2010 Review Part II

Part One of the review looked at the moments of 2010 that brought me to where I am, now to examine the position I find myself in looking ahead to 2011.

I’m healthy - despite some dings over the past year, I feel quite good now - I’m well fed, rested, and in overall good condition.  I have a group of friends and family that support me with love and companionship.  I have a job that affords a rich lifestyle in San Francisco, that encourages my creativity and appreciates my thoughts, and continues to teach me.

I have an outlook of optimism that allows me to enjoy (most) every moment of my day.  

I live in San Francisco, the greatest city in the greatest state in the greatest country in the world, where I am surrounded by forward-thinking, educated, and heartfelt people.  

I am open to new experiences and ways of being, so I won’t be caught off guard by big changes; I’ll be ready to ride whatever waves come my way.  

I have a clear picture of where I’m headed, and things I can do every day to move me in that direction.

I have grand aspirations and a belief that anything is possible.

Where you at?

2010 Review Part I

The year is almost over, and it's time to have a look at what just happened.  I'm grateful for the moments that made up this year and for the place of power to which it has brought me.  To begin, some memories:

New Year’s Eve in Tahoe with Gab - snow, boots, a moonlight meditation at midnight.  A final bit of time with pops in the Carmichael home, a couple more paintings put together, then an interview with vFlyer in downtown San Francisco, and a rapid acceleration of my life.  A new apartment by the beach with three gentlemen who came together to create a little brotherhood.  Learning the city from the locals, group dinners and games of Scrabble.  Endless kitchen collaborations, redefining the salad with homemade dressing, learning to love mushrooms.  Meeting a new crew of bros, playing soccer.  Starting work, wearing a tie Monday through Thursday, showing up early for the first few weeks, my new colleagues.  Learning about the spam folder in my Gmail account, learning how to use vFyer.com, talking to my first user on the phone and giving them assistance.  Learning what a blog really was.  Following Chris Brogan, reading his posts for a week, then unfollowing him.  Working downtown, riding the N-Judah every morning and every night, getting up early, sprinting to catch the train, packing my lunch and my life revolving around food.  Living with Lucy for a month, cooking great meals and hanging out in the kitchen.  Spraining my ankle, recovering, hurting my knee playing mojo kickball, getting treated at Lucy’s clinic, recovering.  Riding William’s bike to work for the first time, finding my bike on Craigslist, missing the boat, but finding the same bike on Craigslist a few days later and getting it.  Riding my new bike, crashing on Market street, being rescued by Mom, x-rayed, fitted with a brace, returning with a sprained wrist, recovering.  Saturday morning support work on my computer at Java beach - ordering a blueberry muffin and a small coffee every time.  Hosting parties at our apartment, playing beer pong with the boys, getting TV, getting internet, ordering clothes from lands’ end.  Perfecting my Chinese accent.  Visiting Gabrielle and her visiting me.  Walks on the beach, watching dogs, sunsets on the beach with growlers from the chalet, walking the five blocks down to the water and the five blocks back up.  Doing laundry around the corner, buying tomatoes and oranges from arm and a leg.  Hosting people through Air B&B in our teeny tiny little room.  Making videos for vFlyer, learning to do my job well, getting excited about the internet and blogging more, becoming a “social media guru” and getting more than 500 followers.  Being commissioned to make paintings, dealing with matters of the heart.  Living near Lucy, visiting her in the Haight, watching the season finale of the Bachelor, watching the season finale of the Bachelorette.  Dancing at Maye’s on Polk Street, late night guitar-playing and freestyling in the living room, waking up early on Saturday mornings and walking the still crisp streets of the outer sunset.  World cup fever and games on ESPN 3, rooting for Spain and Holland, watching the Netherlands at 4:30am in a crowded bar, rocking my orange vest for Holland, watching the final with the soccer team and being the only one truly happy for Spain.  A roadtrip with my girl, arriving just in time to see Ross and Renee be wed, a taste of what friends’ weddings will be like, staying in a hotel and feeling like a big shot.  Moving offices, celebrating my birthday in the inner sunset with pizza and drinks and silliness.  Watching the playoffs and rooting against the Lakers.  Playing soccer again, spraining both of my ankles in one game, recovering, doing less.  Getting lost in the city.  Always finding parking, learning how to curb my wheels and get right up on the curb.  Discovering new neighborhoods, imagining moving out with Lucy and then making it happen.  An epic 2 person move - a massive Uhaul, perfect parking, getting honked at, sweating and aching from lifting and carrying, the first night in the new place with a mattress on the floor, getting set up and living in the Castro.  Jumping on the Giants bandwagon, going to a ballgame, watching them win it all at Civic center, seeing lifelong fans rejoice.  Jack Johnson's new album, Ray Lamontagne at the Greek, Jackie Greene at Hardly Strictly, slow-dancing to Norah Jones.  Living with Mom, reconnecting with my brother and planning big things, organizing my photos.  Cramming for the election, voting.  Getting sick and rediscovering movies.  Reading another Hemmingway book.  cooking and hosting my first Thanksgiving dinner.  Taking guitar lessons, signing up for night school, living life, seeing people all around me ready for a perfect world.

From The Sunset to Downtown San Francisco - a Morning Ride

My ride used to look like this:

View Larger Map

It went like this:
My ride begins to the shuddering growl of the garage door opening and the cool air of the sunset.  I strap on the helmet, slide my sleek sunglasses over my face, hook my cinched down pannier onto the rack, swing my leg over the bike and press the button to close the door behind me.  It’s chilly to begin, and I climb slowly up Irving, the rising sun shining brightly in my face.

Going down 41st avenue into the park the air gets suddenly cooler - much cooler.  It’s sort of a lovely little dip, feeling the cool air and knowing that in a mile or so you’ll come out into the warm air again. I cut left towards the polo fields and in a low gear I climb the long hill, standing up in my pedals and feeling good to be using my legs and moving about early in the morning. Past the polo field, often home to a few joggers, and on to the lawn speedway where I'm almost always alone and moving fast while the ground is flat. Then there's the deceptively steep incline that just keeps going as you reach JFK and, finally, the waterfall on the left.  Here it gets much warmer, and now my body is totally awake and warm and pumping blood fast. I often stop to take off the jacket, and if I’m not wearing it, I’m usually grateful right about here.  

The road flattens and the cars and maybe other bikers join me as I pass the DeYoung museum and filter down to Fell street. There's a beautiful old 5-series BMW that's always parked on the side of the road next to the museum and it looks very well cared for and shiny. Upwards past the strange, coppery DeYoung tower the warmth really hits you - just as suddenly as it had left.  I cross Stanyan, then accelerate into my highest gear and the crazy busy panhandle, weaving through joggers and passing dog-walkers, eyeing the Masonic signal and pushing it to catch the light, then warily skate through - down, across, then up the other side.  Out of the panhandle, turning right I push it to catch the signal and make a left on Oak, or miss it, and pull up short in the right-hand side of the left lane, straddling my bike and pulling out the water for a quick sip, other bikers pulling up beside and around me.  Then jetting down Oak, preferably in a pack, alternately passing slowed cars on the right, or pumping to keep up behind traffic.  Easing left a bit, raising the left hand to signal, making a sharp right on Scott, careful to avoid the manhole cover.  Then left on Page, sometimes a scary turn in and of itself, and up the gradual slope towards downtown, passing long queues of cars on long down slopes, riding the brakes, barreling the wrong way down the usually empty left lane, glad not to be in a car or one of the slow creaking buses that makes a hair-raising, jerky right-hand turn onto Page.  Then up to Gough, slowing slightly and usually cutting across through the red light if traffic is light.  Past a lovely brick building for sale and POP (pilates on page), some bums on the wide right-hand sidewalk, and up to Market.  Wait for the peds to start crossing, work your way out into the funny tweener intersection, then finally straight across Market, sharply cutting the muni tracks and bending left to come up to Van Ness.  Usually stop here, things are really popping now.  The funny cut-off and isolated All-Star cafe is open to the left, the big ugly Bank of America / Muni Customer Service building is across the way, and the Market Street grind has begun in earnest.  From there it’s a series of hectic streets, waiting at stoplights and watching the bold on fixies lead the way into intersections.  

Through the Tenderloin you don’t want to stop and you ignore the shouts and yells of poor, crazy, drunken urchins, and you don’t envy the police officers starting their morning rounds and you smell the pungent savory greasy meat from the Donut World restaurant on the right.  Sometimes cabs will cut sharply in front of cyclists and in a pack, commuter cyclists put up a fight.  I’ve seen cab windows hit hard, obscenities exchanged, shouts of “door!” and even older cyclists admonishing younger cyclists for entering the intersection early.  In one such exchange the seasoned pro called out the young hotshot who had to take out one of his earbuds to hear the reprimand “wait for the light!  Most accidents occur from entering the intersection early, you know”, to which the young man nodded cynically and proceeded to take off early before the light turned green.  The older man waited for the signal then frantically pedaled to catch the young man and show him that he wasn’t getting ahead by jumping the signals.  People are so righteous in their indignation, especially if they’ve been at something for awhile.  

The Ferry Building clocktower beckons from the end of Market street, and as it clarifies and draws near the streets count down to fourth then third and the ride is over.  I cut left across Market at the Montgomery crosswalk and cheekily coast on my bike up onto the sidewalk and half-way to the next crosswalk before dismounting next to the short Mexican handing out Examiners.  Then I hurriedly walk my bike and expertly navigate foot traffic to the building entrance where I unstrap my helmet, setting it on the ground and dropping in my sunglasses, then gloves, then folding my neon vest and throwing it in followed by my red taillight.  Out comes the water bottle and the bike seat and after locking up, from the yellow pannier I pull my peruvian shoulder bag, draping it over my shoulder then stuffing the pannier to the brim with the upturned helmet, water bottle, and bike seat.  All then held at waist height like a big yellow tower that precedes me through the revolving doors and into the lobby, to work.

The Worst Moment of my Adult Life

Tuesday night. We decided we needed another couch in the living room. Mom found one online for $40, but I didn’t feel like driving up to Russian Hill, picking it up, driving back, bringing it up, etc. There happened to be a love seat without owner sitting on 18th street, less than a block away. 'Why not just check it out?' we thought. So we walked down to the couch, examined it, and were pleased to find it not only clean but wide and sturdy. Too sturdy, and much too wide, as it turned out. I lay down to give it a test and was very comfortable. A couple walking their dog stopped to share a laugh, telling us they thought at first that I was homeless and that Mom was trying to wake me up. “Let’s just see how heavy it is” we thought. And it wasn’t too heavy.

Off we went up 18th street to our apartment. We struggled a bit to keep the front gate open, eventually sacrificing my keys’ lanyard for the job, and finally upwards, me first, backwards, pulling, mom behind pushing. It was a tight fit, but we managed to make it up the first flight of stairs, and with some pushing and pulling and tugging an turning, around the landing and up the next flight. Around the last landing we went, this one open to the street, and up the few steps to our apartment door, we sort of jammed it in. It got stuck - half-way through the doorway, the legs would go no further. We lifted and turned and shimmied but we couldn’t get it inwards, and upon careful examination we realized the couch was really much too big. Reluctantly, we accepted the fact that it just wouldn’t fit. The neighbor, Todd, came up the stairs behind, smiling and remarking that he’d had a similar couch, but that his just did fit into the apartment.

“I guess this means it just isn’t our couch” I said.

So out we went, struggling mightily to extricate the piece from the doorway, then down the stairs to the first landing, where, making the turn, we very nearly lost the couch over the edge, where a couple of passers-by may have been squashed. It teetered on the balcony until we managed to muscle it back inside and began the downward spiral of the next stairway. Reaching the bottom, we couldn’t make the turn, and found ourselves struggling with the couch again, this time nearly breaking the glass doorway of our downstairs neighbor. We were an uncoordinated duo - alternately struggling with all of our strength, grunting and tugging in no particular direction, alternately pausing and saying “Stop stop stop”, standing back, examining the couch, seeing no plausible way forward, then grabbing hold anew and wrenching away. Despite our efforts, the couch gradually settled into the stairway, coming to rest with its two feet wedged in the railing, and refusing to budge in any direction whatsoever. We were defeated. We could not lift it up nor budge it sideways. We stood back, exhausted.

“It’s not going anywhere” I said, “we have to just break the fucking thing”.

Mom agreed: “go get a hammer Gabe”.

I left her trapped below the couch and went upstairs into the depths of our apartment for a hammer, came back with the toolkit, opened it, realized the hammer wasn’t inside, muttered “oh my god the fucking hammer isn’t even in here”, called “where’s the hammer?” down to Mom as I walked away, knowing where it was and hearing her call out “in the blue toolkit...” as I went back into the apartment and came back out with the hammer. But I didn’t really know what we would do with the hammer, because the couch was a sturdy piece of work, and the correct tool for the job was a handheld circular saw that could lop off the legs. That or a stick of dynamite. We took turns whacking ineffectually at the rock-solid couch legs. I took a screwdriver and stabbed vehemently at the meaty underbelly of the couch, hoping to tear away the upholstery and attack the skeletal framework of the couch, but I was defeated here as well by the strength of the fabric. I put down the tools, stood up, and we stared again. Here an angel intervened, I believe, because we both, seemingly on some unspoken queue, bent down and lifted the couch in some magically perfect manner so as to ease it out of it’s confines and upwards to freedom. Down was no longer an option, so we went up, preparing to toss the couch to earth from the second landing. We balanced it on the edge, agreed this really wasn’t such a good idea, thought about the possible repercussions - smashed sidewalk, some strange rebound that would send the couch careening into the parked car out front...

“we need some rope” said Mom, “so we could just lower it down slowly”.

“I don’t have any rope, do you have rope?”

“I do have some rope in my car”

I knew the car was parked a steep four blocks uphill. “hm”

Mom went down to look in the garage for something helpful - maybe some rope, and I clung to the couch hoping the neighbors stayed inside and that somehow, this whole thing could just be over and forgotten.

Mom got downstairs and called up “there’s nobody down here right now Gabriel - just dump it”

“are you sure?”

“yes just do it there’s nobody coming”

I began to maneuver the couch into position “are you clear?”

“Yes I’m clear just dump it!”

There was a slender tree branch reaching our way and offering perhaps a softened fall.

“I’m going to try to throw it through the tree - are you ready?”

“yes go now!”

“one... two.... three!” I pushed it out and away and watched it fall quickly and suddenly down, thud, and stop.  It felt so good. I ran downstairs and out front and together Mom and I righted the fallen couch, and seeing it unscathed and intact I felt sorry for having stabbed it and torn its apholstery - what a beautiful piece of furniture.  Mom seemed similarly impressed:

“It really is a nice couch - look it didn’t even get hurt.”

“shall we set it over here?”

“yes. Maybe the church will want it”

A pair of bums enjoyed a few subsequent evenings on the couch, and I watched from my window the next night as they laughed, smoked, and reclined comfortably. By Friday, the couch was gone.

Naked Time

There’s a special moment in every morning, somewhere after the shower has been shut off and before the snap of elastic signals the secure arrival of underwear around your waist, when we are naked and alone.  Largely overlooked as insignificant, and almost always hurried, this is a moment that deserves reflection.

I'm a curtains-open kind of a guy - not one to close my blinds unless absolutely necessary.  I'm trusting, too.  What are the chances that there's some creeper out there stalking me with binoculars through my exposed windows?  But just in case there is, when it comes time to drop towel and put on clothes after a shower, certain precautions must be taken.

There’s usually some corner of the bedroom that’s up to the task - somehow positioned so as to prevent prying eyes from spotting your private parts.  I can picture this place in most all of my homes, and the surrounding morning routine in that particular slice of my life.

My childhood bedroom was a converted garage, and the windows were high enough to preclude any breach of privacy.  These were free times - I could drop my towel casually, take my time selecting underwear, and get dressed slowly.

My dorm room at UC Davis always had the specter of a returning roommate, so I would change in the shower stall.

My first apartment in West Davis had a large window onto the walkway, but my room extended deeply to either side, so I changed in the corner just in front of the dresser, where the angle was acute enough to block any wandering eyes.  

My room in Barcelona had a window looking only onto the elevator shaft - again, a non-issue.  

Senior year I lived in a townhouse-style apartment.  My room had a very large sliding glass door onto a tiny little balcony, and there was no position that could be completely secure.  Home alone, I would use the large hallway above my stairs; not alone, the time of day would determine my routine.  With no immediate neighbors, daytime views into the depths of my room could only be achieved, in theory, by a most dedicated viewer in an apartment 200 yards away.  Or from a church, which I disregarded.  At night, however, my window a showcase for the goings-on of a lighted interior, I sometimes closed the blinds.  But sometimes I did not.  Sometimes I merely recognized the heightened danger, and made a cautious and rapid change: un-tucking my folded towel, leaving it draped skirt-like from my waist, bent half-way, I could safely release the towel, step carefully into my boxer briefs, and in one quick motion, pull the underwear vigorously upwards, dropping the towel as I straightened, and offering, if at all, a most fleeting glimpse of my behind.  

My first San Francisco bedroom faced an adjacent apartment building a mere stone’s throw away, and opened to a large window filling the entire Western exposure.  Across the yard was a young Chinese family, with a little girl who would often sit and watch us from her window.  This caused me to be more sensitive than ever to my changing habits.  Fortunately, I was blessed with a large closet perpendicular to the window, with a pair of hinged sliding doors that protruded a foot and a half when open.  Generally regarded as a pain in the ass, in the early morning light, as I prepared for work, these doors afforded welcome protection for the eyes of an innocent little girl.  I merely had to snuggle in against my hanging shirts to execute the towel drop and boxer application in complete privacy.

My current bedroom has perhaps the greatest window space to floor space ratio of all, and to execute a private change I’ve been forced into the very front corner of my room just behind the closed door, a narrow haven where  I must remain mostly erect and flattened against the closed door, else my behind protrude into the line of sight from across the street.

Motivated by the winter cold more than my modesty, I’ve begun to change in the bathroom before even exiting the bath.  Not only do I avoid the issue of privacy, I take advantage of the steamy warmth of the bathroom.  The only issue here is the difficulty in achieving complete dryness - with so much steam in the air, extra care must be taken with the towel before undergarments can be safely applied. Like it's predecessors, my current routine is dictated by necessity, and, until now, established and practiced in mindless fashion.

It occurs to me that, since I learned to dress myself, this is the one moment in life when I am naked with myself.  What a shame it seems to hurry through this moment or pass it cramped in a small bathroom.  This space between wet naked person and fully clothed member of society is charged with vulnerability, vanity, and freedom.  I wonder if there is not some greater human value in this small moment - a slender thread connecting us to a primal past free from garments that so effectively define us, tenuously clinging to our modern, accelerated selves.

One day, an in-suite bath, ample acreage, and radiant floor heating will combine to provide me with a most agreeable post-shower experience, and cultivate a stronger connection with my natural naked self.  In the meantime, perhaps another rug for my bedroom floor, a set of heavy curtains, and the occasional nighttime use of my electric heater will suffice.

The Point of No Return

There comes a point in every burrito eating experience where one’s immediate gastronomical future hangs in the balance - the Point of No Return.

To understand this phenomenon, you must be a lover of Mexican food, and intimately familiar with at least a few “bomb-ass burrito spots”.  Or just Chipotle.  You must also be something less than a complete monster or yoked bro that easily consumes an entire super burrito without a moment’s notice.  You should also be something more than a teeny-tiny little person who would never consider eating an entire Chipotle burrito at once.

The burrito experience is, to me, delightful.  I love feeling the warm weight of a good burrito in my hands.  I enjoy peeling back the foil and taking that first bite.  I especially like quality cheese in my burrito - coupled with the right amount of salsa, beans, rice, and grilled chicken breast, there’s nothing like it.  I rarely start a burrito without a good appetite, and the hand-held, compact nature of a burrito lends itself to rapid consumption.  “Inhaling” is often an apt descriptor for me eating a burrito.  I’m chugging along, really enjoying myself, taking careful bites, rotating the burrito as I peel back the foil, when all of a sudden I reach the point of no return.

The point of no return is located approximately 75% of the way through the burrito, and I almost inevitably stop here, however briefly, to reflect.  The remaining burrito is incredibly appealing - the tortilla is soft and still warm, the bits of chicken, surrounded by delicious layers of cheese and rice are offering themselves to me freely.  But I know that, deep down, I’m full.  I don’t need to eat the rest to feel satisfied.  I could just put it down, walk away, and avoid the food coma caused by eating an entire burrito in one sitting.  I deliberate.

As is, the remaining burrito could be conceivably re-wrapped in its foil and stowed in the refrigerator; later that night, I could open the burrito and have a delicious and rewarding little snack.  On the other hand, why not just eat the damn thing right now?  It’ll taste good, it’ll be over in a few bites, and I’ll be done with it.  But have just one more bite I cannot, for the remaining burrito, minus one good-sized bite, would be a paltry and disappointing snack to unwrap later tonight.  It would merely tease my taste buds with memories of the glorious full-bodied burrito, and leave me lusting for more.  And so I waver on the precipice, two choices very clear in my mind.




If I do manage to wrap up the burrito and walk away, I feel an incredible sense of self-satisfaction.  I feel that I’ve proved myself as a powerful and balanced individual - one who can look temptation in the eye and walk onwards.  If I do not, and decide to devour the final bites, I delight in my rebellion; I revel in my gluttony, and I eat with the strength of an ape - thoroughly enjoying the short-term gratification of indulgence.  Today, I wrapped it up.

The Female Sports Fan

Female sports fans.  We all love ‘em, right?  Girls think they’re super cool because they’re smart and know about sports, and guys find them more attractive and appealing to hang out with because they can take them to bars to watch the game.  Right?  Wrong.

Call me old fashioned, but I like a girl who finds baseball incredibly boring and stupid, because that’s what women really think and anyone that tells you otherwise is probably lying.  Watching sports is a man’s game.  We drink beer and shout at the TV and high-five eachother after a great play.  We endure the suffering of close losses and feel the incredible elation of come-from-behind wins.  We are life-long, die-hard, born-and-raised fans.  We know when the next game is on, time our lunch break so we can catch the second half, and talk shit to our friends who have opposing allegiances.

Recently I’ve become more aware of the female sports fan, and I don’t like what I see.  The San Francisco Giants just completed an incredible run to be crowned World Champions for the first time since moving West from New York in 1954.  I’ve jumped on the bandwagon, with no existing baseball team to drop or overlook; I picked up the Giants and found myself legitimately enjoying baseball games for the first time in my life.  I’m a Giants fan, but I’m just getting started.  At Civic Center, as Brian Wilson closed out game 5, I watched my friend Matt, a lifelong Giants fan, gnaw the brim of his ballcap and rock back and forth on his feet, suffering through the final moments and finally erupting into utter euphoria, passionately kissing his girlfriend, and screaming and yelling like a crazy person in celebration.  I was acutely aware of how far apart the two of us, as Giants fans, were.  Without having experienced the ups and downs of the past 20 years of Giants baseball, or even the disappointment of last season’s near miss at making the playoffs, I smiled, cheered, feeling good, but rather reserved.  My strongest emotions were brought on by seeing all the deserving Giants fans finally taste the sweetness of a championship.

Back to the women.  Leading up to the World Series, I found Giants fans coming out of the woodwork, and alot more girls than I would've imagined.  They suddenly owned Giants caps and Posey jerseys, and expressed their undying love for Brian Wilson.  When the series was over and the parade had rolled through, I saw status updates like “We did it!!”. Please.  

If you were a real Giants fan, your status would probably be blank, as you’re too overwhelmed to even put into words how great you feel, or read something like this:

"To every media person and semi-fan in the bay area who said defense and pitching couldn’t win a championship, go jump off a bridge.  But not the Golden Gate Bridge.  We’ve got a parade to plan.

P.S. - Thank you Giants, for the single greatest moment of my life.  Edgar Renteria for Governor."

Just because you can name the two most important players on the team, or understand the difference between a save and a win, does not make you a Giants fan.  And attempts to prove yourself a sportsfan smell like efforts to get some extra attention.

No offense to my friends in San Francisco or the lovely ladies in this photo. I've enjoyed seeing the excitement this Giants team has ignited, and all the folks showing their support. But girls, it's ok not to like sports. Trust me: you won't lose any fans.

Update: I offended some friends with these words, and I'm sorry. There are certainly plenty of die-hard lady sports fans; likewise, girls and guys alike have jumped on this Giants bandwagon. And there's nothing wrong with it! It's not my job to police the dedication of fans. I briefly removed the post, but decided to leave it here because I wrote it and for some reason I enjoyed writing it. Please express yourself in the comments below.

The New Spot

From the freezing cold reaches of the Outer Sunset to the crackin’ streets of the Castro, my life has shifted.  Eureka Street at 18th, a 2 bedroom flat with a big kitchen and a living room. I’ve noticed immediate and welcome change.


My Morning: longer, fuller, richer.  Instead of waking up alone and in the dark to shower, dress, pack, and ride, I take my time and stroll to the kitchen in my slippers and sit with roommie while my oatmeal cooks, I lay out my clothes for the day shower to music and then get dressed in the comfortable morning light of my bedroom.


My workday: off to a good start.  Instead of arriving to work 20 minutes early to stretch in the little office and change in the bathroom and prepare my breakfast in the kitchen, I stroll in dressed and fed just early enough to say good morning to my colleagues and sit down at my desk and get to work.


My return: instant comfort.  instead of moving through the apartment like a forensic investigator - determining what had transpired in my absence and how it would affect me, I find everything as I left it or slightly improved.  Whereas the whiteboard at my old apartment might read "who ate all my peanut butter?", I find a bouquet of fresh flowers on the table and a note from roommie with an appealing dinner plan.  I am left to my own devices - alone and free from outside influence, I do just what my heart desires.


My room: powerful independence.  To share a room is difficult, and despite the good nature and best intentions of one's roommate, the persistent pressures of sharing a small space preclude complete comfort.  My own room is empowering and exciting and I feel like a grown-ass man.  I have my furniture and my books and my bed arranged in my way to serve my needs, and it pleases me very much.


My mindset: big moves.  Grand imagination of the future seems closer to reality.  The infrastructure of the life I want to lead is firmly in place.  I find more restoration in each minute of time spent at home, and there are endlessly exciting avenues to apply this new energy.


The Sunset was a primer, a fine introduction to San Francisco that gave me confidence and friends and plenty of good times.  The Castro is an environment aligned with my desires, and while I'm more alone I realize this is exactly what I wanted.

Things I love Thursday

Thanks to Natanya for this concept - a little rundown of things I love this Thursday.  A full stomach after another dynamite meal in the new apartment.... our kitchen that is always clean and spacious... our pantry that you can half-way step into and look around in... the massive tub of honey on the shelf in the pantry that made us laugh imaging dressing up as a bear for halloween and carrying it around as a prop... the peonies bursting out of the vase on our wiggly little dining room table... the fact that I can see all the way down the hall and out the front door from this seat... my colleagues at vFlyer who crack me up every day and laugh at my jokes and bring the sarcasm right back at me every time... my brand-new pair of slippers... my Moms... the rest of my family too, of course... stumbling across an old friend in an incredibly exciting way... living in the midst of the World HQ of acceptance and freedom of expression - the Castro... moving two people's lives entirely in two full days... my new commute which is faster... my old commute that I really miss... my new roommate who is the ultimate roommie... my old roomies who are the best friends a man could ever ask for... my big ol' bed where I'm about to head... a new favorite Hemingway book... a Los Angeles vacation around the corner... the internet... you!  seriously!!  you!!

Ordering Chinese Food - an adventure in conversation

Ordering Chinese food today was an absolute trip.  I called the House of Nan King, spoke with a lovely young woman who took my order very diligently, repeated it back to me, and said she’d enter it into the computer and call me back with the total.  I received a call back shortly thereafter, but there was a different house of Nan King employee on the phone - an older woman whose English was a few grades below that of my first caller.  

“Yeah hi Scott?” (I’d given Scott’s name, as he was headed to pick up the chinese food)
“Well, sure.. go ahead”
She started with a disclaimer -
“Yeah girl you just spoke with new, she doesn’t really know how to do it”
“Oh that’s ok”
“So what you want, how many people eating?” (I realized I’d be building my entire order from scratch again)
“There are 7 of us”
“Ok and what you want, beef? chicken? poark?”
“Well I thought we’d get a little bit of everything”
“Ok yeah so you want potsticker appetizer?”
“Yes, two orders please”
“Ok and you like sesame chicken?” (I had ordered sesame chicken - obviously she had my previous order right in front of her) 
"Yes Please"
“There seven of you?  I do two big orders - enough for seven”
One of us is allergic to sesame, so I really only wanted the one -
“You know I think just the one order of sesame chicken is enough”
“Ok and you want one more chicken?”
“Yes the chicken with chinese greens, please”
“Yeah ok chicken mixed veggie” ( a different menu item)
“You know I like the look of those chinese greens”
“Ok yeah baby boc choi greens, I can do that, you want *something unintelligable*”
“That’s fine”
“Ok what else?”
“An order of the sizzling scallops please"
“OK you want *some uninteligible scallop dish*”
“Well I see here ‘sizzling scallops’ - can we have that?”
“Yeah that only come with three pieces of scallop whole dish”
“Well what’s your most popular scallop dish?”
“Most popular? Well that probably be *some unintelligible scallop dish*”
“Ok well I’m just concerned about sesame - I see here one scallop dish has sesame” (menu item: ‘Crispy scallops w/sesame vege’)
“OK you want sesame? yeah I can do that for you”
“No! No, no sesame”

From the other end of the room, somebody laughs and chimes in with “No and den!”

“Oh no sesame.  Ok no problem.  What else, you want a brocoli beef?”

I just started laughing.  Really hard but silently and looking up to the ceiling as she repeated “You wanna brocoli beef?”
“Yes please,” I tried to compose myself “Yes please that sounds great”
She sort of chuckled on the other end, recounted my order, I asked for rice:
“Ok rice for seven people”
Knowing there’s almost always extra rice, I said “You know we don’t actually eat alot of rice, so probably rice for 5 people would be enough”
“Oh ok, rice for five”
“And an order of chicken chow mein”
“Ok chicken chow mein.  Ok thank you!”
“And can I pay by credit card over the phone?”
She had already hung up.

I sort of came down from the call, got up to share some details and have a laugh with the rest of the team, sat down at my desk again and my phone rang.

“Hello?”
*Noise of a restaurant*
“Hello?”
*More restaurant noise*
“Hello preez?”
I hung up.

“Unbelievable.  Now they’re calling me from their pants”  A minute later, the phone rang again.

“Hello?”
“Hi this is house of Nan King”
“Hi there”
“Yeah what time you want to pick up?”
“Well we’re eating at 12:30, so we’d like to pick it up at 12:15”
“OK 12:15 very good”
“And can I pay over the phone with a credit card?”
“Noooooo, no not over the phone”
“Ok, no problem”

I got up and walked over to Scott, gave him the credit card and said they’d be expecting him at 12:15.  Scott put the card in his wallet and I sat back down at my desk.  Out of the corner of my eye, I see my phone getting another call.

“Hello”
“Hi this is house of Nan King” (It was the new girl)
“Oh hello”
“I’m calling so you can pay with credit card for your order”
“Oh.  Ummm ok just a moment please”
I walked over to Scott, tapped him on the shoulder because he was on the phone, whispered that now we can pay over the phone, and he handed over the card.

I gave her the info, the order was processed, and Scott left a half hour later to pick up our $93.46 order of chinese food.

It turned out to be delicious, especially the potstickers, and we enjoyed our first eat-in lunch at the new office.  We had about 2 full boxes of rice leftover.

From the Streets of Sacramento...

There's a great old Cake song called Arco Arena with a chorus that goes like this: "From the streets of Sacramento to the freeways of LA.  There's no single explanation there's no central destination..."  This post won't discuss the freeways of LA, but feel free to sing along as you read anyway.

There's something truly special and song-worthy about those wide, warm avenues.  A couple weeks ago I had the opportunity to ride a bike through midtown sac, and I felt like I was swimming through honey.  Gliding through something perfectly warm and pleasant, doing my best to absorb the lovely air.  The streets are broad, flat, and quiet.  The trees are tall, numerous, and full, and the energy is slow and steady.

Flash to Market Street in downtown San Francisco on a Thursday evening.  It's loud, crowded, potholed, crammed with buses, motorists, cyclists, tourists, and urchins.  Cold win blows strong from the West, and the energy is frenetic, unsettled, anxious and irritable.  I wear my gear like armor - helmet, glasses, gloves, jacket, padded shorts, yellow shoes; I'm zipped up and strapped down tight; I move in straight lines, my body tense and eyes focused on the traffic signal in front of me or glancing quickly backwards at the buses behind me.

Let's go back to Sacramento.  I wear a tshirt with no helmet; I move in lazy loops through the sweet stillness;  i gaze side to side, I sing "Jolene" by Ray Lamontagne.  A stark contrast indeed.

My Dear, Dedicated Readers,

I didn't think this sort of thing would happen so soon. Sure, my blog is captivating, rich, entertaining, and inspirational, but I had no idea you were so galvanized by such simple prose.

This post is directed at the most active amongst you (you know who you are). I have a simple message: violence is not the answer!

In an earlier post, I put a particular ad campaign on blast for it's egregious lack of grammatical integrity. Although I was certainly heated, dismayed, and upset, I by no means authorized or encouraged violent reaction.

Walking down Montgomery Street the other day, I was appalled to see that my words had been used to justify an act of violence (see photo)

I'd like to extend a heartfelt apology to this poor, defenseless poster - my heart and thoughts are with it and its entire family.

To the dear, misguided readers responsible, I ask that you pray for this poster and its speedy recovery.  I also ask that you take a look at your actions, and ask yourself if you really acted in the best interest of our cause.  Sure, this poster displayed a lack of compliance with well-defined tenets of grammatical integrity, but I remind you that ours is not the role of enforcer!  Violent action such as this does more to harm than help our cause.

It is only by exemplifying the statutes of grammar and cleverness that we so cherish that we shall prevail.  In the words of Edward Bulwer-Lytton, "the pen is mightier than the sword".

So, dear readers, please take these words to heart, and go forth with renewed commitment to properly placed apostrophes, appropriate metaphors, and habitual proof-reading.  Let's lead by example.

The Pannier Scare

I nearly lost my pannier (pan-yer) the other day. It was a scary moment -the realization, upon returning home, that my pretty yellow bag was not with me, and that it was lying all alone, exposed on the side of the road, with the pungent smell of leftover Thai food emanating from its unbuttoned maw.

I'd lost it in the shuffle of transferring myself from bicycle to automobile. First I had to remove the pannier from my bike, then extract the bike rack from the trunk and affix it to the back of the Honda. Then the phone rang, and the remaining maneuvers were conducted with my head cocked awkwardly to the left - set the bike on the rack, then frantically search for my car keys. For once, I hadn't neurotically double-checked my pants for my keys before closing the trunk. This left open the possibility that I had indeed locked the

keys in the trunk. All of this was relayed to my friend on the phone, until finally, upon the forth deep dig into my satchel, I triumphantly produced my keys. So excited was I by the reassurance that I'm not a complete space cadet, I completely neglected (as would a space cadet) to stow my pannier, and off I drove to the Sunset, leaving my poor bag to fend for itself. Miraculously, upon returning an hour later, the bag was still there, Thai food and all, and the rest of my night was so much better because of it.

The moral of the story: take your damn time.

If you'd like to speak to a friend on the phone, relax and enjoy the conversation until it's done.

I probably would've been there all of 3 minutes extra had I saved my luggage rearrangement for

after the call. Walking down to Java Beach this morning, I realized that I was hurrying - at 8:15 am on a holiday morning - to sit down and write this post. I slowed down to a stroll, and immediately felt my body relax and a little shudder of relaxation run up my spine. I thoroughly enjoyed the remainder of my walk, even stopping to snap a couple of photos.

You've heard this before, but life's too short to be in a hurry. You've also heard this before: enjoy the moment - every single one of 'em.

Why Supercuts is better than a salon school

I just got a hair cut from Supercuts (Actually, I got most of my hairs cut...), after about 5 consecutive cuts at the Cinta Aveda Fashion Institute. The verdict? Not a bad haircut (see photo). Supercuts is faster, cheaper, and they follow you on Twitter. Which is great but also a little bit strange. Who's job is that? Collecting names from Supercuts sign-in sheets, then poring through Twitter for people to follow. Do they really expect me to follow them back? To get info on the most recent events at Supercuts? Like, cheap haircuts? Or.... cheap haircuts? Plz. I'd hate to be the social media czar for Supercuts. But I digress. I'd like to commend the Supercuts on Battery St. on their excellent, rapid service. In and out in 20 minutes, an entertaining conversation with my... stylist(?), and a standard $20 fee.


And now to bash the Cinta Aveda school. Or "institute" as they call themselves. I got turned on to this place by my sister Lucy, who had just moved to SF and was elated with the quality service and low cost offered by Cinta - a salon school where you get your hair cut by students for cheap. On my first visit I was impressed by the urban loft setting, the greeter taking my coat and offering coffee or tea, and the aromatherapy head massage. It all seemed very high-class, and I felt like something of a big shot. I was visiting SF and had no engagements or employment to speak of, so I hardly noticed that I was there for nearly 2 hours. The price was right too - $20 for a cut. In January I started work at vFlyer, and went for a cut on my lunch break. One should be able to fit a hair cut into a lunch break, right? Not so fast...


The following is a long-winded narration of my haircut experience at Cinta. Feel free to skip to the exciting conclusion.

Ride the elevator up to the second floor, meet your student, and sit down in front of the mirror. First, your student stylist listens to what you want, and develops their strategy. Then they must wait for the teacher. This could last anywhere from 5 to 10 minutes. The teacher arrives, the student says "he wants an inch taken off everywhere...", the teacher says "OK", and it's on to the shampoo. I really don't understand why they need to wash your hair before they cut it, but there's another 10 minutes spent getting a half cup of shampoo worked through your hair, followed by a half-cup of conditioner. Back to the chair where the cut finally begins. They start with the side of your head, and work their way around the back and up the other side. This is the "hard part", and can take anywhere from 20 to 30 minutes. By this time our conversation has pretty much died completely. We've discovered where we live, where we're from, what I do, and if the stylist prefers cutting men's hair or women's. I'm struggling to stay awake, and thinking I've been here way too long. Finally they move to the top, and using the renowned "point cutting" technique (basically angling the scissors straight up so as to cut tiny bits of your hair at acute angles), the top of my head is worked down. This takes another 10-15 minutes. Then it's time for the mid-term consultation. The student must go and solicit the attention of the teacher, both return and the instructor takes up position behind my head and asks how it's going. I get a brief moment of experienced head-handling, maybe a comment on the thickness of my hair, and the reigns are returned to the student to brush up on a few things - usually the cowlick or the temples region. This is a 5 minute procedure, followed by a 10 minute closing clean-up. I'd like to share a specific anecdote here - near the end of my first Cinta experience, my stylist trimmed my sideburns. Naturally, she wanted to be sure they were nice and even. She trimmed one, then, to determine the proper length of the other, she actually DREW AN IMAGINARY LINE from one sideburn ACROSS THE FRONT OF MY FACE to the other, and made a trim. Looking into the mirror ahead, I could see a clear 1/4 inch discrepancy between the two burns, but I decided to let it slide... Believe it or not, this student was less than a month from graduating. After the clean-up comes the worst wait yet - before I can leave, an instructor needs to give a final review, and there is usually about 1 instructor per 15 students-giving-haircuts. This can take anywhere from 5-15 minutes. Sitting, waiting, watching. The instructor is usually deep in a customer interaction, giving a detailed lesson to one of her students while the haircutee nods along approvingly. She ignores her anxiously waiting students with practiced ease, as they cast apologetic glances back at me and inch closer, sign-off sheet at the ready. Once the instructor signs, I can sign, and me and my student stylist and I can take an awkward elevator ride together down to the ground floor. They pick out the product used in my hair, put it in a little pink wire basket, and pause during the goodbye to make just enough room for my cash tip. I usually tipped - more out of care for the student than satisfaction with my cut. I decline to purchase the product, pay the cashier, and I'm gone, booking it back to the office and wondering how I'll explain my 2 hour absence.


In conclusion, the idea of the Cinta school is great - salon experience at bargain prices, but the experience of thy stylist is paramount. I don't care that my supercutter doesn't speak very good English, or that her glasses are horribly out of style, because she's been cutting hair for 20 years, and she's darn good at it. Maybe if I need an aromatherapy head massage and some grey taken out, I'll return to Cinta, but until then (or until I get an awful haircut), I'm throwing my lot in with Supercuts. And yes, I now follow @Supercuts