exZACHtly

I give up

2008-10-03T22:27:00.000-07:00

I'm just going to have to summarize the rest of my summer to bring this thing back to current. In the meantime, to feign relevancy:

You are coming to a sad realization; Cancel or Allow?

2008-08-03T15:18:00.000-07:00

I'm here. I exist. California hasn't slid into to the sea nor has it yet been completely reduced to cinders. I haven't fallen off the planet. I have merely fallen out of the habit of updating this thing, and I apologize to my four dedicated readers.

But I'm back!
You know, more or less.

The fact is that I've got about 4 months' worth of partially-written entries backlogged in my Edit Posts window. I'm going to do my best to backfill the missing chunk of time, which could make for a confusing read. And will probably just delay any actual current updates by that much more, which is pretty much what got me into this mess to begin with.

One thing I have going for me: I have a new computer at home! It's easy to blame a lot of my many-month absence on my complete lack of working home computer, even if there were several other factors. My old laptop was about 10 years old, was running Windows '98, still had a floppy disk drive and relied on a modem for any sort of connectivity. Which pretty much made it unusable to me for the last several years. I was instead dependent on my work computer for almost all personal applications, which also limited me to either staying in the office after hours, or lugging my work laptop home.

So between my new job (I'll get to that in a backdated entry) taking up so much of my time even after hours, and not really wanting to stretch company policy by keeping music and photos on my work laptop, I had no choice but to make a new purchase.
And it's a MAC!
And I love it.
Of course, the time thing isn't really going to change, but at least when I get home I have my shiny new MacBook Pro calling to me, making me want to pound out even a couple sentences. We'll see. Also, I'm much more likely to start reading others' blogs again. I've been completely negligent for months.

In any event, for reference, any entries between 3/28/08 and this one are backdated. And probably lame because I doubt I'll bother finishing 'em much or remember what I was trying to say when I began them.

Like, O M G

2008-05-14T16:22:00.000-07:00

I got in the elevator today and was followed in by two funkily-dressed young women who were already in mid-conversation. One was describing her recent shopping trip (flea market? Second-hand store?) with her boyfriend. Here's the part I overheard:
"So I picked that out along with this dress with Hello Kitty on it, and he was like, 'You look like a coloring book.' And I was all, 'That's awesome!' and he was totally, 'That is not awesome.' Like, way to crap all over my dreams, dude."

Oh. My.

So I said to myself, "Self..."

2008-04-25T15:30:00.000-07:00

This body double thing is getting out of control. There are so many versions of me out there that people don't even recognize me when they see me.

Walking down the street on my way to lunch today, I saw my coworkers Nawal and Dara coming up the sidewalk in the opposite direction. They're looking my direction, talking amongst themselves and as they get closer, suddenly burst out laughing. Feeling a little paranoid, I ask what's so funny and it turns out they had seen me from a distance were arguing whether the infamous Zach-alike was heading towards them But finally decided no, it wasn't that guy because it didn't even look like me.

But, it's funny because it was me, see?

*sigh*

Shake Shake Shake, Shake Your Booty

2008-04-18T12:14:00.000-07:00

On this, the 102nd anniversary of the great San Francisco earthquake, it seems fitting to report that there is no doubt another large quake will strike California. There is a 99.7% chance that a strong earthquake will strike California in the next 30 years, according to the first forecast to look at earthquake probabilities for the entire state.

The next big quake in the Bay Area is likely to be on the Hayward Fault, running directly beneath the East Bay cities of Oakland and Berkeley, among many others. An analysis by the USGS indicates that a magnitude 7 tremblor on the Hayward would affect more than 5 million people, cause losses to homes and businesses of at least $165 billion and total economic losses of more than $1.5 trillion, close 1,100 Bay Area roads, and leave 27,000 homes in Oakland alone completely uninhabitable.

Yup, maybe time to consider moving. Though not to Alaska... below, just for the heck of it, is the list of top 10 states for earthquakes in terms of numbers/frequency.
1) Alaska
Earthquakes Between 1974-2003: 12,053
Percent of total in the U.S.: 57.2
2) California
Earthquakes Between 1974-2003: 4,895
Percent of total in the U.S.: 23.2
3) Hawaii
Earthquakes Between 1974-2003: 1,533
Percent of total in the U.S.: 7.3 4) Nevada
5) Washington
6) Idaho
7) Wyoming
Earthquakes Between 1974-2003: 217
Percent of total in the U.S.: 1.0
8) Montana
9) Utah
10) Oregon

And everything there feels just as it should

2008-04-14T21:20:00.000-07:00

Ahhh.

That was exactly what I needed. I've been to Yosemite a dozen times or so, and it's often a little stressful what with trying to find campsites, organizing food and people, dealing with crowds, or even venturing off alone. This time, however, was most chill. No panicky search for walk-in campgrounds - I'd reserved a tent cabin at Curry Village inside the Valley. No fancy food prep or organization - I took easy sandwich fixins, fruit, oatmeal, cocoa, canned stew. No big agenda - I figured I'd chill out in the Valley and explore parts I haven't before, but mostly just enjoy the setting. No hordes of tourists - it was early enough in the season that it wasn't overcrowded. And to top it all off, I got my friend Nichole to join me for a little downtime in the mountains.

It was awesome.

Day 1: The Drive. Check in and settle in to the "tent cabin" - an unheated canvas tent with wooden floor, and two single beds equipped with clean sheets and wool blankets. Happy we brought our sleeping bags too. Dinner was a picnic beneath the granite cliffs at the edge of a large meadow. No people to be seen. Alpen glow on Halfdome.

Night 1: Wierd-ass dreams that a mouse was dancing on top of my sleeping bag. Later in the night the it was a ferret. Followed by a racoon. Finally determined it was a dream and not a wildlife invasion when a large cat asked me why I was so freaked out.

Day 2: Hiked to the top of Yosemite Falls - the tallest waterfall in North America and the 6th tallest in the world. I'd made it nearly to the top years ago, only to give out during the steep switchbacks below the rim... so I was determined to make it this time. The snow was waist deep once above the north rim of the Valley, and the waterfall was not at its peak flow yet, but the view from the top, hugging the granite for dear life on the narrow lip looking down 2,500 feet onto the valley floor - that was totally worth the sore calves.

Day 3: Walked around Mirror Lake at the far end of the valley, up a trail no one else was on, past melting snowbanks and early season flowers. Sat in the middle of the stream relaxing to the roar of water. Final Evening: Picnic along the banks of the Merced river. Sat under the stars on a footbridge over the stream watching the moonlight light up the falls. Informed the lone other person to cross our paths that the geysers he was looking for are in Yellowstone, not Yosemite.

Day 4: Drove to Hetch Hetchy Valley - once comparable to the Yosemite Valley in beauty, it was flooded behind the O'Shaughnessy Dam in 1923 to provide San Francisco with some of the most pure water in the nation. Dude. Bears! A sow and her two yearling cubs in the road. And a hike to one of the most spectacular waterfalls I've ever had the thrill of eating lunch beneath.

And listen to the casual reply

2008-04-09T19:19:00.000-07:00

I'm leaving for the woods. I've been itching to get out of town and be in the mountains for a while now, and so, what the hell. I'm gonna do it. I reserved a tent cabin (wooden floor, bed with sheets and wool blanket, unheated, canvas roof and walls) in Yosemite Valley and rented a car, convinced my recently-unemployed friend Nichole to accompany me, took the next two days off work, and am headed for a long weekend in one of the most beautiful places in the country. Yay me!

It's a little early in the season, I realize, and I'm expecting chilly evenings. Though I'm hoping that the waterfalls will be approaching their peak flows as the snowpack melts out of the high country. Another advantage to going so early is that there won't be so many people packing the Valley floor.

But what's fueling the timing of this trip more than anything is that Friday is the next company Quarterly Meeting, and I'm determined to miss it. I go to them dutifully every quarter, but this one will be the one where my name gets called out for having been with the company for 10 years, and I don't need that kind of public acknowledgment. Just slip my gift certificate into my slot in the mailroom and let's forget the rest, thank you.

So Yosemite it is! I plan on hiking to the top of Yosemite Falls (the highest falls in N America and the 6th highest in the world), relaxing in the valley along the banks of the Merced, and then venturing to the Hetch Hetchy Valley and Reservoir, source of San Francisco's pure water supply in the northern tract of the park. And not thinking about work for a second.

And now, to pack the cooler.

So long and thanks for all the fish, again

2008-04-05T17:07:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned in my previous post, I'm not terribly comfortable around the ocean or large bodies of water, because there were no large bodies of water where I grew up. I can swim - at least well enough to get by, though I won't be winning any medals for speed or elegance - thanks to my parent's insistence on swimming lessons when I was little (I'll never forget standing in the early morning chill by the outdoor town pool, shivering on the rough concrete and dreading getting into the cold chlorinated water... or panicking in the deep end while being tested on the "deadman's float"... ugh).

At any rate, a pool is one thing, but a big river or the ocean is quite another, rife with currents and waves and undertows, and all sorts of creatures unseen, from tickling little fish to water snakes or jellies or sharks. My heart pounds a little just thinking about it.

I've only swum in the ocean a few times in my life; though I live within sight of the Pacific, northern California's shores are known more for their hypothermia-inducing temperatures, rogue waves, and deadly rip currents, so I only go in up to my knees. In Mexico I had the crap beaten out of me and my sinuses filled with sand and seawater as I tried to crawl out of the waves. I had a bandage on my knee and spent my time avoiding jelly fish at Myrtle Beach. And Hawaii was phenomenal, but my one-and-only snorkeling adventure was preceded by a complete lack of lessons, so I spent a great deal of time trying not to inhale water through the tube, and keeping my life vest centered under my hips to keep me from worrying too much about sinking to my doom.

The snorkeling stress was exacerbated by the fact that the water was not terribly shallow - my friend Zoe and I dropped into the swells from a kayak that we had used to paddle into an isolated bay with a sea cave and no other people save our guide, "Blue." Putting my face beneath the waves was, on the one hand, a relief because I could see what has under the surface, and on the other hand, terrifying because I could see what was under the surface. And by "see" I mean "make out vague colorful shapes" of a whole host of creatures that would need to be close enough to nibble on me before I would recognize that they were intent on biting me in half, since I was not wearing glasses or contacts behind my mask.

The underwater realm is fascinating, certainly, but I can't say I'm drawn to experience it first hand. Too scary. I recently finished "The Devil's Teeth" by Susan Casey, a journalist who became obsessed with the the Farallon Islands due west of San Francisco. It was a fascinating and fun read centered around these islands that I, too, have been curious about since I first saw them emerge from the fog on the horizon. I've even been to the islands on a boat, though only biologists are allowed to land there except in emergencies. But believe you me, you would NOT want to have an emergency out there.

On the edge of the continental shelf, these rocky outposts are surrounded by frigid rough currents, hordes of hostile sea birds, thousands of seals and sea lions, and great white sharks. Enormous great white sharks. The book documents sharks in those waters that are 20 ft long and 8 ft wide. The author notes the thrill she felt when she saw a shark the size of a school bus glide beneath her dinghy - I about peed myself just reading about it.

As much as I want to go whale watching out there again, especially after reading about some of the islands' history, I have to say, knowing monsters that size may be lurking beneath the choppy grey surface is enough to make me remain a landlubber for eternity. I love listening to and looking out over the ocean, and appreciate its mystery and bounty, but I am completely comfortable backing away slowly (never turn your back on the ocean!) and keeping my feet planted on solid ground.

So long and thanks for all the fish

2008-03-31T20:54:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-26T12:05:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-23T22:33:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-12T22:23:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-08T22:24:00.000-08:00

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

2008-03-05T18:14:00.000-08:00

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

2008-03-02T21:26:00.000-08:00

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.

Just as far in as I'll ever be out

2008-02-29T17:24:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure that weeping is the appropriate response, since I'm the only one to blame if there's finger wagging to be done. Besides, I've had my reasons, oh yes. And they were all perfectly valid reasons at one time or another. Many of them still could be, arguably.

But I still might go have myself a little cry.

As I was saying...

2008-02-26T20:59:00.000-08:00

Back on the 19th at around 5:30 in the morning, a large fireball was seen streaking over the skies from Washington to Montana, visible from as far away as Calgary, with various reports, particularly from Spokane, of a sonic boom or sound of explosions. It was even caught on video by a hospital security camera.

On the 17th, a small unknown asteroid disintegrated in the skies over Thule, Greenland, streaking across the sky in a fiery blaze and leaving a trail twisting in the currents of the upper atmosphere.

Just last night, the skies over Ithaca were lit up by a giant fireball the size of a quarter held at arm's length streaking overhead, causing alarm and numerous calls to 911.

As you can guess, it turns out that these things are a lot more common that you might think. After my recent musings, I dug up a little more information on the frequency of such bombardments...
According to calculations by NASA astronomer Bill Cooke, fireballs as bright as Venus appear somewhere over Earth more than 100 times a day. Fireballs as bright as the quarter Moon streak overhead roughly once every 10 days, and exploding asteroids as bright as a full Moon light up the skies about once every 5 months.

This doesn't get a whole lot of press because the vast majority of the things go unnoticed. Half of them occur during the day time and are nearly invisible in sunny skies. Because 70% of the planet is covered by uninhabited ocean, a corresponding 70% or so of the fireballs streak across empty expanses and go unseen. Cloud cover obscures some of the remaining ones. And most of the rest are missed simply because no one is looking up.

I remember seeing a giant green fireball blazing across the western Nebraska night sky spitting sparks as it went while looking out the car window as a kid, heading home from town.

More recently while sitting on the couch one evening just after sunset, I happened to look up to see something bright streaking across the sky and leaving a vapor trail glowing in the fading light of the upper atmosphere. I had the distinct impression it was getting larger and nearer and then with a faint foomp, it blinked out of existence. Turns out it was a missile launched from Vandenberg AFB as part of the interceptor missile defense program. But still, it got my heart pounding.

In any case, you may want to keep an eye to the heavens -- chances are actually pretty decent that you'll spot something bigger than dust streaking through the atmosphere.

For the record

2008-02-25T21:38:00.000-08:00

Regarding my previous post:

They say your odds of getting struck by lightning are better than winning the lottery. So I'm not sure why I went on a lottery ticket buying binge after my little shock. I gave up when I realized that the odds of both getting stuck by lightning AND winning the lottery must be infinitesimal.

I didn't seek medical attention at the time. A few years later, I began having heart rhythm problems and it didn't immediately occur to me that the two could be related. I sheepishly mentioned the lightning to my doctor while being treated and he was all, um, hello? Duh.

As my hair thins, people often ask if I sunburned my scalp if they see the top of my head, when I definitely have not. Apparently my baldspot is pretty red -- right where I was zapped. I have no idea if the two are related.

I don't know the exact date it happened -- it seemed like the sort of thing I would never forget and I never wrote it down. 10 years on, all I know is it was in February.

I'm fairly certain that I did not experience the main lightning strike. Electrical current traveled through me, no doubt, but my guess is that the bolt either bounced off a nearby tree, or that I just got in the way of one of the little feeder bolts.

My former zeal for thunderstorms was somewhat diminished for a while. When visiting my Dad in Cheyenne in late spring and early summer, I'd sit tensely on the couch downstairs, my heart skipping a beat with each flash and clap of thunder, where before I'd have been standing under the eaves watching the show.

I don't tell the story much. The opportunity to talk about it doesn't arise frequently, and when it does, I can recognize that look of skepticism on people's faces.

I still have the umbrella.

I cannot bend spoons with my mind. I tried.

The Lightning Incident

2008-02-24T23:11:00.001-08:00

I imagine that there are a few moments in everyone's lives when something outrageously absurd or terrifying happens that momentarily cracks the shell of mundane reality enclosing our daily existence and allows us to catch a fleeting glimpse of the Truth flickering through from the vast beyond. For a brief instant, it's as if you suddenly get it, the blazing lightbulb of insight blinks on over your head and the great cosmic joke makes sense.

You are the punchline.

And just as you're grappling with the enormity of it all, the hot bulb burns itself out in a blinding flash, the fissures fuse and answers are again out of reach beyond the protective shell of comprehension's limit. You're left standing alone, unsure of your footing, your confidence that the world is unfolding as it should shattered. And in answer to all the questions now fumbling about in your mind, only the empty dark.

*-*-*-*

Today was a crazy weather day of scudding clouds, glints of sun, and sporadic downpours. Unsettled weather is not uncommon for February in San Francisco, and in truth, I look forward to these days for their atmospheric drama, which, as I've mentioned before, is usually in short supply here.

Not so ten years ago, as El Nino gripped the California coast and the headlines, unleashing the 2nd wettest rainfall season on record with 230% of the average precipitation, and a record 119 days of measurable rain. Records fell for daily rainfall, monthly rainfall, and even the number of broken records. Drama was played out daily in the sky, on the streets, in the news. Hillsides slid into the sea, dry creekbeds washed away homes, the Bay became muddy brown and was littered with debris and the contents of people's upstream homes.

Thus, on a fateful February day ten years ago, not unlike today, on the first weekend day in ages that sun gleamed between rolling cotton-topped clouds, I resolved to resume my long-dormant outdoor adventures. Knowing that my window of opportunity would be brief , I grabbed my roommate's large umbrella as insurance and set out on foot from my North Beach apartment, determined to walk all the way to Ft. Point at the foot of the Golden Gate Bridge and back.

By the time I'd crossed through the Marina, puffy black clouds had billowed before the sun and I heard the distant unfamiliar rumble of thunder from beyond the Golden Gate. Crissy Field in those days was still derelict runway and fenced-off landfill with a worn path just up from the surf, lined by a few tall palms. Just as the rain began, I took shelter beneath a small stand of cypress trees on the shore, Bridge in view. The shower was brief, as expected, and I set out again hoping to reach my destination before the next wave of dark clouds swept in. Another warning peal of thunder, closer now, echoed from just outside the Gate, but I paid no heed, lightning and thunder being so infrequent in the Bay Area that I felt only a slight thrill in its improbable presence.

As I passed the last palm tree, about a half mile from Ft. Point, it began spitting icy rain again and I opened the large umbrella swinging by my side, its taut yellow & black nylon vaulting overhead reassuringly substantial and defiant. I set out across the last bleak stretch of exposed weeds and sand, and laughed off the momentary thought that I shouldn't stray too far from where the trees were taller than I.

And at that exact instant, several things happened at once: a bright flash of blue-white light filled my vision, the air cracked and ripped overhead, cinematic blue electricity curled down the umbrella spring behind me reflected in my glasses, and a sharp shock of buzzing pain seared at the back of my head.

I knew immediately what had happened, threw the traitorous umbrella to the ground and reached up to where my scalp tingled. My head was tender but didn't seem burned; my hair, now wet, was all in place. I put my hand over my heart: it was still beating. My pulse was racing but strong. I had feeling in all my limbs. For some reason I checked my hiking boots too: still on my feet, soles intact.

I stood there agape for several moments, rain running into my wide eyes and soaking through my clothes while I tried to comprehend it. Looking around for witnesses, all I saw was an empty expanse of old asphalt and weeds up to the nearest row of buildings, and above that the ceaseless traffic of the Bridge approach. No one else was foolish enough to be out.

Unsure of what else to do, I resumed, trudging the remaining distance to the path leading up the wooded bluff towards the road deck and the tourist viewpoints above the Fort. Thoroughly soaked now, I stood for a time partway up the trail surrounded by lush calla lilies and nasturtiums whose blossoms impatiently awaited the waterlogged sun, staring blankly at the Bridge and moody hills beyond, having reached my destination but still baffled by the bolt from above.

I stood there trying to read meaning into the improbable, wondering why me; wondering how this could happen here, in San Francisco where lightning is seen only once every few years, instead of my Front-Range home that is one of the most lightning-riddled places in the country; wondering if anyone would believe the absurdity of my story or would simply assume I was making the whole ridiculous thing up; trying to decide if I was incredibly lucky to be unhurt or terribly unlucky to have been singled out at all; going over it again and again in my head.

Finally, as the pelting rain gave way to another patch of sun, the unfazed vermilion Bridge arching gracefully across the steely grey waters into the indifferent purple distance, I picked my way back down the slope and worked my way back the way I had come, stopping to pluck my umbrella out of the puddle in which it lay. My apartment, when I finally returned, was empty and suddenly lonely -- the roommates having gone to Tahoe for the weekend -- and not knowing what else to do, I called home.

"Mom? I just got struck by lightning. No, no, I'm fine, really I think I'm ok..."

Cake and Glory

2008-02-24T08:10:00.000-08:00

Last night was San Francisco's Chinese New Year Parade, one of the biggest celebrations of its kind outside of Asia, and an event that has been taking place since just after the Gold Rush. Tens of thousands of people generally crowd Union Sq and Chinatown to watch the floats and dragon dancers wind through the streets, culminating two weeks of firecrackers, carnivals, and other festivities.

Another of the great San Francisco events takes place during this parade: the annual Chinese New Year Treasure Hunt. I'd heard of this for several years but somehow always missed it, until I finally got my act together in 2004 and organized a team to join the Hunt. It's put on by a former P.I. and San Francisco lover who also happens to be a big film noir buff. You're provided with a map of the city, a street index, and a cluesheet with 15-20 clues that, when solved correctly, lead you all over the Financial District, North Beach and Chinatown, seeking random signs, obscure plaques, and interesting architectural details in the backalleys and hidden sidestreets of The City.

It's always a great time and the rules state that your team has to stay together and track down all the answers on foot, returning the answer sheets by 9pm. The clues are never easy, and navigating the streets and alleys can be challenging in the dark, especially if you must cross paths with the parade and accompanying crowds. I've put together a team for each of the past 4 years at the Beginners level, but never came in higher than 12th place (out of more than 100 teams). The prize for winning is merely a cake, some champagne, and the glory of bragging rights -- proceeds go to local charities, and the fun is in the pursuit.

So I rounded up another ragtag team of people this year, but bumped us up to the Regular level of difficulty. The weather forecasts predicted torrential rains and gale force winds. Fortunately, aside from an occasional downpour, the weather wasn't too miserable and everyone braved the elements to huddle over the cluesheets, map out our route, and strike out into the night armed with headlamps and flashlights.

And guess what? We came in 2nd place!! Having answered all of our clues correctly, we arrived a full 20 minutes ahead of the next placed team.

It might not seem like much, but believe me when I tell you it's a big deal (to me). We took our cake and bottle of champagne and shared the sweet wet glory of victory behind the Ferry Building, the glimmering lights of the Bay Bridge arching into the distance.

Hooray Rat Bastards*! You guys** are the best.

Gung Hay Fat Choy!

* It's the year of the Rat. Team names are traditionally related to the appropriate lunar zodiac animal.

** Nichole, Dustin, Seth, Josh, Beth & Adam

More space junk

2008-02-20T23:40:00.000-08:00

As one might expect, I was pretty stoked for tonight's big lunar eclipse. These things may be more common than solar eclipses, but they still don't roll around all that often. The next one, in fact, isn't until 2010. But I was still a little flabbergasted by a couple people at the office who apparently had never even thought about the workings of the solar system or ever bothered to look up and were just clueless. One person in particular managed to mix up the eclipse with the moon phases, not understanding that the moon must be full in order for it to be anywhere near Earth's shadow, and this person also asked me if it would be safe to look at, somehow confusing staring at the shaded moon with looking into the sun.

In any case, it was the first cloudless and rain-free day for several, so I had high hopes to get a good view of totality, with the moon hopefully a deep blood-red shade, lit only by the light of all the Earth's simultaneous sunsets and sunrises.

Alas, by the time I got home, the clouds had swept in to obscure the moonrise. Boooo! I spent an hour or so on the roof, with only an occasional glimpse through thin cloud cover. My camera was able to pick up more light than my eyes were, and with a long enough shutter speed even got Saturn and the star Regulus on either side of the moon through the orange clouds. Better than nothing I s'pose. Though I was pretty annoyed when the sky cleared completely after the moon emerged from shadow. Grr.

The clouds also prevented any sighting of possible debris reentry from the rogue US spy satellite that was shot down tonight by a navy missile 130 miles above the Pacific. Not that I know what the orbital track of said debris might have been, but you know, I guy can hope. I gotta say, I'm pretty impressed that the military can launch a missile that can, a mere 3 minutes later, intercept an object the size of a school bus traveling 17,000 mph.

Anyway, hope y'all had a better view of the moon than I did. And may your skies remain free of falling debris.

Teach a man to knit

2008-02-18T19:19:00.000-08:00

I'm making progress whittling down the number of projects on the go. Zoe should be proud. It's been a year and a few months since she taught me the knitting basics (picture us sitting in the balmy breezeway of the Hilo airport, awaiting our flight to Honolulu, needles in hand and yarn in lap, knitting away), and I'm still at it. Not that I'm terribly good, nor particularly persistent, but I've certainly been practicing and learning new things.

Pictured is my most complicated project to date. Ok, fingerless mittens are not exactly gloves or a sweater, but hey, I said I wasn't that good. But there's a thumb gusset and braided cable knit, not to mention the color changes. I'm kind of proud of the outcome.

My friend Andrea was giving me a lot of good-natured shit about my knitting. She sits next to one of my more knitting-obsessed buddies at work, so every time I was over in her cube asking questions or showing off a project or ooh-ing over her latest yarn, Andrea would stand up and roll her eyes and point and laugh. So I made these for her to shut her up.

I wasn't so sure of the colors, but hilariously as I stepped into her cube I saw a pair of store-bought pink and brown striped fingerless gloves already sitting on her desk. Her girlfriend had bought them for her just yesterday. I didn't intend to upstage her girlfriend, but she likes my gift better. Heh. She can only wear them, however, on the condition that she quits with the pointing and laughing.

Just prisoners here, of our own device

2008-02-09T09:18:00.000-08:00

Ahhh. The sky is clear and blue, the sun is shining brilliantly, the chill in the air is not of drafty winter but of breezy springtime. Somehow, despite the temperature being exactly the same as it was last month, a light jacket suffices today instead of layered sweaters and fleece and windstop nylon.

The sweetgum trees dividing Columbus Ave have just finally dropped the last of their fading crimson leaves, and already the twigs are bursting with little chartreuse glints, a sort of reverse origami unfolding into familiar star shapes. The puzzle-barked sycamores are also burgeoning with fuzzy fits of celadon on their extremities. And best of all, the cherry trees are in full bloom, filling the air with an amazing sweet smell and a confetti of pink petals.

It's February, people, and I must admit that I can barely remember the purpose or timing of Groundhog Day anymore when surrounded by things springing all around. I'm wearing shorts and filling my lungs with allergens and reaffirming my love for California.

I'm also going in to the office on a Saturday to do 5 hours of user testing on new ticket-tracking software. Which is somewhat less inspiring.
Poop.

How long will that last?

2008-02-08T23:18:00.000-08:00

I'm remarkably bad at actively staying in touch with my friends, as basically everyone who reads this thing can attest. I don't know why that is exactly. I think a chunk of it is laziness or lethargy. Some of it is forgetfulness, distraction, and an insensibility to the warp-speed passage of time. A bit is also my introversion and insecurity, which is ridiculous I know, but true nonetheless. As much as I love and enjoy my friends, I'm no great lover of the phone or the thought of social settings, and while the actual call or night out is usually quite enjoyable, working up to it requires clambering over some deep inner obstacle that has always been there.

In any case, I just had a lovely evening with a couple old friends, one of whom I haven't seen in far too long, despite her regular visits to the City for work. My buddy Jeff has been crashing at my place for a week every month in his commute to work from Spokane, and his former roommate Colleen happened to have the night off from her job, so we all went out for drinks and dinner at the little Italian Trattoria up the street.

I won't bother going into all the history and crazy stories the three of us could tell -- many of which we retold ourselves over wine and tortellini. But it highlighted the importance of friendships, especially in the absence of family -- that crazy bond born of shared experience, be it good or bad, so rich and necessary. I'm vowing to make an effort to improve my friendship maintenance, lest my emotional well-being completely yellow, wither, curl and die like the neglected plant in the dark corner.

Little Chicken

2008-02-06T20:23:00.000-08:00

Um... Yikes.
You're probably sick of me talking about stuff in the sky, but it's a long-standing fascination of mine, so you'll just have to cope. Or skip ahead.

The more stuff they look for out in the cold dark vastness beyond our paper-thin atmosphere, the more stuff they're finding. No secret there. And they're up to 927 known Potentially Hazardous Asteroids that they're tracking and which can come closer to Earth than 0.05 AU (Astronomical Units - the distance between Earth & the Sun), or roughly 20 times the distance between the Earth & Moon (LD). Which is admittedly still a long distance, except in the context of the vastness of the solar system.

In just the last 6 days, no fewer than 12 of these things have whizzed past the planet, all of them discovered only in the last month. Just yesterday, in fact, a new one, 2008CT1, was discovered... but only after it went sailing by, narrowly missing Earth by a mere 72,000 miles. That's less that a third of the distance to the Moon, people.

I find this alarming.

Now, I recognize that this particular close call was a relatively tiny object the size of a school bus or two, so it's understandable it wasn't seen sooner. And had it actually slammed into the planet, it likely would have exploded in the atmosphere in a fireball and littered a little patch of ocean with a few tiny fragments at worst. And I understand that the overall odds of anything big striking us are pretty miniscule. And there are lots of eyes and bits of software looking for these things.

But it's also been a long time since something hit us. Not that records are terribly good when it comes to this, since impact frequency is so low, the planet is mostly unpopulated, and written history so short. Barringer Crater in AZ is roughly 50,000 years old and is the largest recent crater by far. Henbury and Kaali crater fields in Autralia and Estonia are both around 5,000 years old. The Wabar craters of Saudi Arabia are perhaps only 150 years old and were created by an explosion equivalent to the bomb that leveled Hiroshima. The Tunguska Event in 1908, on the other hand, left no crater but instead flattened 830 square miles of forest as an object perhaps 60 meters across detonated in the atmosphere 3-6 miles above the Siberian taiga.

Guesses about how often these sorts of things occur vary widely. Which is why folks are scouting the skies, hoping for some advanced warning. It seems to me they've got some work to do yet.

Although, given that there's not much we could probably do about it were we to discover something coming at us at 50 miles per second, maybe it's better to not see the thing coming and remain in the dark...

A Super Tuesday

2008-02-05T20:31:00.000-08:00

Change is in the air.

The atmosphere today was so clear it was almost as if there was none. The buildings of downtown stood crisp and vivid against the cerulean deep as candescent-rimmed silver halide clouds rolled across the middle distance. Every shadow was a razor's edge of contrast making the world look simultaneously both cutout and multidimensional.

The air made itself known, however, by the sharp scent of ozone and leftover rain, mingling with loamy spice of wet bark and earth. Half a block from my apartment stand two Victorian Box trees in perpetual blossom, whose riotous florid branches fill the air with a sublimely sweet honey orange perfume.

The world seems to be throwing off the chill winter dark and emerging into a brightly lit season of renewal, fresh hope and promise.

The perfect day, in fact, for an election.

So say we all

2008-01-31T18:03:00.000-08:00

Was just reading up on the state of robotics technology and the latest biotech breakthroughs, and I was struck by a fascinating similarity. Humanity as a culture and as a species is on the cusp of something exhilaratingly terrifying, and as far as we know, unique in the history of the everything.

Robots have been around for a long time now and artificial intelligence has been imagined for far longer than it actually has seemed achievable. People have been heralding the imminent arrival of robotics and AI for some time now, but with the emergence of software and hardware capable of performing tasks once the sole domain of Homo sapiens, it seems certain that within the next 40 years there will exist human-level machine intelligence.

On the biological front, there's news this week that scientists have built from scratch a synthetic chromosome containing all the genetic material needed to produce a primitive bacterium. We're not talking about simply moving bits about from existing cells, but actually piecing together something new that has all the necessary bits to reproduce on its own once they surround it by cell.

So here's the thing...
No evidence to the contrary, life has only emerged once. Every single cell in each of our bodies -- like every living, dividing cell in every plant, animal, fungus, and bacteria -- can be traced backwards in a direct and unbroken line to the very first cell to split in two and start reproducing. Yet within a few years we will be witness to the start of an entirely new, man-made life form that will reproduce on its own and be the first link in a whole new chain -- something unprecedented and original under the sun with no ancestry save human ingenuity.

"Man-made" in this case is something of a misnomer, of course, because this feat is only possible using machines that can compute and assemble the most complex molecules ever created from scratch. As far as we know, we're the only intelligence to have ever evolved. But it's not a far leap for machines to become the second great intelligence to arise on Earth. Almost certainly within our lifetimes, something else new and unprecedented under the sun will be capable, perhaps, of pondering its own creation and creators.

Whether or not this ends badly in either case remains to be seen.

This Old Man, He Played 2 (x 17)

2008-01-26T15:17:00.000-08:00

People have always said that time speeds by faster and faster the older you get, and it's definitely true. Somehow, I blinked and found myself 34 years old, which means I've basically lived more than a third of my life, if all goes well. Assuming, of course, that they don't unlock all of biology's secrets in the coming 60 years. Which actually could happen. I read somewhere that everyone alive today could be expected to live past 100 -- barring accident and disease -- given the inroads already being made.

Anyway.

I took the day off work yesterday, because, well, if a birthday isn't a good enough reason to avoid work, I don't what is. My company just began offering 2 floating holidays per year in addition to the regular PTO, so I used one of those days. I usually do something outdoorsy and solitary, but unfortunately the weather has been fairly uncooperative of late. Which I'm not really complaining about since the area can use all the precipitation it can get after last year's dry spell. But non-stop pouring rain makes hiking in the hills rather less appealing.

In fact, it was one of the rainiest days I can remember. A steady downpour continued without break the entire day, totaling 2.5 inches. I eventually had to leave the apartment and head downtown to meet my coworkers for happy hour, which they were throwing in my honour. I sort of had to show up, you know. Besides, even urban flood advisories are no excuse when drinks paid for by others are offered.

Another sign I'm old? The Irish pub was followed by a quiet Italian dinner with my friend Michelle, and I was home by 10pm.

One that won't keep me up all night

2008-01-20T20:59:00.000-08:00

Like so many of my little crafty or creative projects, this whole knitting thing is getting out of hand. I somehow have, literally, 9 separate things I'm working on all at once, to the detriment of them all.

I tend to get excited about the next new thing before I've finished with the last old thing. But the new thing becomes another old thing once I've gotten past the newness of it. It's a bad habit.

Which is why I'm resolving to work on one thing at a time until I've finished each of the things currently in progress, and to not start anything new until they're all done, however much I'm itching to try my hand at another technique or play with a really great yarn.

Jesus I'm a nerd.

Anyway. This means I' have to finish some of the boring old things too, like the never ending scarves. But I'm already making progress! Witness the ribbed camouflage scarf I have just completed. Hooray!

I hope it won't hurt

2008-01-18T23:36:00.000-08:00

Another person was killed by public transit yesterday. I say that like it happens with some regularity, which is probably not the case despite the headlines. And I wouldn't ordinarily mention it except that it totally freaked me out.

I didn't see the accident, mind you. I don't take the bus or Muni Metro light rail on a daily basis since I walk to and from work. But I do take it often enough to know how easily something like this could happen.

A number of months ago, for example, a man ran to catch the train and tried to squeeze in as the doors were closing... something we've all done at some point. But this time his arm was caught in the doors as they closed before he got inside. They're supposed to open again, of course, and the train operator is also supposed to look out the side mirrors to make sure people are clear before driving off. This man was lucky because the hysterical passengers inside the car managed to pull the emergency stop just before the train entered the tunnel.

Yesterday, though, the result was tragic and gruesome. Apparently a 40-year man was going to get on the N-Judah line out in the Sunset when he tripped as the door closed. He somehow became entangled and was dragged 3 blocks under the train before the driver became aware of the situation.

This was just a regular guy who started his day headed to work like the rest of us, and then this horrible thing happened and he was dead. It certainly makes one pause. I trip going down the stairs. I trip on the sidewalk. I've stepped into an intersection as some idiot taxi careens around the corner. Hell, I've been hit by a woman taking a left turn directly into me and hurling me onto the asphalt.

Any little thing could so easily turn into a tragedy if circumstances and timing were even slightly different, and often these things are largely out of our control. It's not something we think of very often because if we did, we'd never want to set foot outside of the house again.

Of course, then a chunk of satellite would crash into the apartment, or the building would collapse during the Big One.

The thing is, I guess, that it's just a dangerous world out there. Life is short, and you never know what's lying in wait around the corner. When your time is up, it's up, and in the meantime, we should just be living it up and soaking it in and enjoying every moment of it, because the next moment we might be a smear on the pavement.

Not so lonely out in space

2008-01-13T14:44:00.000-08:00

Interesting goings on in the cosmic vicinity lately.

Comet 8P/Tuttle, made its closest approach to Earth recently, on January 1st coming within 24 million miles. It wasn't huge, but it was green, which is not something you see every day. Apparently the emerald color comes from cyanogen (CN, a poisonous gas) and diatomic carbon (C₂) present in the comet's atmosphere; both substances glow green when exposed to UV sunlight in the near vacuum of space. Conveniently it passed by one of the more photogenic galaxies in the night sky.

Comet 17P/Holmes, on the other hand, is gradually fading away and will soon fade into obscurity again, unless it explodes a second time, as it did in 1892 when it was discovered. It could happen. The explosion on October 23rd brightened it a million-fold in just a few days, to the point that it was visible to the naked eye, even in the light-polluted skies above my apartment. By October 28th, the cloud of debris around the comet was larger than Jupiter - and I don't mean to look at in the sky, but quite literally the comet was the largest thing in the solar system except the sun.

Speaking of the sun, January 4th saw the ringing in of the next solar cycle, heralded by the appearance of the first reversed-polarity sunspot. The solar minimum is officially over, so we've got about 5 1/2 years to work up to the next solar max. Bring on the auroras!

On December 18th, Mars made its closest approach to Earth for a while, coming within 55 million miles, and providing another launch window for probes, which include the NASA rover Phoenix, set to arrive in May.

Speaking of Mars, NASA scientists tracking asteroid 2007 WD5 now say that it will NOT hit Mars on January 30th. When it was discovered last month, astronomers said it was likely to strike the planet, but further observation and orbital calculations has dropped the probability of impact to approximately 0.01% or 1 in 10,000 odds, effectively ruling out the possible collision. I'll admit it, I'm a little disappointed.

And speaking of asteroids, on January 10th, asteroid 2005 WJ56 flew past Earth only 2.6 million miles away. The kilometer-wide space rock was close enough for amateur astronomers to photograph as it glided through the constellation Taurus.

And lastly, asteroid 2008 AF3 flys past Earth today only one lunar distance (240,000 miles) away. No chance of collision, and this rock is only about 27 meters across, but still. It was only discovered 3 days ago.

Scary.

It's a sad sad story

2008-01-11T22:56:00.000-08:00

Here's something to add to the list of things I hate but am drawn to and then regret, like political discussions, marinated olives, or expensive porn:
The comment sections available below the article on so many websites.

I'm all for free speech and differing opinions, but letting any jackass with a keyboard they can half use weigh in anonymously whenever the heck they want... it never seems to ends well.

Just today, for example, I was reading a lovely little feel-good blurb about it snowing in Baghdad for the first time in living memory. Residents emerged in wonder having only ever read about snow or seen it in film, calling their friends and family members in joy and amazement. The guns fell silent for the few hours the dusting lasted. And had I stopped reading there, I would have smiled to myself and that would be that.

But of course my eyes wandered to the damned comment section. About 3 comments in, someone criticized the fluff piece - who cares about snow when people are dying? The fifth comment decried the hoax that is global warming, as proven by the snow. The eighth comment blamed the snow on Bush without irony. And somewhere in there was a profane generalization of Muslims. The next round of comments focused heavily on insulting all the previous commentators.

It was maddening, as it always is, and yet I couldn't pull myself away. My mind boggles at the vast volume of uninformed vitriol people happily spew. Beyond raising my blood pressure, I'm not sure what purpose is served in providing a forum for people to voice all these opinions when it almost always devolves quite rapidly into ignorant and hate-filled rant.

People suck.

And I without my picnic basket

2008-01-08T20:23:00.000-08:00

It's a little eerie how these things happen. I don't even remember the context, but this past weekend on the phone with Jen Hen it came up that ants invade the front room of my apartment annually, like clockwork, in the late fall as the rainy season gets underway. Not the kitchen, where the actual food is (thankfully), but the barren living room which has nothing but hardwood floors, furniture, and potted plants. Which got me to thinking that I hadn't actually had this problem in more than a year.

Cue the gleeful hand of the Powers That Be.

As I was watering the plants yesterday evening, I was horrified to discover a thronging mass of ants swarming around the sickly little lime tree in the window. These are delicate little blacks ants, easily squished, and of the non-biting variety. But I'm not talking about a few ants -- there were thousands of them circling the rim of the pot in a roiling black sea of repulsion. Maybe tens of thousands.

I stood there aghast for a few moments wondering what the hell to do, and as my gaze followed the trail to the big blue chair in the bay window, I froze again in stupefaction. The upholstery was crawling with the little fuckers to the point where I could hardly see the texture or color of the fabric beneath the writhing hordes.

I have no idea where they come from or why they come up three stories to enter into my apartment and harass me. They're probably nested in the walls with the toxic mold somewhere. And frankly I don't care, so long as they disappear again soon, and never find the kitchen. I've had friends who had these same ants invade their kitchen and wreak havoc, getting inside sealed jars of maple syrup, bags of pet food, boxes of cereal, dying by the thousands in the cold of the fridge. My pantry (and mental health) is in no state to deal with something like that.

Afraid that they might be nesting in the dirt of the lime tree or, heaven forfend, inside the blue chair, harvesting aphid dew or farming a crop of fungi or something heinous, I remembered that I still had a couple murderous ant control stakes that were long past their expiration date. They contain arsenic trioxide and bait, which the ants are supposed to take back to their nest, distribute to the colony, and then die en masse. So I stuck these in the dirt around the lime tree. This had never really worked in the past, since, they kept coming back and all, but it's all I had.

Well, that and the vacuum. Which I also set about using to suck up as many of the bastards as possible. I hoovered every crevice and fold of the chair and its pillows, and as much of the infested plant pot as possible, but there were still plenty of ants swarming around the tree and the poison. I isolated the vacuum cleaner and spent the better part of the evening keeping vigil to ensure the ants didn't escape, crawling back up the hose to kill me. Which they did not.

Tonight, I saw two ants exploring the floor beneath the lime tree, but that was all. I'm afraid to ask aloud, but fighting back the invading hordes cannot be that easy, can it?

Less Wrinkled; Fewer Wrinkles. Jeesh.

2008-01-07T11:53:00.000-08:00

I stayed home from work today. Despite what you might think, this doesn't actually happen very often, and I usually reserve calling in sick for only my most miserable illness, since sick days and vacation time are all lumped into one. Which means I'm part of the problem, of course, going to work sick and spreading pestilence to my coworkers, just so I can take my time off for actual enjoyable pursuits. The thing is, I actually do feel like crap today.

I believe it's the beginning of a cold, but I'm not exactly sure. It's not following the normal progression of ick, but seems to be stalled in the early phase of itchy, watery eyes and pre-runny nose sinus sensation. I'm having problem identifying the feeling precisely, but it's not normal and it's uncomfortable, and I feel like I should sleep for two days. If I could. Which I can't. It's also accompanied by a ridiculously annoying twitch in my left eyelid that will drive me to murder if it continues.

In any case, I have a sneaking suspicion/fear that it's not a cold in the classic sense, but may actually be caused by something in my apartment. Like toxic mold in the walls. Or something in the heating vents. I have no evidence to speak to this, nor do I have a good way of identifying such evidence. So I'll probably die a slow painful hypochondriacal neurotic death that could have been prevented.

Meanwhile, I've spent a sizable chunk of the day online accomplishing nothing. Has anyone else noticed the ridiculous nature of many of the banner ads lately? I wonder if anyone takes these seriously. I mean, it's one thing to make unsubstantiated claims, but a whole other* to make them in such a comically hyberbolic (and ungrammatical) fashion. They didn't even attempt realism here. "Be squinty and glamorous by using our product! Unless you prefer looking like a homeless 85 year old meth addict." It makes me laugh. ...Which probably gives me wrinkles.

*My first inclination was to type the non word "nother". Which got me to thinking how "an other" probably turned to "another" to begin with. In a different life it would be fun to be a linguist, and then I'm sure I could identify why we feel the need to split it back up into "a nother" -- which, incidentally, is sort of how we got the words "orange" and "apron" apparently. It used to be "a narange" and "a napron" respectively, but was mis-divided in common usage until "an orange" and "an apron" became the norm. Look it up.

After the aftermath

2008-01-06T08:09:00.000-08:00

I'm looking out my windows at the moment and am rather mesmerized by the atmosphere, for once.

I've mentioned before that weather fascinates me (I like to claim it's a result of my upbringing on the farm where the weather helps define nearly all events... though it could also just be due to sheer dorkitude), and given the dearth of interesting weather phenomena here in Northern California (the occasional hurricane-strength tree-toppling gale, aside), my hunger is rarely satiated. Winter brings steel grey stormy skies, and summer brings with it the low blanket of the marine layer, but beyond that is usually a featureless cerulean infinity, save the periodic high contrail-derived cirrus. Lovely and amazing, certainly, but terribly boring compared with the atmospheric drama of continental climes along the Front Range.

Just now, however -- and in serene contrast to Friday -- with rain pouring straight down without even tapping the glass, the Financial District skyscrapers are cloaked in mauve, their wet facades shimmering through the curtain of a passing shower. To the west above Nob Hill, beyond a swirl of lavender mist, blue sky is coming into view filled with alternating layers of nimbus aglow with the early sun. Shafts of light pierce through in places, and just below the unsettled mackerel sky to the far west roils another pregnant purple cumulus. A few low tendrils of icy white fog are drifting in off the bay, wisping between obstacles in the opposite direction of the elements aloft.

It is, to say the least, sublime.

Aftermath

2008-01-05T08:48:00.000-08:00

Crikeys!
I was all too happy to leave the frigid temps of Denver behind, but the weather in these here parts sorta went haywire yesterday.

For once, the forecasts had it about right - the 2nd of three back-to-back storms would slam into the Bay Area on Friday, bringing with it lots of rain and wind. A Coastal Flood watch, High Surf advisory, Small Craft advisory, High Wind warning and Urban and Small Stream Flooding advisory were all posted. So I kinda knew what I was in for on my walk to work Friday. I even went grocery shopping Thursday evening so I could take my lunch to the office and avoid going outside.

Yet it came as something of a surprise that, as I emerged from my apartment and hoisted my lightening umbrella*, there was a loud crack and crash as an enormous chunk of one of the large trees in front of my apartment crushed the Flexcar in the parking lot beneath it. With a sudden heightened sense of my surroundings, I picked my way through the debris of branches and trash and mangled umbrellas towards the office, crossing the street to avoid large trees and steer clear of scaffolding, which could blow down and crush me like that poor car.

Somewhere around Montgomery and Pine streets I entered a Zen-like state, having nearly mastered the martial art of umbrella maneuvers required to work my way through downtown. Using both hands, one at the handle, the other placed just below the runner and stretchers to provide maximum stability in the buffeting winds, I could also collapse the umbrella with a flick of the fingers to prevent inversion. A wide, low stance prevented my being lifted off my feet or caught off-blance. Switching hands as necessary, I used all my senses to anticipate the direction of the gale as it whirled and eddied between buildings and through alleyways, plunging the umbrella against the wind while keeping the rain from soaking my head. My umbrella became an extension of myself as I subtly twisted and raised or lowered it to defend against the onslaught of other umbrellas that could take off an ear or poke an eye. The trail of broken and tattered umbrellas and soaked passers-by told the tale of the many who did not perfect this art.

Sadly, despite my umbrella prowess, by Market street the wet had soaked through my boots and socks alike. By the time I arrived at the office, my corduroy cargo pants were so saturated, I might as well have worn them in the shower.

BART had shut down in stretches due to fallen trees on the tracks, roads were closed due to flooding, downed power lines left many without electricity, a bridge was closed due to a blown-over 18-wheeler. 30-foot waves swept the coast, and wind gusts were clocked over 70 on the Golden Gate Bridge, over 80 on Angel Island, and at 107 mph at Kregor Peak near Mt Diablo in the East Bay.

My shoes and pants had mostly dried out and the winds had mostly died down by the time I walked home. But the view from my apartment is considerably changed as still another of the large Indian Laurel ficus trees toppled into the street, mangling two parked cars. My view is less a forest of green and more a sea of rooftops. Sigh.

*I've mentioned this in passing before. I shall elaborate soon. The time to do so approacheth.

Bookend

2008-01-01T11:21:00.000-08:00

I'm mostly over my crankiness from last night. You say pushover, I say why bother. It's a new year, I'm starting fresh.

Anyhoodle, in the grand tradition of end-of-the-year countdowns, lists, and summaries, I present to you my own version, which really only encompasses the last 3 months since last I wrote, in no particular order:

My neighborhood, North Beach, was recognized by the American Planning Association as one of the top 10 neighborhoods in the country. For whatever that's worth. Guess that helps me justify the fact that I've been renting the same apartment for 10 years now. That plus the fact that my rent has not increased a dime in those 10 years (glory be to rent control). And my aversion to moving.
The 50th anniversary passed of the launch of Sputnik I, the first artificial satellite to orbit the planet, igniting the space race and marking humanity's first major recognition of its potential to slip the surly bonds of Earth. A mere 50 years later, over 4000 launches involving 40 nations have littered the heavens with approximately 3000 functioning satellites and more than 6000 pieces of space junk circling the globe; the Voyager2 probe traveling at 10 miles per second, just passed through the termination shock but still has a decade before it will cross the heliopause leaving our solar system behind and entering interstellar space beyond; 2 robotic probes continue to defy expectation, venturing across the surface of Mars and uncovering convincing evidence of a watery past, thereby enhancing the probability that life once existed there. ...An interesting side note: alleged pieces of Sputnik that landed in Encino during re-entry are apparently on display up the street in my neighborhood, at The Beat Museum of all places.
Everyone seems to be having babies, including my friends Paul & Mare Manangan (decreasing the likelihood of our Amazing Race prospects, even were casting to rediscover our brilliant audition tape), and Li'l Ben & Dawn O'Connell. Congrats y'all! I wonder if I'll ever see you again?
I was nearly attacked by a piece of driftwood on the beach at Point Reyes on Thanksgiving day, which turned out to be a sea lion and not driftwood at all. It came as quite a surprise when one of the logs reared up and bark-roared at me as I approached, preoccupied as I was with the stunning scenery and the glare of the setting sun. I'm sure it was as freaked out as I was, but the fact that it could have squashed me or bitten off my face means it automatically wins.
My roommate spent nearly two months traveling around Europe, visiting Bavaria, Prague, Amsterdam, and the Canary Islands to name a few, and fueling my wanderlust with a big dose of jealousy.
One of the great innovations of the year debuted at Trader Joe's: the Candy Cane Joe Joe. Basically a generic Oreo cookie whose icing interior is laced with crushed peppermint candy cane, it heralded in the holidays much more cheaply than Starbuck's peppermint mocha, and without all the caffeine tremors.
The screen writer's strike has left me with little to watch on TV now that all the episodes of my shows that were in the can have aired. Which is bad for my knitting. But good for my reading. And has rejuvenated my Netflix subscription.
Before the TV went dark, my knitting reached a new high as I graduated from scarves to less useful but much cuter pumpkins, just in time for Thanksgiving.
The biggest earthquake of my California tenure (and indeed, the largest since the '89 Loma Prieta) bucked me off the couch the evening of Oct 30th, rattling the pictures askew, and adding a few new cracks in the plaster of the creaking apartment. At a magnitude of 5.4, it was borderline alarming, but my fear was tempered by the immediate recognition that the epicenter was some distance away (near San Jose, as it turns out); there was a noticeable pause between the jolting arrival of the initial P-wave and the subsequent rattling S-waves.
A few days after discovering a new favorite beach hidden away in plain site, all the public shorelines, including Alcatraz and Angel Islands, were closed for weeks after a cargo ship collided with the Bay Bridge on Nov 7th, spilling 58,000 gallons of heavy bunker fuel oil. Globs of toxic goo washed ashore, an oily sheen visibly coated the waters along my jogging route, and many seagulls I saw had greasy bathtub rings around their bellies and necks. Unseen by me, thousands of birds died with oiled feather during the peak migration period.
My grandmother on my mother's side passed away at age 93, resulting in my 3rd trip to Nebraska in as many months. While sad, it was not totally unexpected and I had been able to say goodbye, of sorts, when I visited her in July. She will, of course, be missed. The funeral provided a welcome opportunity to reconnect with extended family I rarely see, which in turn opened an interesting window into my roots and what my life might have been had different paths been trod. Travel in peace, Grandma Hilda.

Happy New Year, everyone! May your 2008 be filled with friends, family, peace and joy.

Welcome Back, Zach!

2007-12-31T23:24:00.000-08:00

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

2007-10-22T11:20:00.001-07:00

Rise Up

2007-09-29T21:49:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-27T20:54:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-23T21:07:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-22T22:42:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-21T19:23:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-09-19T19:54:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-14T22:54:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-09-13T18:45:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-12T14:10:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-11T15:56:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-11T15:55:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-10T20:25:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-07T21:32:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-21T21:43:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-17T15:52:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-16T07:56:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-14T20:54:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-11T20:42:00.001-07:00

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

2007-06-09T09:15:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-02T20:37:00.000-07:00

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

2007-05-29T19:46:00.000-07:00

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

2007-05-28T11:05:00.000-07:00

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

2007-05-25T06:38:00.000-07:00

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

2007-05-21T19:14:00.000-07:00

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

2007-05-11T21:44:00.000-07:00

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

2007-05-09T18:49:00.000-07:00

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'

2007-05-08T14:02:00.000-07:00

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

2007-05-07T19:16:00.000-07:00

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?!

2007-05-05T23:44:00.000-07:00

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

2007-04-29T19:51:00.000-07:00

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!)

2007-04-28T18:52:00.000-07:00

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

I saw the sign

2007-04-27T18:19:00.000-07:00

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

2007-04-26T20:39:00.000-07:00

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

2007-04-22T09:58:00.000-07:00

...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.

2007-04-21T16:44:00.000-07:00

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.

Progress goes 'Boink'

2007-04-20T11:04:00.000-07:00

I called in sick today. Legitimately, in case you were wondering. I'm generally not one to squander my time off on mental health days... partly because I'm a bad liar and fear my attempts at a gravelly voice and fake coughs are transparent as Saran-wrap, and partly because I'd rather save my PTO for actual out-of-Dodge vacation. Today I'm not exactly sick, per se, but I think I'm having an unpleasant reaction to the nasty Option B antibiotics my dentist prescribed to try to tackle the persistent mysterious tooth problem once and for all. Without going into details, I decided it was necessary for me to be close to home today.

At any rate, so here I am this morning, sitting on my couch rather than sitting in my soul-sucking cubicle. I left my laptop at the office, so I can't do work, I certainly am not going to clean the apartment or anything crazy or productive like that, and I'm not venturing out because I do feel icky plus it's raining. I figure I'll play some video games later. But this morning? I've reacquainted myself with an ornery little boy and his tiger.

I happen to have the complete set of Calvin and Hobbes, 3 gravitational volumes of every comic in the order they were originally published, and they've been sitting on my shelf awaiting my attention for months. These are tomes that demand deliberation, not mere casual perusal. Ahh, I'd forgotten how truly excellent this strip was. Bill Watterson was genius, I tell you!

My day has improved considerably.

String Theory

2007-04-15T16:14:00.000-07:00

Ok. Here it is. I've mentioned knitting in passing a few times here, and brushed it aside for later. Well it's later, and I'm coming out of the yarn closet.

My friend Zoe is something of a knitting evangelist, as it turns out. No one in my family ever knit when I was growing up, so I was fascinated watching Zoe knit a snazzy sock while we traveled to Hawaii last November. She lent me some needles and yarn, showed me the basics, and before we left, I had my first little purple garter, stockinette, and rib stitch swatch. Hilariously, the only thing I brought back for myself from Hawaii was how to knit.

I was obviously craving craft time, because the very next week I ran out to get needles and yarn; I needed to put what I'd learned into practice before I forgot how to cast on or bind off. The first picture, above, is the result of that. The next few pictures, in order, are the scarves I've completed so far. I'm working on two others, so I'll show them off later. It's funny, even though I don't have a book with tips and how-tos, I've learned a whole lot from one project to the next, and the quality has improved (while still, somehow, completely lacking quality).

Just for the record, I wouldn't exactly call myself a Knitter. Not because that carries any particular connotations or anything (believe me, today's knit enthusiasts are not sitting in your grandmother's knitting circle). Mostly it's because I haven't made anything beyond a few scarves, and can't imagine I'll ever knit a big soft blanket or a whole funky handmade sweater. I may attempt a hat or a pair of socks at some point, just to see if I can do it. But otherwise this will probably remain just a skill I picked up along the way.

So I guess if anyone has any scarf (or hat or sock) orders, put them in quick. Otherwise, your lovely knitted wear will end up in the same place as the ceramic urn or large serving bowl I promised a few years ago.

I think glass blowing is next on my list...

This mobile life

2007-04-13T21:59:00.000-07:00

For whatever reason, I've always liked mobiles. And I became especially fascinated with them a number of years ago after seeing a spectacular Alexander Calder retrospective at the SF MoMA.

I have one very cool abstract mobile that my sister gave me (via her former neighbor, who used to work at a shop that sold them) which hangs in the corner of my bedroom and reminds me a little of a school of coy. I also have a goofy one of colorful construction paper spheres that I tediously glued together from a kit.

Truly interesting ones are surprisingly expensive, and even though I don't really have places to hang any more, I got to thinking of ways to make my own after the kit. I don't really have a good workspace or the tools or supplies to do anything interesting, so never really put anything together.

But a few weeks ago, while staring at my orchid wall in the back room and wondering what to do with my growing collection of epiphytes and interesting lichen-covered sticks that filled the space between recuperating flower plants, I had a flash of inspiration.

I got out the kite string, hot-glue gun, peat moss, wire and fishing line, and proceeded to make a horrific mess of bark and moss and grit and bugs. And after a little trial-and-error learning curve, I ended up with what you see in the two pictures here, hanging in the window in the airy back room, swinging in the breeze of the windows that won't close completely. Unfortunately it's a little too large to capture well in a photo, not to mention that it's difficult to capture the form since it's always changing, but you get the idea. You'll just have to trust me that it's a little less Blair Witch and slightly more elegant than these photos might suggest.

I played around more with balancing the individual branches in surprising ways than I did with working out the dimensions, so the unfortunate result is that some of the branches bonk into each other as they spin around, taking away a little from the neat fluid motion of the whole. Also, the balance changes considerably when I water it, and I'm sure it will shift as the plants grow and take root on the branches. But I worked out a system of wire loops and strings with clasps so that I can take it apart and rebalance as necessary.

Anyway, it's not bad for a first attempt, and it certainly scratched my craft itch. If only I had a little more room, a reliable air plant supplier, and a completely legal way to collect the lichen-covered wood pieces, I'd be ready to start taking orders.

Salad Bowl days

2007-04-11T19:16:00.000-07:00

So, I've been working for the same company for nine years now. Nine years. That's longer than I've done anything, with the exception of live with my parents. And by default, it makes me something of an old-timer at the office. Granted, there is a handful of people outside of the Chief Whatever Officers who've also been there about the same amount of time, and far more who've been there for 5 or 6 years. But still.

In those years I've seen a lot of change, of course, as the company has grown from 40 or so people to over 200, been acquired, taken on new customers and projects. And by default I am perceived as something of an expert on certain subjects since I've been working with them since the inception. Which means that I get to spend a lot of time in meetings. Sometimes useless and futile meetings. But often they can be quite productive and serve as useful exchanges of information or as collaborative decision-making exercises.

Anyway, this afternoon in a meeting with people from Engineering, QA, Project and Product Management, Support, and Broadcast departments, it occurred to me why I often leave these gatherings so exhausted. You know how hard you have to concentrate when listening to someone with a heavy foreign accent, to understand what they're saying? And as long as you focus, it gets easier after a while as you get into the groove of their style of speech? Well, I realized that that process gets broken for me when shifting back and forth between multiple accents.

In this one meeting were thick Indian, Chinese, and Russian accents, as well as Scottish, an unidentified Northern European and an Eastern European accent... or French. I can't tell anymore. Individually, I can generally cope fine, but when going from one to another in rapid succession, it takes so much of my concentration to hang on every word that I left the meeting mentally drained.

It's really neat, actually, that there's so much diversity. And I'm totally amazed that some of the non-native English speakers can communicate so well with one another. Or maybe I'm the only one struggling because of my complete language deficiency.

That's it really. I don't have any summary here. Just thought I'd share.

There's one for you, nineteen for me

2007-04-08T18:32:00.000-07:00

So it's official. My taxes are done and there's still a week to go before the deadline! I think maybe that's a first.

Not like my taxes are terribly complex or anything given that I am single, don't own a home, and don't have serious investment income. I mean, even after going through the pain-in-the-butt exercise of itemizing all my deductions, the standard deduction was still slightly higher (really, I thought I was pretty charitable last year, with all the donations and museum memberships and stuff, but apparently I'm either a horrible person or a horrible tax planner. Or perhaps both.).

I think my goal for this year is actually to make some big investments or something (how's that for a clear objective with attainable milestones...), just to complicate things enough so I can justify the expense of hiring somebody to do my taxes and related financial planning for me. Because honestly? Despite the relative ease of my current status, and even using straightforward tools like TurboTax, I'm pretty much at the limits of my ability to understand what I'm supposed to do. Seriously, when I clicked on a "see more information on this topic" link to see more information on this topic, this is what it returned:

Section 197 tax is the tax you pay if you elected to recognize the gain on the sale of a section 197 intangible, and to pay the tax on the gain at the highest rate. See the government instructions for more information.

Intangible indeed.

Tangentially, while making the necessary adjustments on my CA state return, I was asked if I'm eligible for "Ottoman Turkish Empire settlement payments." Unlike most of my tax-related ignorance, I'm actually curious what this relates to. And yet, exactly like all the rest of my tax-related ignorance, I just assume that if I don't understand it, it probably doesn't pertain to me...

And finally, I'd like to point out how ridiculous it is that I'm supposed to pay California "use" tax on anything I purchased outside of the state, online, or over the phone but didn't get charged CA sales tax. To quote the form:

If you purchase items from an out-of-state seller who did not collect California sales or use tax, you may owe California use tax on these purchases.
You may report the California use tax on your personal income tax return instead of having to file a use tax return with the California State Board of Equalization.

Do people really do this? I'm sort of assuming (hoping) that this only applies if, say, I bought my yacht in the Bahamas and now the state is expecting its 8.5% of $2.3 million, and not so much for all the miscellaneous Amazon.com books, iTunes songs, and such that I bought but for which I didn't keep records. And seriously? The Board of Equalization? Um, yikes.

A bird in the hand

2007-04-04T20:48:00.000-07:00

Apparently there are people who live here and remain unaware that there's a flock of wild parrots in our midst. I have no idea how this is possible, honestly, unless they're just that incredibly self-absorbed, unobservant, and unaware of their surroundings.

Ok, I mean, I'll be the first to admit that there are certain things that I remain completely oblivious to, no matter how obvious to someone naturally attuned. Like cars, for example. Or boobs. A whole fleet of the things may pass me by and I wouldn't be able to tell you anything about the make, model, color or size of any of them. While my roommate would immediately pick out the 2007 BMW 6-Series 650CIC Convertible containing the double-Ds.

But still. Those birds are hard to miss. I'd lived in San Francisco for all of maybe 3 weeks before I heard this crazy squawky out-of-place cacophony pass overhead and wondered what the hell sort of bird it was. And in all of 30-minutes of research (remember, this was the late 90s, before the internet encompassed every imaginable piece of information and certainly before you could find it easily even if it was out there... in other words, pre-wikipedia) I had discovered that there was a small errant group of cherry-headed conures cheerily waking the City's dead year-round with their raucous yammering.

Anyway, no one really knows how they got here, but the stories bear a striking resemblance to the explanation for where the wild parrots of Brooklyn came from, variously a busted open crate at the airport or aboard a cargo ship, smugglers, unhappy pet owners, a closing pet shop, and such. And, interestingly, there seem to be feral populations of a variety of non-native parrots in several US cities besides NYC and SF. However they got here, they seem to be thriving (rent the movie!)

I mentioned before that the flock descends on a little park downtown before sunset every evening. So tonight I popped in again on my walk home, armed with a petstore mix of sunflower seeds, peanuts, pistachios, and other seeds and nuts. After a minute or two of summing me up, a few brave parrots edged over to me and nabbed a few bites from my hands while hanging upside down from the branches of the tree I stood next to. Once deemed a non-threat, I was promptly mobbed with several parrots on each hand, a few on my arms, and one chorus leader on my head. I'm not sure why I found this so entertaining -- there's no way I'd want a pet bird, but experiencing their distinctive personalities first-hand was a hoot. (Ahem.)

That said, my finger is still sore from the little troublemaker shown here. He'd periodically give me a little nip and it took me a few minutes to notice that he only liked the black sunflower seeds from the mix. Whenever he'd eaten them all (he'd brush the rest aside with his beak in my palm to be sure), he'd look at me and clamp down on my finger until I'd replenished the supply. The one time I had both hands filled with birds and couldn't get more seeds, he stared at me with a twinkle in his eye and I immediately knew what he was up to. "Don't even think about it," I said, yet he clearly had and he grabbed onto my sleeve and crawled, beak over claw, up my arm to my shoulder where he proceeded to try to bite my ear. All I could do was turn my head and try to keep my ear out of reach. It was then that he went back to my hand and chomped on my finger as hard as he could. The little fucker. I unceremoniously transferred him back to the tree branch and he got the idea, squawking loudly in my face and flying off.

Yeah, hard to miss.

Crumb by crumb

2007-03-31T12:51:00.000-07:00

I have now officially caught up to the present time. I apologize for keeping any of you waiting, as I'm sure you were, with bated breath. And I'm also sorry that the wait was obviously not worth it, as none of the posts below which I have finally published have much of anything interesting to say.

In other news, let us all join hands in welcoming JenHen to this side of 33. It's not really so bad. Despite my crazy musings on the fact that if you turn 33 on its side like a smiley face :) it reminded me of the "furniture disease" my grandma used to joke about, when your chest falls into your drawers with old age. Really, if it helps any to think of it this way, we're only 1/3 of the way to 100.
I'm going to go weep now.

Also, dear Dr. Ebony, I'd love to hear all about this dream of yours. Was it produced in a vicodin-saturated haze of hallucinatory slumber? Do you really luuuuurve me?! And how are your students trying to destroy you? I bet they'd think twice if only you'd ended up with the Dr Doom titanium jaw.

Studying with the Professor

2007-03-29T20:02:00.000-07:00

You know you've lived in San Francisco for a long time when you're in someone's apartment and casually ask "hey, what are these pills in with your weed?" wondering about the tablets while completely unfazed that there is marijuana sitting out on the coffee table in plain view of the front windows and without thinking twice about the bong tastefully decorating the sideboard beneath a picture of the grandparents.

You belong among the wildflowers

2007-03-21T22:00:00.000-07:00

My friend Meredith moved with her perfect family to Atlanta at the beginning of the year. This makes me sad for a variety of reasons. It is particularly poignant today, because I was forced to go to Bouquets to Art without her.

It'd been sort of a tradition every year since she turned me on to it - we'd even ditched work one year for an extra-long lunch break.

Once a year, they open up the museum (it used to be at the Legion of Honor, but has moved back to the de Young, now that it has re-opened in its amazing new space) to florists and flower designer types, who then create amazing flower arrangements to match, mimic, or otherwise complement the artwork throughout the galleries. It sounds sort of silly, perhaps, but it's partly why I pay for a museum membership each year.

Alas, it's not quite the same without Mer.

And may they ever be

2007-03-20T23:12:00.000-07:00

Among the great things about living in San Francisco is that its restaurant scene and dining opportunities are virtually unrivalled this side of NYC. It's been said that a new restaurant opens every day (which means that nearly as many close their doors). It's also been said that you could eat out at a different joint every meal and never eat at the same place twice due to the sheer number of restaurants and the fact that with the turnover, you'd forever be playing catch-up.

Of course, when faced with all these options, it can be very difficult to choose between them. Or when someone asks for recommendations, well, I gotta have some criteria for whittling down the choices. Does the neighborhood mater? How about price range? Interior lighting? Wait staff attractiveness? Type of food? Because just deciding which sushi place is tough enough, so throwing in Greek, pasta, Thai, French, Persian, seafood, dim sum, Afghani,* or any of the bazillion other possibilities makes the task nigh on impossible.

Anyhoodle, all this is to say that it was difficult for me to come up with a list of a few dining options when Erica (of the Rawlins Ericas, best friend to Joy since forever) e-mailed me to say she and Jeffery would be visiting. Which, YAY!

So where I failed, they stepped up and were able to decide on the Bambuddha Lounge as the meeting place - a funky loungy place attached to an old motel (complete with swimming pool), with asian-fusion cuisine that turns into a rockin' bar on weekends. It was not particularly rockin' this evening, but the tunes were good, the food was tasty and the company, terrific!

Despite all I've heard about Erica in the years I've known Joy, I'd only actually met her and Jeffery once, at Joy's wedding. But hanging out with them over dinner it was as though we were old friends. I love that. (And they brought me a bottle of Jeffery's wine which I can't wait to try... I love that too!)

When I try out that wine, I'll raise a glass to good friends of good friends who are now good friends. I'm so glad they got in touch!

* Ok, scratch the Afghani off the list. The best Afghani restaurant in my neighborhood is closed because a giant chunk of hillside crashed into their building a few weeks ago. Stupid landslide. Now I'm craving pumpkin lamb ravioli.

I am the harsh nemesis of all that is unclean

2007-03-18T11:58:00.000-07:00

Laundry sucks. There's just no way around it. I think it might not be so bad if I actually had my own washer and dryer in my apartment. But having to haul it down the block and pay for it generally means that:
A) I'll wait until a mountain of dirty clothes has accumulated past the point that I can reasonably lug it up and down 3 flights of stairs;
B) I'll cram so much stuff into the crappy laundromat washer that most of my stuff probably hasn't been truly clean since I bought it.

Seriously, at $2.25 for one load in the washing machine, there's no way I'm going to just do a few socks. That washer has every sock I own, all my boxers, and most of my 300 t-shirts stuffed into. I just spent over $20 in quarters... and that was just on sheets, towels, whites and darks. I didn't even do jeans, fuzzies or the rest of my darks! And when the dryer is only 6 minutes per quarter, well half my stuff goes home damp too.

And as if that wasn't bad enough, there's always at least one wild-eyed drunkard who wants to tell me about his medical problems. And then use my detergent. Which, I guess is still better than the muttering homeless guy who didn't bother with the wash and went straight for the fluff cycle in the dryer to freshen up his crusty clothes, which he stripped out of right there in front of me and the little old Chinese lady. Either that or he put the high heat on in an attempt to kill the lice. In any case, I don't use that dryer to this day.

*shudder*

A train wreck waiting to happen

2007-03-14T19:20:00.000-07:00

As many of you know, I walk to and from work every day, rain or shine. (Ok, I've been known to take the bus in a pinch, but seriously that happens maybe once a month, at most.) I generally walk with a super nice co-worker who lives up the street a block and a half from me and who probably considers me a very close friend. Unfortunately we have somewhat differing perceptions of the passage of time, as well, so often when we agree to meet at the park in 10 minutes, it will really be 20 before she arrives at the corner. I've been late too, certainly, but usually that's me trying to guess how long her 6 minutes is in real minutes.

Anyhoodle, walking the same route at basically the same time everyday, you can't help but come to recognize a bunch of the regular strangers on the sidewalk. There's the grumpalotapus who always scowls as he storms past, there's the make-up queen with her drawn-in eyebrows, there's the old coot who shuffles along delivering papers, the guy with with the too-tight pants. And then there's the really cute tousley-haired gentleman who's eyes meet mine whenever we pass and who returns my smile with a quick grin of his own. Mysteriously, he's been MIA for a while.

Today, however, I happened to be looking out my front window and wondering how much longer I'd need to wait when who should I spy walking past but the guy! That guy! I pondered only briefly before decided to ditch my walking buddy, grabbing my things and sprinting out the door. Curiosity had gotten the best of me - where does he work? What's he doing in front of my apartment when I usually see him downtown? But when I got outside, he'd completely disappeared. It was a flash of inspired logic that led me to my corner coffee shop across the street.

So there he was, sitting down at a table with his coffee, and yes, I ordered a mocha, despite supposedly cutting down on my caffeine. I hadn't really thought this through and couldn't just pop in and dash back out. Sadly, since he was seated already I couldn't exactly bump into him and I'm too much of a wuss to just sit down and say "hey." But I did look over as I walked past and he raised his cup and nodded with a grin.

Which meant that all day I was both giddy and annoyed with myself. I think I may have discovered my inner stalker. And now he's caffeinated.

In case there was any question

2007-03-11T21:55:00.000-07:00

I'd lived in San Francisco for a couple of years before I noticed that a MUNI bus seemed to be crossing the Golden Gate Bridge. So one day while at the Bridge on a scenery break, I hopped on the bus and found that it climbed the hills on the other side of the Bridge and circled around at Fort Cronkite and Rodeo Beach in the Marin Headlands. It immediately became my favorite bus line, despite running hourly on Sundays only.

Without a car, and especially after Bryan moved on with his Ford Explorer, it would be long before I'd start to feel claustrophobic and have to get out of the City. So there was a period where almost every Sunday I'd hop on the bus to get recharged in the fresh air and open space in the Headlands. I've tramped all over the cliffs, explored the hilltop ruins of the abandoned batteries, clambered over stone arches to hidden tidepools, combed the gravel beaches for carnelian stones -- and all within site of the dense urban crush.

For whatever reason, it's been ages since I'd done this, so today dawned with such astounding clarity that I dropped everything and jumped on the bus with a sandwich and a bottle of water. And it was the perfect day.

In solitude I hiked a few trails through my old haunts, the hillsides blooming with electric wild irises and fields of golden poppies. Little birds twittered amongst the blossoming blackberry canes and turkey vultures turned lazy circles in the gentle breeze. The air was so clear that I could see the Farallon Islands 27 miles out at sea, the Santa Cruz Mountains to the south of the City, Mt. Diablo rising vividly to the east, and Pt. Reyes sprawling out to the north. At the end of my hike, I waded into the frigid grey waters and soaked up the warming rays of the setting sun while surfers tamed the pounding surf.

This, this is why I still live here.

It was a good day.

The Vortex

2007-03-08T18:34:00.000-08:00

Our TV gave out last fall. I didn't even particularly like the TV, but I suppose it was a little better than our previous one... which, by the way, was a Zenith and was free. So now that the newer fancier one is kaput, the old free one is back in place (I'd held on to it since, well, it was free). But this has spurred several conversations with my roommate about getting a new one. Which would mean, naturally, a bigger and flatter HD variety.

But then, I'd have to upgrade the cable, and the Tivo, and probably the stereo. Not to mention rearranging the furniture to accommodate a widescreen, which would entail buying a new couch, naturally.

Paralyzed in the face of this mortifying domino effect, we're still watching the old-school TV I got for free... (which is sort of like riding an ox-cart on the Autobahn)

I, as I suspect many of us do, completely identify with this opinion piece.

Gung hei faat choi

2007-03-04T18:35:00.000-08:00

Yes, kids, it's that time of year again. Specifically, the year 4704. The year of the Pig. Actually, if you're interested, the Lunar New Year began on February 18th, but the giant parade through San Francisco wasn't until last night, which I guess is appropriate given the 15-days of traditional celebrating.

And speaking of traditions, I have sort of my own going on which I think I've recounted before. Every year during the Parade, there's a Treasure Hunt put on by a former detective/history buff /film noire lover. Imagine hundreds of people frantically trying to solve clues and running off into the night on a wild pig chase though the Financial District, Chinatown and North Beach, dodging tubas, poking about in dark alleys, pushing their way through the thousands of parade spectators, trying to avoid the winding dragons and deafening firecrackers in search of answers.

It's great fun. I'd managed to participate each of the last 3 years and, wasn't about to miss out this year, though all but one of my former team members had made other plans by the time I realized it was almost too late.

But I scraped together a few friends and off we went, meandering for what felt like 5 or 7 miles over hills and around blocks, seeking such things as the "words of a wilde man" where the double-lettered name for an irrational number key to circular thinking is followed by the 2-letter name of a blood and guts TV show and 55688.193 is divided by 18562.731.*

And get this: Out of 101 teams to complete our level, we came in 12th! No prize, but still, not to shabby. Thanks Nichole, Beth, Adam, Jeff and Joel for such a fun, if exhausting, time! Next year, we're winning the cake and the glory!

* On Pier 3 is a plaque quoting Oscar Wilde: "It's an odd thing, but anyone who disappears is said to be seen in San Francisco. It must be a delightful city possessing all the attractions of the next world."

You always take the weather with you

2007-02-28T23:38:00.000-08:00

You know what's weird? Denver has had a crazy winter of seemingly ceaseless snow so far, and yet when I was there, it was pleasant and sunny and most of the remaining snowcover disappeared.

But now? I'm back in California and guess where the freak snow is falling?! Oy.

It's been sort of a fucked up winter all the way around, hasn't it? Oh global climate change, you silly joker.

Tangentially, that's one thing I've just never gotten used to about California, especially coming down out of the Sierra into Sacramento. Snow and palm trees just don't mix in my mind. And yet, here they are.

I'm back. Honest.

2007-02-27T18:35:00.000-08:00

So, I'm back from vacation. And it was lovely. Really!

I always have such a complex mix of feelings when I go "home" to visit my family and when I leave again to come back here-home. I mean, I love my family, of course, so I can't help but confront the question of why I live so far from them, what I'm doing with my life, and all the crazy muck that dredges up.

And maybe because of that, there's usually a little bit of relief when I throw myself down on my own couch again, because I don't have to face these questions and feelings again for a while. Out of site, out of mind.

So it's a crazy carnitas platter of emotion, spiced with some salsa of regret, topped with the guacamole of love, a side of refried comfort, covered in melted relief and wrapped in a tortilla of guilt.

At any rate, upon arrival in snow-covered Denver, Mom picked me up at the airport and we headed straight to the mountains after a brief pause to repack and load the truck. Sunday on the slopes was crazy -- avalanche control had closed I-70 for much of Saturday, which meant everyone came up on Sunday to ski, and I had never seen such lines at the lifts.

But the weather cooperated, the crowds eased on Monday, and Caden tore up the slopes with us the 2nd day while Grant hung out in the village and lodge with the, uh... stepsisters. Which is the right term, but just feels so strange to use. Anyway, we all had a terrific time.

And the rest of the week went by too quickly, with some time at the zoo, Denver Art Museum, the planetarium and Imax, school auction setup, and all the miscellanious activities that fill up a family's busy routine. So unlike my own routine, which is hollow in comparison and doesn't seem to be filled up by any amount of metaphorical Mexican food.

I'm not dead

2007-02-26T12:08:00.000-08:00

(3/16/2007)

I didn't hit a tree.
I'll update soon.

We never change do we no, no

2007-02-15T18:53:00.000-08:00

And by we, I mostly mean me, being totally strung out before taking time off.

I'm leaving Saturday (at 6am) for a week with the fam back home-ish in Colorado. It's going to be fun, I've been looking forward to it for months, I'm taking my snowboard gear and we're heading straight for the slopes when I get in at noon. So that's all the good and the yay and the yippee and the can't wait.

But the flip side of that is, of course, that I'm coming down to the wire, again, at work, trying to get stuff done and prepare everyone for my being out. It's true, I may not be that adept at time management, but I've been working really hard to get this stuff dealt with. But between Jury Duty, dental hell, and all the usual day-to-day whackiness, I'm not left much time for things like documentation, requirements feedback, training, etc. And of course, again, I'll be out just as new stuff is rolling out, leaving people who are less, um, familiar with stuff, to handle things on their own.

And I haven't even begun to get my stuff together for the actual trip. The stress! The lack of sleep! No wonder I have no problem sleeping on airplanes -- it'll be such a relief once I've made it that far.

So anyway, I'll be out of touch for a week or so. If anyone cares. I'm just sayin'.

More Happy

2007-02-13T22:05:00.000-08:00

I don't drink Pepsi. In fact, I hardly drink soda much at all anymore, but when I do, it's Coke. However, you may recall me mentioning a Pepsi commercial filming that I walked into the middle of a while back. Well I just saw the end result on TV and it's all San Francisco shots. In fact, a good chunk of it takes place on my street. Watch carefully as he rolls down the straight tree-lined stretch of Lombard below Coit Tower and you can see my apartment building very briefly. So that's cool. Watch the ad (but drink the Coke).

The Saga Continues

2007-02-11T18:11:00.000-08:00

Well, boys and girls, I still have my tooth, such as it is. It may be hollowed out, filled with gutta percha, built up with some magic fake tooth material, and covered in a temporary crown, but it's still embedded in my upper jaw bone. So that's something.

After undoing all of the original work from a few years ago, the dentist seemed pretty confident that the root wasn't cracked anywhere, which is what would have forced a complete extraction. He said there's still a chance this one won't work, in which case he'll still have to take the tooth, but he's optimistic. Of course, he also said that the best we can hope for is that this one will only last about ten years, and then the tooth will probably have to come out anyway. Which, jeesh. I was tempted to say let's just get it over with. But upon further reflection, I'm happy to put off the additional pain, both physical and fiscal, until the semi-remote future.

But let's talk about pain for a moment anyway, shall we? So, I know people who've had root canals and claimed it wasn't so bad. I, however, distinctly remember, as I've mentioned, the feeling of my nerves being plucked like guitar strings. The dentist claimed this time around wouldn't be so bad because the tooth was already dead and all. Ha. I learned several things during my 2 hours in the dental chair on Friday.

1) Dentists lie. I already knew this, of course, but continue to be duped repeatedly because they seem so nice, I give people the benefit of the doubt, and I'm stupid like stone.
2) I metabolize novocaine (or lidocaine or xylocaine or whatever the hell local anesthetic they use) faster than the ordinary person. Basically he'd get about twenty minutes of work done before I'd jump, white-knuckled and wide-eyed, at some jolt of pain mumbling "Mpphh-hmmmm" when he'd pointlessly ask "you feel a little something there?" So he'd shoot me up again and off we'd go. At one point, he just gave up and would warn me about certain things, saying "You'll probably feel this a little, sorry about that." No wonder people would just die of dental infections before anesthetics were discovered.
3) Apparently the jaw bone is highly ennervated, which more than makes up for the lack of living nerve inside my molar.
4) One of the levels of Hell without a doubt involves laying on your head in a dental chair, blinding light in your eyes, a rubber block propping open your jaw, trying to breath through your nose but feeling some errant sinus drainage blocking that route while a stretched rubber sheet is effectively smothering your attempt to breathe through your open mouth where the saliva is accumulating anyway, being asked to open up even wider though your jaw is so fatigued you start to shake, then being told to not move a muscle while three different implements and two hands are wedged between your jaws lest the whole procedure has to start again while your swallow reflex meanwhile suddenly becomes uncontrollable and your tongue starts flailing about impertinently. Oh Sisyphus cakewalked into eternity by comparison.

Bad to the bone

2007-02-08T17:57:00.001-08:00

Ok, I should explain that usually I'm really a glass-half-full type. I know my posts lately have been a little manic, and so have I. But this is the exception, I swear. Unless I've turned that corner onto the one-way road to bitterness and despair. Which, seriously folks, is a possibility.

Anyway, on the good news side, my jury service is complete! Both prosecution and defence rested their cases on Monday, and we heard closing statements yesterday. After sitting through the juror instructions and a tutorial on the applicable laws, I was released yesterday afternoon and just got word this evening that the jury reached a verdict: the guy is guilty on both counts. Which is pretty much what I thought, but it still would have been interesting to get to debate that with 11 other people and arrive at the conclusion together. But whatever. Always a bridesmaid. At least it didn't carry over into my upcoming vacation or anything.

What may actually carry over into my time off, however, is the latest in the woe-is-me saga. Remember my unexplained mystery health issue of a few months ago? Well, everyone finally agrees that it's most likely a tooth issue. And not just any tooth, but the very one that had the root canal. The root canal that I never wanted to experience anything remotely resembling ever again.

My dentist told me today that it's probably leaking (!!) and so I'm going back tomorrow to experience something not just resembling the root canal, but in fact that very root canal all over again. See how the lightning strikes over and over from my own personal dark cloud? But wait, there's more! If the old root canal is leaking because the tooth's root is cracked, which is a distinct possibility and one that can't be ascertained until the dentist is rooting around inside my head, then -- get this -- he'll have to extract the tooth!!

Sweet merciful mother of crap. I knew this is the sort of thing that happens when you get old, but I'm only thirty-three! That's too young to be toothless. And? If it comes out, I should get an implant, an actual metal screw anchored into my skull. Which insurance will hardly cover. So I'm about to feel some serious pain in both my palate and my wallet.

No one mentioned the option of just letting it go on leaking, but that sounds pretty ok by me.
I think I'm going to go cry now.

**No pictures with this post. I just did a Google image search for tooth implants and nearly fell out of my chair in horror.

Bum-pee road to work

2007-02-05T20:28:00.000-08:00

When I was young and naive and my urban experiences were limited to driving through Denver to visit my grandma in Littleton, I thought living in a city must be grand and exciting. Of course, now that I have spent the last 14 years enjoying all the wonderful joys of the urban existence, I can say with some authority that it ain't all glitz and glamour. Oh no, it requires a certain amount of intestinal fortitude just to go about your day.

As I've mentioned before, I walk to and from the office everyday with my co-worker/neighbor/friend Janet. It's a 1.5-mile 30-minute walk from North Beach through the Financial District to South of Market on Second at Harrison. All perfectly pleasant neighborhoods filled with coffee shops, restaurants, people in suits, shops, tourists and so on. And yet, this walk demands vigilance.

What I mean is that rarely a day goes by that we're not walking past some fresh horror: trying to avoid the mystery splatter of chunky ick in the middle of the sidewalk, holding our breath past the steaming sewer grate, stepping over the running puddles of bum pee, desperately dodging the tubercular coughs of the toothless woman with smeared lipstick ruddying her gaunt cheeks, avoiding eye contact with the crusty young psychotic who punctuates his constant mumbling with epithetic outbursts and wild gesticulations, staring straight ahead pretending not to see the pantsless person squatting between parked cars to the left while skirting the fresh pile of excrement to the right. It's sad, but it's become second nature to not even acknowledge these things, discussing instead butterflies and puppies and rainbows and mountain springs. Blinders are necessary else we'd be forever clutching each other in gagging repugnant depression.

I did wish I'd had my camera today, though. Not to poke fun at the less fortunate or anything like that, but simply to capture the moment. One of the old homeless guys who hangs around near the office had on a Monster.com hat and I couldn't help but smile at the wry incongruity.

Yes, life in the big city is so much more than I ever expected.

Voir dire of inevitability

2007-02-01T19:27:00.000-08:00

I should have known. I really should have. It's just the way my luck runs. And yet I never seem to take the lesson to heart; instead I continue to test the fates, hoping the winds will blow differently to shift the raincloud out from over my fortune, drowned as it is in absurdities and mixed metaphors.

They say lightning never strikes twice, but I sometimes feel that it continues to zap me repeatedly, figuratively defying the odds in singling me out and leaving me stunned and bewildered but missing any marks as proof that something strange and ridiculous and hellishly divine may have just occurred to me alone, just as it quite literally did nine years ago while I was out for a solitary stroll along the empty shoreline with a borrowed umbrella for a lightning rod.

Anyway, this week was nothing nearly that improbable. Instead, rather than postpone to a future and, quite possibly, equally bad time, I answered my call to Jury Duty in the hope that, as a purely numbers game, I would walk away unselected. And that was clearly my first mistake.

Naturally my number came up Monday, so I reported to the Jury Room at the Hall of Justice on Tuesday at 1pm, still hoping for a reprieve. Of the several hundred people sitting around bored, reading, napping, and trying to conduct business in absentia, surely the majority of us would walk away without getting called into a courtroom. And my confidence grew as first one, then two, then three courts were filled or canceled without me. Several hours passed and the end of the day drew near and one court remained, and obviously my confidence was mistake number two.

Of course, among the 75 or so people ultimately assigned to courtroom 17, I was still sure that I would walk away. And in fact, all afternoon on Wednesday, I sat in the back of the room, uncalled, as the jury box seats were filled and reshuffled. 24 people whittled down to 12. Come back Thursday at 1:30. Seats 13-23 are refilled with the computer's random selections - a wave of relief washes over me as it becomes clear that they can't let all those people go. Even when I was called to fill that very last seat, #24, I still thought I would get to go home at the end of the day. I'd seen who they let go, I knew how to answer the questions to be excused: Guns are bad, that hypothetical question is pointless, it's difficult to set aside emotion to consider just the facts.

And yet, one by one, the seats in front of me emptied and I was left to occupy seat 13. And despite going through the motions with another 11 people, the counsel finally had no objections and I was sworn in as Alternate Juror #1. Seriously?! Seriously! Not only do I have to sit through the whole trial, but I likely won't even get to deliberate! I know this because it's precisely what happened the last time I was called to Jury Duty three years ago.
Oh the suckage.

This is why I don't gamble with money.

Cheeky monkey

2007-01-28T08:03:00.000-08:00

This has probably been around for ages, but I just discovered it and it absolutely kills me. What do you get when you cross two young tigers with an agile gibbon? Hilarity, I tell you.

I'm 33 for a moment

2007-01-26T23:54:00.000-08:00

Welp, there you have it. Another birthday has come and gone, sweeping past like a commuter train, knocking me aside with its gusty bluster and leaving me unbalanced by the tracks in its turbulent wake while the litter swirls and settles, strewn about hopelessly.

How did I get here? Why didn't the train slow down? Will I still find myself bewildered trackside when the next one comes? Is it possible to have a one-third-life crisis?