So long and thanks for all the fish

I grew up in the landlocked flyover section of country, as y'all know, and I blame that for my unease around (or in) large bodies of water and my spotty relationship with seafood. And while I'll never become an avid scuba diver, I have come to actually quite like most seafood. My exposure to fish was relatively limited during childhood to the occasional fresh-caught trout or frozen fishstick* so my fondness for the stuff has been slow to develop -- the Great Stuffed Shrimp Debacle of 1981 being a notable setback -- and, as I learned this evening, remains tenuous.

I was never a fan of actually handling the fish we caught while camping as a kid, and even in my twenties squeamishly let me dad handle the finer points of catch and release in one of Wyoming's large reservoirs (and will frankly never forget the fishhook through the eyeball horror of the one unfortunate fish that still managed to flop out of the boat and swim ruefully away).

Though a huge fan now, it wasn't until after college that I mustered the fortitude to try my first full-on sushi meal. I had vague fears of parasitic infestations and remember the concentration it required to get past the unfamiliar mouthfeel of raw fish as it seemed to expand in my craw.

I fell in love with scallops somewhat earlier, during my freshman year in college when I visited family friends for Thanksgiving on Nantucket. The scallops were local, freshly shucked and simply divine. Seared scallops remain one of my favorite dishes, when prepared well.

Shrimp, lobster, seared Ahi, Chilean sea bass**, fried clams, and even calamari and octopus are all favorites, though I'll admit that the more I learn about squid and octopus the less inclined I am to want to eat them, given their amazing anatomy and surprising mental capacity. You know, for a mollusk.

Salmon, though, salmon is the wonder fish... Relatively inexpensive, not fishy tasting, totally easy to cook, good for you (depending on what you read about farmed salmon, dyed flesh, environmental cost, and mercury) - I end up having Salmon every couple of weeks at the least. It's usually the less-expensive Atlantic or farmed varieties, but the wild Alaskan sockeye fillets that occasionally appear n the shelves at Trader Joe's always entice me with their lovely color, if not their price. So tonight at the store I gave in and picked some up, excited to enjoy a rare treat of promised delicate flavor and superior quality.

Once home, I set about preparing some asparagus and couscous to accompany the fish. I removed the salmon fillets from their package, rinsed them off in the sink, and patted them dry with a paper towel. It was then that I noticed a curious little knot in the flesh of one of the fillets and, wanting to ensure there was no extra bone or something, dug into it with the tip of a sharp knife. To my utter horror, out popped this gruesome looking roundworm, translucent and slightly blue on one end as it unfolded itself on the paper towel where I dropped it. With growing panic, I poked and prodded the fillet until I had dug out three more worms of varying sizes - all no more than 1/4-inch long, mind you, but still. Aack!

Trying to remain rational, I went immediately to the internet, and though I didn't discover the exact type of parasite, learned at least that there was no harm to me in ingesting any of them that might still be hiding out in the meat as long as the fillets had been frozen for a certain length of time at a certain temperature and/or the salmon was cooked to a certain temperature in the oven. Even knowing that they'd been previously frozen, I proceeded cook the hell out of the fillets, just in case.

Alas, when it came time to eat my dinner, not only was the salmon overdone, dry and chewy, I simply could not get past my squeamishness at the though of parasites in the wild fish on my plate and out it went with the composting.

So that was a waste of $10. And I've pretty much also thrown out the notion of ever coming back from Alaska with a ton of fresh-caught wild salmon for my freezer.
Sigh


* I'm reading Cod by Mark Kurlansky which is a fascinating and tragic history of the fish that fueled over 1000 years of Western civilization until its population spectacularly crashed in the early 1990s. Once so abundant they filled the northern seas, they were placed on the Endangered Species List by the WWF in 2000. Fish sticks are now made with haddock or sole.

** Don't yell... I know all about the sustainability issues and illegal overfishing of the more properly but less appealingly-named Patagonian Toothfish and, though it pains me, will no longer order it unless it can be proven to have been harvested legally.

Ugh

Because I've already set the precedent, I feel it's my duty to convey additional doom and gloom information - not to depress (though it likely will), but to inform and motivate.

In another sign of rising global temperatures, a large piece of the Wilkins Ice Shelf in western Antarctica collapsed quite suddenly starting Feb 28th. A chunk of ice roughly seven times the size of Manhattan that had been at the edge of the shelf for maybe 1500 years disintegrated, exposing the rest of the ice shelf and putting at risk of further collapse an area of ice about the size of Connecticut. Scientists with both the British Antarctic Survey and with the National Snow and Ice Data Center in Boulder, CO said that collapses on this scale are unusual but becoming increasingly common because of global climate change. They say such occurrences are indicative of an approaching "tipping point or trigger in the climate system" beyond which destabilization causes further change in a "runaway situation."

Blame man-made global warming, too, for speeding up Mother Nature's alarm clock that plants and animals are listening to. According to more than 30 scientists, dozens of studies and last year's authoritative report by Nobel Prize-winning international climate scientists, thousands of species are being affected by seasonal timing changes. Butterflies are emerging a month earlier in California than they did 25 years ago, DC's cherry trees burst out several weeks sooner than than they did a quarter century ago, and maple tree pollen was filling the air in early march this year when it once couldn't be measured until late April. Lilacs, dogwoods and wildfires are blooming nationwide earlier than ever before, birds and insects hatching earlier.

Aside from being a very clear and measurable shift in the natural cycles, this could spell disaster for some species since many plants and animals use different cues to signal their spring activities. If a critter uses length of day while its food source relies on temperature, the animal may be in danger of missing its spring feeding if it can't modify its instinctual behavior, for example, something that is already being witnessed in bees and the shift in honey production to different pollen sources. Some biologists are warning that a whole host of species may be seriously impacted as the spring clock continues to speed up.

Meanwhile, this winter was the warmest ever recorded for most of Europe, where icebreakers sat unused in northern ports, insects buzzed year-round, daffodils and snowdrops bloomed early, and robins never even bothered to leave southern Sweden for the season. Across the Baltic region, temps averaged 8-12 degrees above average and Finland had a mere 20 days of snow, compared with 70 days in the normal winter. Normally frozen ground was soft and muddy, and the ferries to Helsinki, which normally cannot operate from December through April, ran without interruption.

Globally, March was officially the warmest March ever on record over land, and second warmest overall. The worldwide land temp was 3.2 degree warmer than the 20th century average.

Sure seems as though, despite local variations, we've got a pretty clear trend here. Reuse, recycle, unplug and conserve!

One day when I was lost

Not being a religious man, and having no kids in my daily routine, Easter has become one of those holidays that sort of catches me unawares. When I was little, we'd often spend Easter with my Grandma and her husband in Denver, dressing up to go to church after we'd torn apart our Easter baskets filled with goodies and divvied up the candy from inside the plastic eggs we'd found in as fair a way as possible. And when we didn't go to Denver, we'd decorate eggs at home and have our egg hunt on Sunday morning just the same.

It's always been sort of an odd holiday to me what with the candy like Halloween, decorations and tchotchkies akin to Christmas, the pagan fertility symbols of springtime, seemingly random timing tied to the phases of the moon, baskets filled with goodies like Christmas stockings but without the naughty-or-nice overtones, and the utterly unique egg-hunt. But still all tied up in a seriously Christian wrapper. Christmas may be like a big birthday party, but Easter, though... that's when the magic happened. However skeptical I might have been, it was hard not to be impressed at the drama of the tale of crucifixion and resurrection. And being hopped up on jelly beans, malted milk balls, chocolate bunnies and marshmallow peeps gave it all the more pizazz.

In any case, as an adult heathen cycling only between cublicle and 60-degree perpetual springtime, I've fallen out of touch with the rhythm and thrum of these things. So it caught me off-guard earlier this evening when I called my sister and the kids and they reported that they were decorating Easter eggs. Who knew?* I felt a few pangs of nostalgia and a sudden craving for deviled eggs, so after hanging up the phone I went immediately down to the store to pick up some eggs, vinegar and a PAAS dyeing kit.

I roped my friend Jeff into decorating eggs with me, and inspired my roommate Tranh, who had never dyed eggs before, to try her own hand at it. I also learned that I'm incredibly anal-retentive about proper dyeing technique and should probably never decorate eggs with Jeff again as he nearly pushed me over the edge tainting the dyes by double-dipping before the egg has properly dried and by failing to observe the light-to-dark progression.

Anyway, behold the results of our labors. Note the cherry blossom egg and the globe egg (with Asia facing) in particular.

*Ok, sure, it's in the calendar. And I could calculate it myself if I cared to. Though interestingly it's not just as simple as the first Sunday after the first full moon after the vernal equinox. There are complex tables to calculate when Easter Sunday falls. And for the record, it's not just that it seemed early this year - it was in fact the second earliest Easter possible. Easter can never be earlier than March 22nd (and won't be until the year 2285) nor later than April 25th. And the next time Easter falls on March 23rd won't be until 2160. Weird.

Something worthwhile for the sun to shine on

A number of years ago, my good friend Meredith introduced me to this silly thing at one of the local fine arts museums which became sort of an annual tradition to attend. Called "Bouquets to Art," the entire museum is filled with floral arrangements by local florists, designers, landscapers and old lady civic organizations, and the arrangements mimic or complement the works of art in the museum's collection.

If it sounds a bit cheesy or hoity-toity, it is a little, but at its best it can also be spectacular. There are all sorts of good reasons to buy membership to a fine arts museum, like supporting art education, premium access to special exhibits, tax deductions and such, but I actually got mine so I could get in on the yearly members-only Bouquets to Art evening.

This year, I ended up going alone because I'm the only one who reliably shows up for the things I do, and because Meredith moved to Atlanta. I arrived a little late and was shocked to see several thousand people milling about outside the De Young, until I noticed the flashing lights in the museum and the fire trucks parked out front. Eventually the alarms were reset and they let us flood inside all at once, extending the hours they'd be open. The galleries actually absorbed the crowds well once they dispersed past the entrance, and I was able to peruse the museum at a liesurely pace.

Two things occured to me: I could design floral arrangements if I set my mind to it, and I need to take advantage of my museum membership more often for other exhibits too.


Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.

Footoloose and Fancy-Free

During my first year in the City, just out of college and unsuccessfully looking for a real job in the real world, I held down a temporary position at a career center, successfully helping other people find real jobs. It was a pretty good gig, ironies aside, and the fact that it was only 4 days a week was, in retrospect, one of the best things about it. Instead of spending that extra day delving deeper into my own jobsearch or volunteering for some great cause, I often used that Friday to explore my new home.

I was operating under the long-held assumption that I was just a temporary resident of San Francisco, one of the many transients stopping off for a wonderful while before getting on the road for the rest of my journey, so I set out to discover everything I could before moving on. I would pack a lunch, a bottle of water, and my bus map into my backpack and set off, exploring the neighborhoods on foot, climbing up hills to the myriad wind-blown parks, poking my head into obscure public spaces like rooftop gardens and cavernous churches, visiting museums and mausoleums, walking the length of all the public beaches, riding hotel elevators to the tops floors, clambering over dangerous cliffs and eroding bluffs to hidden coves.

Somewhere along the line I stopped doing all that, whether because I began taking my surroundings for granted as I finally came to see myself as a long-term resident, or because steady employment brought about a less-spontaneous routine of working for the weekends, only to have the weekends filled with chores. Anymore, six months or worse can go by without me traveling the 7 miles across town to Ocean Beach or setting foot in Golden Gate Park.

Recalling those adventurous days and feeling the need to combat the aggro knot of asperity that's been twisting tighter lately, I decided this morning that it was high time I throw a sandwich and bottle of water in my backpack and head west to see where I ended up.

Where I ended up was as far west as you can get in San Francisco: the Cliff House, overlooking Ocean Beach and the steel grey Pacific. Once an elegant Victorian masterpiece (before burning down several times) it's now a blocky concrete gift shop and restaurant piled atop the bluffs above the Seal Rocks. Dropping down on the north side, I spent some time poking around the ruins of the Sutro Baths, another feat of Victorian hubris that was once the world's largest indoor swimming facility. Before burning to the ground it contained 7 pools of varying temperatures and salinity, an ice rink, a concert hall and had a capacity for 25,000.

I continued around the perimeter of the City, walking the trails that cut through Land's End, hugging the slumping slopes and precarious windswept bluffs beneath the Legion of Honor and ending in the upscale Sea Cliff neighborhood. I kept walking past Baker Beach and onto new trails (my donations put to excellent use by the Golden Gate National Parks Conservancy) that now lead down to Marshall's Beach. Once only accessible at low tide from Baker Beach, or via a perilous scramble down slippery serpentine boulders weathering into green clay, this scenic stretch of sand sits in the shadow of the Golden Gate Bridge and, despite its new accessibility and the incessant frigid gale, still seems to be favored by naked people.

I ate my sandwich on a rock facing the surf and lingered for a while, marveling at the fact that some 3/4 million people were buzzing about just beyond the cliffs at my back while I enjoyed near perfect solitude. After a time, I resumed my walk cresting the bluffs and rounding the bend to the Bridge and the whir of transport and tourist activity. I admired the view, as I always do, before following the calla lily and nasturtium-flanked trail dropping down to Chrissy Field with its familiar joggers, tidal lagoon, and exhausted canines.

Eventually I made it back to the apartment, having successfully ignored the naked people and tourists while indulging my nostalgia and regaining a hint of that old wonder and joy at a place that, 11 years on, still hasn't grown old.

My aching feet aside (10-ish miles!), I feel much more relaxed now.

Taking it to the streets

People people people. Ugh.

So, the four of you out there who read this thing are all well aware that I have no car and walk all over the place, having lost whatever passion for public transit that may have existed as a wide-eyed virginal urban naïf. Defending my personal space against aggressive little old ladies who feign an ignorance of spoken English; putting up with punks dropping half-eaten fastfood in the inaccessible space between the back of the seat and the heater to spoil instead of you know, using a garbage can; sitting next to someone clipping their fingernails; trying to promptly if not altogether politely evacuate the rear of the bus because the overpowering stench of the homeless guy who just boarded; grabbing hold of the rail to find it sticky; watching people sneeze into their hand and grab hold of the rail; wondering if the person who just sat behind me is wearing a dust mask for their own protection... or for mine; countless such experiences have made taking the bus a dire-necessity-only activity.

So I walk places. Like to and from work every day. An opportunity for fresh air, physical activity, the opportunity to de-stress after a long day or mentally gear up for the next. The problem being now even that is losing its appeal and it's all I can do to maintain my calm with people trying my patience at every turn.

Forget the road rage, folks, I think I may be succumbing to sidewalk rage. One of these days, rather than just kicking the fender of the car that cuts me off or huffily saying "excuse me" but totally meaning "excuse you," I may just start tossing people aside and into the traffic that is failing to signal their careening turns and running the red lights.

-- First you have the wanderers - the pedestrians who are incapable of walking a predictable or straight path and who veer to the left just as you try to pass on the left, or list to the right just as you try to sneek past them to the right.
-- There are the gangs of people who walk 3 or 4 abreast, effectively blocking any attempt at passing short of stepping off the curb or plowing through.
-- Also the crazy arm swingers from whom you must keep a healthy distance lest you get whacked in thigh or somewhere considerably more awkward. These people are related to the umbrella swingers who obliviously dent your innocent shins should you approach from behind.
-- There are the folks who stop short in the middle of the sidewalk to tie a shoe, ponder directions, yap on the phone, or search through their purse, with no warning and without any awareness of the other people sharing the sidewalk about to trip over them or run smack into them with a full cup of steaming coffee and a white shirt.
-- Don't forget the women with the ridiculously loud heels that need reshod because they're clomping down the sidewalk behind you like a clydesdale.
-- Or the expectorating epidemic that seems to be spreading as young and old of all ethnicities hawk up loogies and spit right there on the sidewalk in a big wet splat that only narrowly misses your shoe.

I think it's time to find My Side of the Mountain because I'm clearly not cut out to be around people at all.

I'm a one man guy is me

Back in mid-January it started. The first e-mail arrived from a former co-worker who had fallen out of touch wanting to know if I was doing commercials. Within weeks, people were coming out of the woodwork left and right mentioning they'd seen someone on TV who looked and acted just like me.

I've been through this sort of thing before.

Back when Tom Green was just gaining popularity on MTV by drinking milk directly from the cow, people were stopping me on the street or hooting from the passing school bus, and shouting his name from passing cars. I had no idea what was going on for a month or so, until a friend explained who he was. I didn't quite see it, I'm afraid, but there was nothing I could do to convince the staff of a Chick-fil-A in Leeds, Alabama that I wasn't him. Despite my driver's license and lack of camera crew, I think they were quite sure I was pulling some elaborate prank on them, though I tried to explain the actual Tom Green tended towards the not that subtle.

I've also had several weird look-alike and mistaken identity incidents, that may or may not have been related in more than just timing.

But this time, even people I know really well started saying things. At work, an e-mail has been circulating referring to the "Zach-alike". And then, finally, I saw the commercial myself. And about fell off the couch. The match isn't perfect, but the resemblance was enough to send a cold chill up my spine and give me the wiggins.

They say that everyone has a twin out there somewhere, and I suppose it's not completely unreasonable to imagine among 6.6 billion people. And who hasn't been told at some point that they remind someone of someone else? But seriously? I'd like to continue living under the illusion that I'm completely unique, thank you.

I'd post the video, but I can't find it anywhere online. Nor can I find out the identity of this Zach-alike, though I'm not sure what I'd do with that information if I had it. Shouldn't there be some way I can make money out of this? Anyway, if anyone has any info on the dude from the Febreze Candles "In the Air" spot, by all means pass it along.