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.