLeish
December 25, 1968
New York Times

Happy Earth Day.

I'm on the list.

Ok, so it's not so much a super power as just a freaky talent. And not so much a talent as perhaps an odd coincidence. Because really it serves no purpose but to startle me and wig me out.

I know you're dying to hear so I'll just tell you that every time I look at a clock with a digital readout, the time happens to be 1:11 or 3:33, or 5:55. Really. Now I know you skeptics out there, -- and I usually am one -- are just saying that no, it just seems that way because it stands out, and all the other times I glance at the clock and it's an ordinary time like 4:17, it doesn't even register in my brain. And really, that's not such a bad argument.

But seriously. I wake up in the middle of the night, roll over to look at my clock and it's 2:22. I walked into the kitchen and opened the microwave door to prepare lunch at 1:11. I'll wake up in the morning to the singing of the damn pre-dawn birds and it's 5:55. I'll turn off the radio in the car and the clock will say 3:33. I'll lay down in bed and reach over turn out the light at 12:12. This happens so much that I'm going to start logging each time I look at a clock, so I can calculate the percentages and prove it to the world.

Now if only I could put this ability to some sort of use.