Poco Hecho Has Left the Building

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My First Painting of 2011

"Pots and Accord"

View from my bedroom window.

Bentley of The Bachelorette: Human Malice and the Shame of ABC

This week saw the departure of Bentley, a truly unique presence on The Bachelorette.  Openly disinterested in Ashley H, Bentley alternated degrading her privately to the cameras and endearing himself to her publicly with various insidious tricks. 

Bentley is a sociopath.  Showing complete disregard for the well-being of Ashley, he finally decided to leave after not receiving a rose on the group date. Unsure of how to tell Ashley, and not for a moment considering telling her the truth (that he’d rather “swim in pee than plan a wedding with her”) he pretends that the time away from his daughter is too much to handle, and that he simply cannot be without her any longer.

Before leaving, however, he tries to sabotage her chance at finding love with somebody who actually cares for her (e.g. one of the remaining Bachelors), by implying the possibility of a future relationship with Ashley.  Stroking her face, he says “after this is all over, I mean, who knows?  I want to leave a ‘dot dot dot’ on the end of this.  I know logically we shouldn’t leave a ‘dot dot dot’ but I’m not thinking logically”.

Essentially he leaves himself as firmly planted in her psyche as possible, at once breaking her heart and leaving matters completely unresolved.  How is Ashley to move forward now?  When you fall for someone, your mind, powered by your heart, will invent any number of scenarios for future possibilities with that person, and the way you approach other potential mates is fundamentally different.  Bentley knows this of course, and he knew that leaving Ashley without closure would be his final and greatest “achievement”.

It’s the most fucked up thing I’ve ever seen one person do to another person without physically hurting them.  I know this is a TV show, and I poke fun at the absurdity of it all, but this girl is really here hoping to find love.

It’s scary to see a relationship like this develop so quickly.  How a smart girl like Ashley, in two weeks, could be completely deceived and apparently powerless to stop herself from falling in love with somebody who does not care for her is mind-blowing.  She was warned by a former contestant that Bentley wasn’t here for her, and when confronted about it Bentley did nothing whatsoever to show his affection for her or assure her that he cared.  All he did was pick and choose the best moment to prey upon her mind and emotions, and methodically tie her to him as he no doubt has done many times before.

Where some men get this training I do not know, but it is as if they have been training—preparing and practicing their powers of illusion, refining their methods of brainwashing.  In Bentley we see a man who has perfected these “skills”, and is putting them to work on the grandest of stages.  He knows he’s good at what he does, he’s had a long history of psychologically dominating women, and he derives some sick satisfaction from displaying this facility.

Perhaps we should feel sorry for Bentley.  Perhaps we should recognize that he has nothing to be proud of but his ability to abuse women.  We can imagine the day that his daughter sees these tapes, or his future wife (if he ever finds one).  I hope he has come a long way by then, I hope it makes him sick to watch it, and I hope one day he apologizes to Ashley.

As for ABC, they should be ashamed of themselves.  For all “The Bachelor’s” talk of helping people find true love, for all their emphasis on “being there for the right reasons”, they sat back and watched as a psychopath maliciously assaulted the star of their show, rubbing their hands together in anticipation of a spike in ratings.

Rozlyn of The Bachelor

In Jake Pavelka’s season of The Bachelor, one of the Bachelorettes, Roslyn, was abruptly booted from the show after allegedly making out with one of the producers.  She was confronted immediately, righteously, and sent packing.  Jake wasn’t left to find out the hard way, he was informed after Roslyn had been extracted, and the show played up again the importance of “being there for the right reason”.  We were supposed to feel proud of Chris Harrison, indignant at Roslyn, and relieved that good-guy Jake had been saved from some two-timing slut.

Three seasons later, and here comes Bentley.  Him making it through the screening process indicates one of two things: either he did an excellent job faking the application, or ABC early on saw the possibility for a villain.  Let’s hope it was the former.

Apparently from day one, Bentley expressed openly (to the cameras) his disinterest in Ashley.  He clearly stated that she wasn’t “his type”, and that he intended to play the game to win a couple of roses, only to leave at some point down the road.

ABC did nothing.  They watched closely and silently as Bentley endeared himself to the Bachelorette, won a rose on the first group date, all the while ramping up his cynicism with private jabs at Ashley’s appearance, and lines like “she’s the type of girl I’d totally hook up with once in awhile”.  When he finally decided to leave, they allowed him to enter her house, touch her, hug her, kiss her, make her cry, lie down with her, touch her face, etc. for an extended period of time, then, when he finally left, followed Ashley into her room as she threw herself, sobbing, under the covers of her bed.

If Ashley had seen the tapes of his confessions to the camera she would have screamed bloody murder at his attempt to even approach her.  And rightfully so.  To allow this predatory beast free reign was highly unethical.  To do so purely to drive up ratings and increase profits is immoral.  Looking forward to next week!

The Bachelorette Season 7: Musings from Week Two

Despite the fact that I’m not crazy about Ashley H, I’m hooked on yet another season of The Bachelorette.  I missed the first week, but here are my thoughts on week two.

Ashley and William 1-on-1 in Las Vegas:

William looks like Prince William with a small crooked nose.  He and Ashley pretend to get married and then have a dinner in the Belagio fountains. William tells her about how his dad died and that he's kept his watch set to the time his dad died ever since.

Ashley: “I’m looking for somebody serious, and because your Dad died, that means you’re serious, and that makes you everything I’ve ever wanted.  Basically my requirements are that you are a guy and that you can have fun and that your dad died.”

Group Date:

Brooooos going to Vegas!  Whooo! A big group of guys goes to Vegas and has a dance-off to see which crew gets to stay and dance with Ashley.

At this point, they haven’t shown us many of Ashley’s awkward hand gestures yet.  Perhaps focus groups have revealed they really don’t like these gestures, and she's had some training.  In any case, the guys are all drooling over her because they’re dressing her well, obviously have had her working out really hard, and she's a terrific dancer. But just below the surface I can see the awkwardness.

Bros being made to dance!  No way!  Out of their comfort zone!  Nobody saw that coming.  Because The Bachelor has never had dates that involve impromptu performances in front of thousands of people in Las Vegas.

After the date, Wes pulls Ashley aside:

Another sob story?  I’m sorry, Wes.  Your wife died.  That’s terrible.  Don’t use it to get the girl.  It’s the first group date and you don’t know this person at all and now you have something to talk about that doesn’t really have anything to do with you or her or your compatibility. Doesn't anybody want to try having a real conversation?  Oh man it’s so true you really do have to cherish every moment now.  And the fact that he can open up and tell her that?  Oh my god that’s so amazing.  And the fact that she listened to him and was kind and understanding?  Oh my god that means she’s so amazing.  Because most people probably would just say shut the hell up don’t tell me about your dead wife.  Right?

Bentley and Ashley get some one-on-one time:

Bentley tells America that he's a huge dick and isn't at all interested in Ashely H. Bentley, you suck.  Your daughter probably sucks.  You’ve somehow gotten your hooks into Ashley, you bastard, and you’d better be found out or give up the game soon.  Was this part of your application process for the show?  “Hi, I’m an asshole and I’ll be the bad guy for the season”. Your name sucks too.  It’s not even a name, it’s a type of car.  Everybody knows this. Your parents knew this. It’s not some exotic ethnic name or something, your parents just named you after a really nice, expensive car, because it’s probably the most expensive car they could think of.

And yes, maybe Ashley isn’t that spectacular but you’re being a huge dick about it and I hope it somehow bites you in the ass.  Sadly, I have a feeling there are plenty of girls out there that secretly hope to meet you and hook up with you because they wanted to be treated like crap too by a tall puffy guy named after a car.

Ashley takes Mickey to Vegas:

Mickey opens up and tells Ashley that—Gasp!—his mom passed away about six years ago. Naturally, Ashley is smitten, because as we all know the number one thing she’s looking for in a man is a death in his family.  And then they walk down to the beach, and, wouldn’t you know it, some band we’ve never heard of starts playing!!  Could the night get any more perfect?

The Cocktail Party:

The highlight of the night was Jeff the mask stalking around the staircase like the Phantom of the Opera.  He finally accosts Ashley on the staircase, gives her a super awkward hug and continues to build up his mask as this incredibly symbolic thing that’s about more than just everything being on the inside.  Shocker: he had a near-death experience five years ago and since then everything’s been different.  He’s happier now than he ever has been, and he says this with about as much joy as 35 year-old guy in a mask that has absolutely no chance with the girl he’s talking to and is still bitter over his ex wife, who “he decided to move on” from, but who most likely left him because he’s a complete weirdo.

He finally comes around to taking off the mask, or at least setting the grand stage for his unveiling, and after staring at Ashley for a good five seconds in silence he slowly reaches both hands for his mask and - he’s interrupted!!  Some dude on the stairs cuts him off and he’s so wrapped up in himself and this incredibly symbolic moment that has now been ruined that he stands up in disgust and walks off, leaving the mask on.

How Ashley managed to find the strength to listen to the producers and keep the mask around for another week is beyond me, but she did and maybe, just maybe, we’ll see him unveiled next week.

Front runner: Mickey

Guaranteed to get sent home next week: Jeff the Mask

The Ruins of California

I'm feeling the emotional hangover of a beautiful book come to an end.  A story of a girl who I feel like I’ve known and loved in real life, of her father and her half brother and her grandma and her father’s lovers. It's called The Ruins of California, it's written by Martha Sherrill, and I think you should read it.

Inez Ruin is a little girl growing up in California. She lives with her mom in abuelita’s house, and occasionally she travels north to San Francisco to be with her father.

Paul Ruin is tall, dark and handsome.  He’s brilliant, interesting, honest, and self-important.  He’s a professor who dates his students and has an opinion on everything.  He does things that I want to do for my little girl one day, like reading all of her assigned reading throughout her scholastic career, and sending a check for $1,818.81 on her 18th birthday.

Inez narrates the whole thing, hopping forward through the years and the styles and phases and friendships and loves, with varying degrees of interest, disgust, passion, regret, and always with a sense of humor. She is in so many ways a girl that I know, and reading this book was like learning the childhood I never knew and rarely imagined.

This book popped into my hands at the local library.  I liked the cover and I opened to a page in the middle, read a few paragraphs, and decided it was well-written and worth a try.  Now I can’t imagine my life without having read it.

How does somebody make such a beautiful thing?  How does one craft out of paper and words a complete reality that is clear and full of people that I know and love?  To me this is the most impressive thing I’ve ever seen or felt or held - this little book that took me so deeply into its story and made me imagine my future and helped me understand the people I’ve known.

As my mom says, we’re all multi-dimensional, existing simultaneously in many different places and times.  A writer like Sherrill can tap into these other realities and simply open the door to let us see them.

I often talk about believability - in books, in movies especially.  I can’t enjoy a movie if I don’t find it believable.  It doesn’t have to be a true story, though, or even a reality that I’m familiar with.  It just has to be a reality, and I think we know when something is real or not by how we feel when we see it or read it.

The Ruins of California is real, and as I linger in the space it just left in my life and in my heart, I’m seeing everything a little bit differently.

Wednesday Morning Part One: A Story in the Style of Ernest Hemmingway

They left the house in a hurry as the traffic cops were due to arrive in their three-wheeled “interceptors”, and both cars would be ticketed.  The taller of the two reached the street first and started his large blue car and waited for his brother.  Together they drove just up the street where the shorter boy got out and into the small gold car and started the engine.

They sat there for quite some time as the sun came up and warmed their skin through the car windows and the boy in the small car waited for his engine to warm.  He had made oatmeal with raisins and now, sitting behind the steering wheel with his foot holding down the clutch he ate the oatmeal out of a plastic tupperware with a spoon and watched his brother in the rear-view mirror.

Finally the car was warm enough to move, and in procession they made their way up to Market Street and turned East to face the rising sun.  There were cars in neat rows stretching ahead into the sun and the road was so crowded that they were forced to inch forward very slowly and the boy in the gold car, who was in front, turned right off of Market and led his brother on a different route.

They moved much faster now, and with less cars around the going felt easier and the boy in front thought how his brother would enjoy the scenery because the city felt good and clean in the morning, with no ill effects from what had happened during the night.  They turned left on Church Street and went up the hill two blocks and turned right again, heading straight through the Mission district now and there were people walking in every direction and all the shops were starting to come to life.

The boy in front held a small notebook on his lap, and he opened it often to check one of the back pages where he had written directions to the shop.  He knew that they were to turn left at Portrero street but since he didn’t know exactly where it was he lifted the notebook to his eyes often and read each street sign carefully as they passed.  Coming out of the Mission now the road felt more open still and they were moving very well now and they both felt good to be driving into the sun in the morning.

They reached Portrero street and turned left and the city appeared ahead of them in the sun.  The buildings were tall and white and gold and so close together that they looked like something out of a dream.  They went under the freeway and there were more cars now and everybody was driving fast heading towards the city.  They were getting very close and again the boy in front checked his notebook and read the addresses on the buildings as they passed, and he thought that it was very possible that they had gone past the shop without even noticing.  Finally he saw it and felt very relieved and as he turned on his indicator and pulled into the driveway he was glad to have arrived easily and with his brother in the big blue car behind.

There were cars everywhere, some that were old and dying and others that were shiny and new and he parked the gold Honda amongst the other cars and put on the parking brake before gathering his bag and the empty plastic bowl that had held his oatmeal and got out of the car.  The older boy had turned around and sat with the engine on and smiled as his brother approached and reached through the window to leave the plastic bowl on the floor of the blue car.

“Is it OK if I leave this here?”
The older boy nodded, “I’d come in with you but I’m not sure where to park”
“That’s alright I’ll be right back”
The boy walked through the wide garage door and into the dark interior that was cool and quiet in the morning and smelled just slightly of oil.

“Good morning” he called to the shop man who hadn’t seen him come in and, turning around, smiled and walked towards the desk at the front of the garage.

He explained how the car needed to have the oil changed and how in the morning there was no pressure in the clutch and how you had to wait at least ten minutes while the car warmed before you could drive.  As they spoke the older boy came inside, very tall against the sun and he stood beside his brother as the shop man wrote on a piece of carbon paper.

“OK no problem I’ll take a look and let you know what I find.  Phone number?”
The younger boy gave his phone number and then the key to the car, and they all nodded in agreement and the two boys went out and together got into the big blue car.

The younger boy looked at his phone and saw that it was still early in the morning and they’d made very good time driving to the shop.

“I’ve got one hour.  Maybe we can find a cafe around here and have some coffee”.

Hulu Rant

One of the most prominent websites in my life is Hulu.  Every time a season of The Bachelor is airing, Hulu breaks into my top ten most-visited sites.

Hulu is a great service, but lately I think they’re starting to take themselves a little too seriously.  They’ve got this paid version called Hulu Plus, and they push this on you every time you watch a show.  Frankly, if I wanted to pay to watch TV I probably wouldn’t be on Hulu in the first place.

And then there’s the ads.  You can now “create your own ad experience”, which is a totally sick concept.  Hulu wanting to make sure the ads they play are relevant to me is like asking somebody which way, exactly, they want to be screwed.  I don’t want to watch your ads and please don’t patronize me by asking for my feedback like you actually give a shit about me.

You also get to suggest how you’d like to have your pile of insidious shit served: all up front, in an extended two minute segment, or in normal bite-sized chunks of horseshit throughout the show.  I know, this decision is a difficult one, but don’t worry—Hulu gives you time to decide.  You can sit there for 15 or 20 seconds staring at the two radio buttons thinking about how you just want to watch the goddamn tv show and Hulu will sit there quietly and await your decision.  Finally, they’ll assume you want the poop fed to you in manageable bits, and serve you up your first spoonful.

From there it’s just like watching TV.  Your show streams in quite nicely, you can expand it to fullscreen, and every now and then there’s a commercial break.  It’s at the end of the show that Hulu really pisses me off.

The show’s over, the credits and catchy/emotional music is rolling, and you’re getting ready to do some dishes, and on comes another ad.

HOW FUCKING STUPID DO YOU THINK I AM?  DO YOU HONESTLY THINK I’M GOING TO SIT THERE LIKE A NEWBORN CHILD AND WATCH ANOTHER FUCKING COMMERCIAL AS IF THERE MIGHT BE SOMETHING GOOD ON THE OTHER SIDE?

I’m no rocket scientist, but I know when my show’s good and done and I don’t need another commercial crammed down my throat right now.  But there’s no pause, stop, or mute.  The only way out is to close down your browser window, which they know is entirely possible but they’re betting that the average American is so fucking stupid and lazy that they’ll sit there and watch one last, final commercial because it just feels so damn natural.

Well fuck you Hulu, I will “x” out your window with no reservations, and I will never, ever, let you know if an ad is relevant to me or not.  But please continue to air The Bachelor because it’s coming up again in June and I can’t wait to see how 25 single guys respond to Ashley H’s weird hand gestures.

Why you always get the honey bear

Sis and I were doing a Monday evening shopping run at Safeway.  Nearing the end of our list, making for the dairy section, a Safeway employee caught our eye, and, smiling, asked if we’d found everything ok.  We had.

“We got the honey” said sis as our cart stopped beside him.

“Course you do!” he replied, “You got yo honey right here!” (referring to me).

We didn’t bother explaining, and laughed along.  He drew a little closer.

“Organic honey, huh?”  We looked down at our bottle of honey and back up at him.

“You know what you can do...”  We looked back with blank little smiles.

“Next time, get the honey bear.  You know, the honey that comes in the little plastic bear.”

We smiled and nodded, “uh huh”, “sure”.

“Well you get the honey bear and when the honey’s all gone, you take the little bear and you rinse it out real good.”

We continued to smile and nod “uh huh”, “Ok”

“And then you take some food coloring, ok?  And you put a few drops in there and you fill it up with water, and then you’ve got yourself a nice little colored bear and you decorate yo house with that.”

We both started laughing, he cut us off earnestly: “Yeah, so instead of throwing that away, you know, you’ve got yourself a real nice decoration, and you can put ‘em anywhere”.

Realizing that he was serious, we tried to reign in our laughter a bit.

“Yeah, you know you can put ‘em in your bathroom or whatever, and then you’ve got this nice little bear lookin’ back at you in the bathroom or wherever”.

Sis and I came back to earth a little, and I somehow managed a comment about recycling.  We assured him that we would give that a try next time, and, a bit dazed, we carried on with our shopping trip.

Below are instructions for this marvelous little craft

"Honey Bear" by Craig Stevens

You will need:

1 Honey Bear

1 Box of food coloring

A faucet

How to do it:

1. Use all of the honey in the bear.

2. Rinse it out real good.

3. Add a couple drops of food coloring (note: use more drops for a richer-colored bear.  Use less drops for a more translucent bear).

4. Replace the Bear’s hat and shake it up real good.

5. Find a place in your home to display your new decorative bear.

Updates from the Author (plus the Difference between an Em dash and an En Dash)

This post is designed to give you all an update on the life of Gabe.  It’s not very funny, or insightful in any way.  That said, I’m especially excited about life these days, and I thought I’d tell you why.

Sports Writing

I haven’t posted much on Poco Hecho recently, due largely to my new writing gig at Bleacher Report, a sports website.  I say gig because that’s how I think of it, not because I’m getting paid.  I write about FC Barcelona and how awesome they are.  I’ve learned the difference between an “em dash” and an “en dash”.  An em dash is used to break up sentences–like this one–that have a sudden pause.  En dashes are used to connect words, like in pro-American.  To type an em dash: on a Mac, use command + option + hyphen.  On a PC, hold alt and type “0151” on your keyboard.  You’re welcome.

Bootcamp

Summer is just around the corner, and it’s time to get to work on that beach bod.  I’ve begun attending Vinyasa Sports bootcamps twice a week in downtown S.F.  An hour and fifteen minutes of outdoor exercise led by the unstoppable Lucy Roberts makes for a good time and a stronger body.  I especially enjoy these workouts because I do things I don’t normally make myself do (e.g. hundreds of squats).

Photoshop

Back to school!  I’ve begun a weekly Photoshop class at the UC Berkeley Extension in downtown S.F.  I’m finally learning the amazing program that makes artists relevant in the age of internet.  The class is taught by Hugh D’Andrade, a fantastic illustrator whose work you may have seen in San Francisco.  We each get our own big shiny iMac during class, which is an absolute dream.  The best part?  Student discounts, baby.

vFlyer

40 of my best hours every week are spent working for vFlyer.com.  This isn’t a new development, but our next project is.  We’re building a website-builder.  It’s a complete CMS (content management system)–think Wordpress or Squarespace–that will build some really beautiful websites.  I’m helping extend the theme library, and I’m pretty stoked for the product.  We’re also hiring.  Needed are both a software engineer and a customer service extraordinaire.  The former requires some serious computer skills, the latter some serious people skills.  In both cases, you’ll get to work with me.

Sketchbook

I filled up a little moleskine sketchbook that’s now touring the country as part of The Sketchbook Project.  I had lots of fun on with this little guy, and I like to know that it can be viewed by totally random art-lovers around the U.S.  I’ll never get it back, but I’ll be able to link to a digital version once the tour is through.  Currently the sketchbooks can be seen are in Austin, Texas.  After stops in Portland, Atlanta, DC, and Seattle, they’ll debut in San Francisco on June 18th.  The 10,000 books then stop in Chicago and Winter Park, FL (??), before settling permanently into the Brooklyn Art Library.

Summer Dreaming

I’ll be taking a two-month leave from work this coming summer.  At the end of June, I’ll say goodbye to vFlyer and turn my attention back to painting.  If all goes as planned, I’ll return to the Chautauqua school of Art and complete the eight-week intensive studio program.  This hopefully means a whole bunch of new paintings, and the opportunity to see some of my dear friends on the Eastern seaboard.

Conclusion

If you’re reading this paragraph, thanks for wading through the self-promotion and being interested in my life.  I hope the coming months are looking rosy for all of you lovely folks.  Most importantly, thanks for reading Poco Hecho, and I promise some more sarcasm, humor, cynicism, and narrative in subsequent posts.

Monday Night Narrative

Tonight I decided to set up the pull-up bar I’d purchased last week at Sports Basement.  I intended to have myself a little bedroom workout, and I set right to it upon returning home.  I opened the box a bit skeptically, noticing the packing tape that indicated the item had been repackaged, and resold.  Inside were the four simple pieces of the apparatus, a folded diagram, and a small clear bag of hardware.  I unfolded the instructions first, examined the pieces, and planned my attack.  Four parts, four bolts, four nuts, and I’d be on my way to a ripped upper body.  I opened the little bag of hardware.  Inside were three bolts and four nuts.

I almost went nuts.  How freaking stupid do you have to be to leave out a bolt?  It’s not like some IKEA entertainment center with 67 pieces and an eight-page set of instructions.  3 out of 4 bolts?  Are you freaking serious?  I thought about returning the damn thing but how I didn’t want to get in the freaking car right now and drive down to Sports Basement, and how the damn thing would probably just sit in the corner of my room, or at best the trunk of my car, for like 2 weeks before I finally returned it for my measly $28.  I should get a refund and a replacement.  This was a colossal disappointment, a huge hassle, and boy was I going to make the cashier at Sports Basement feel real stupid when I opened the box and showed him the glaring absence of one of the 12 necessary pieces.

I tried to calm myself down.  This was a test.  I was tired, this was just a silly little incident thrown in my path, it was nothing.  It was a chance for me to demonstrate my self-control, my mastery of the moment, my ability to roll with the punches, find the humor in everything, and not be affected by triviality.  I threw the parts together and closed the box, and on the back...

The bolt.  Hello.  Scotch-taped their like some alien parasite clung the missing bolt to the back of the box.  Oh my goodness, now isn’t that funny?  Here I was getting all worked up, planning my tirade at the sports basement counter, deep-breathing to control my rage, and the little bolt was here all along.  I smiled, re-opened the box, laid out the parts once again, and set to fastening the first bolt to its nut.

The nut was too small.  I could screw it a couple of turns until the tighter end met the tip of the bolt, and no further could I go.  Who is the idiot who put this piece of shit together?  Is it so hard to grab the right freaking nuts for the job?  Again, we’re dealing with FOUR IDENTICAL BOLTS here people.  This isn’t hard.  What the hell am I supposed to do with these stupid little nuts?  I stomped off towards the tool closet, determined to muscle the damn things on there any way I could.  I was getting hungry, I could feel a twinge in my right hammy and I thought about how I was supposed to be stretching by now, and how I really just wanted to lie down and see what’s on ESPN3.

Well thanks to my ingenuity, a pair of pliers, and a screwdriver, I was able to work the bolts through the nuts.  These tools were definitely not included in the instructions, but as the pieces came together I gradually began to feel better about things, and get excited about doing some pull-ups.

What an up-and-down little incident!  From frustrated to relieved to frustrated and back to relieved, this was certainly a trying process, and an interesting one to observe.  I gave the final bolt its final turn, and hefted the completed apparatus.  Sturdy, simple, awesome.  I could practically feel the muscle bulging in my back.  I turned to my doorway and hooked the curved end under the doorjamb.  It didn’t grab.  I wiggled it a bit, turned around, came at it from the outside in, hooked it under again, but no luck.  The molding on my door was too high.  I freaked.  In 30 seconds I toured the entire apartment, frantically hooking the little rubber stubs up and under each doorway, grasping for purchase, and finding none.  There is nowhere in this ENTIRE apartment to hang this freaking piece of shit pull-up bar.  I stormed back to my room, briefly considered hurling the bar through my window, decided on my bed instead, and threw it down with disgust.  I stood there shaking my head, thinking of the half-hour I’d just wasted, the weekend to-do list undone on my desk, the massive pimple that was throbbing beside my nose, my fatigue and my sore hammy.

Somehow I managed to go on with my life.  I unrolled my yoga mat, cracked the window, and began a sun salutation.  Then I used the bar for some push-ups at the end of my routine, and tweaked my left shoulder.

Motorcade of Generosity

Last night I purchased Cake’s album “Motorcade of Generosity”.  This stuff came out when I was 8 years old, and I’m just hearing it now for the very first time.  It’s kind of like a time capsule.

I like to imagine the people around me that went out and bought it in 1994 at record stores in Sacramento - at Tower Records and at Dimple, who bought tickets to hear Cake perform live.  Meanwhile I was waking up early in a little house in Carmichael with my Mom and my brother and my sister and we were doing sun salutations and saying our decrees every morning.  I was playing in the backyard, imagining I was a soldier in some futuristic space-going world.  I didn’t have a computer, I didn’t know what the internet was.  I knew  2 rock and roll songs that my Dad taught me: “King of the Road” and “Jamaica Farewell”.  I was doing my best to get invited to friends houses, looking forward to soccer practice and cheerios for breakfast.  

Meanwhile, people in my town were blaring this beautiful, strong music, singing along at the top of their lungs and strumming the air guitar.  Road trippers were cruising down Engle road with beer in the cooler and this cd in the player, rolling down the windows and heading for highway 80.  I was learning about the Romans and the Greeks (the Romans were my favorites because of their helmets with the long gleaming side guards and thick bright-red crests).

Young men in high school were listening to these songs and closing their eyes and thinking about girls, thinking about how badly they wanted to kiss them and feeling better as the song played on.  I had no idea.  I was sitting in the living room listening to my folks read “The Secret Garden” aloud, getting sleepy at the end and gong to bed at 8:30.

Don't Be Stupid

It seems corporations aren’t sugar-coating it anymore.  They’ve decided they’ve spent enough time beating around the bush, dropping subtle hints and trying to mold consumer behaviour through evocative imagery and carefully crafted marketing campaigns.  It’s time to just come right out and say it.  “Ask and you shall receive” is the new motto maybe.  My dear readers, allow me to present the latest ad campaign from Diesel:

           

It’s simple really.  Stupid people will buy more clothes, and stupid people will pay $260 for a pair of jeans.  If everybody were stupid, business would be booming.  But how to make people want to be stupid?  Diesel can’t honestly expect people to just follow directions without some motivation - they need a reason to be stupid.

Brilliant!  Simply associate stupid with a more appealing adjective, like “fearless”.  Everybody wants to be fearless, daring, and brave - especially when their lives consist of monotonous, safe, routine activities - they’d like nothing more than the opportunity to prove how fearless they are, to distinguish themselves from all the other drones.  Diesel makes it as easy as a new pair of jeans!

But simply promoting stupid would only be going half-way.  To make people truly embrace stupidity, smart must be taken down a notch or two.

Yeah! Screw the Lion!  Take a picture of your vagina! Jeans!

So Diesel has created a smear campaign against smart.  There are some strong emotions surrounding smartness - jealousy, insecurity, fear, resentment.  The “Be Stupid” campaign riles up everybody who’s never liked the smart kids in class.  By showing how lame it is to be smart, Diesel can make stupid people feel better about being stupid.  Let's laugh at those silly smart people with all their brains and ideas, and let's be proud of being stupid!  So proud that we'll show the whole world by buying a $260 pair of jeans.

To me, stupid is buying a $40 t-shirt, or a $60 knit ski mask.

Stupid is wanting to be stupid.

A Pessimist's Guide to Going Out

Part I: Preparation

You will expend a massive amount of energy tonight.  You will lose the very best, most important, restorative hours of sleep - 10pm-3am.  Keep this thought in the back of your mind.  Put some music on, and try to get excited.  Maybe “I got a feeling” by the Black Eyed Peas.  Pick out some clothes, check yourself out in the mirror, mess with your hair a little bit.  Practice your dance moves, think about all the awkward moments you’ve had in nightclubs.  Change your shirt.  Go get your newest, coolest shirt.  Put on your new shoes.  Think about how these clothes will be subjected to sweat, glass-covered floors, and flying goblets of beer.  Have a beer or something.  You’re drinking tonight, so best to get started.

Part II: Getting there

Arrange to meet some friends at a bar.  The bar should be too far to walk, and off of the main muni lines.  Set off walking to the muni station, noticing all the people already having a good time on a Saturday night.  Think about how you must look to them.  Do you look confident?  Does your hair look good?  Muni ticket is $2, connecting cab ride is $7.  Start counting.

Part III: The Bar

Push your way up to the bar, examine the beers on tap.  Try to make some small talk with the people around you.  The beer is $5, leave a dollar bill for the bartender if he brings you the drink promptly.  Leave a dollar bill if it takes 10 minutes and she gives you a dirty look.  Work your way back to an overcrowded table and drink your beer quickly so that you can repeat the comfortable and well-respected ritual of going to get another drink.

Part IV: The Club

Choose somewhere with a really long line.  Pull out your phone regularly while in line and check the time.  Think about how you could be sleeping right now, and what you could be accomplishing tomorrow morning.  Listen to the beat of the music from inside, and as you reach the front of the line, note the smell of booze and sweat seeping out from the club.  Show the man your ID, pay a $5 - $10 cover, get an ugly stamp on your wrist.  Once inside, immediately start bobbing your head to the music while the rest of your friends trickle in, then force your way to the bar.  Alternately lean inwards to get the attention of the bartender, and outwards to contribute something of value to the conversation.  Don’t look tired.  Buy the first round - maybe some tequila shots, for $26.  Leave a nice tip, smile and get excited about the tequila.  After the shot, pause for a moment before putting the lime in your mouth to prove your manliness.  Concur that it’s a good idea to go dance, and sidle through the crowd to the dance floor.  Pretend like you have more energy than you do, and smile at all the girls.  But just a little - too much and they’ll think you’re creepy.  Act confident, damnit.  If necessary, dance with your bros.  Find a spot near some girls so that they can see you, but don’t approach them directly.  Once you’ve exhausted your repertoire of moves, excuse yourself and go to the bathroom.  Wait in another line, try not to step on the glass or in the puddles of urine, look at yourself in the mirror and psyche yourself up for another foray.  Repeat until the club closes.

Part V: The End

Mill about a bit outside the club.  Make your way towards a nearby late-night pizza place and wait in line some more.  Your ears will most likely be ringing, so think about the long-term hearing damage you’ve probably just incurred.  Throw down $5 on a greasy slice of supreme pizza.  Smash the pizza and drink water from a tiny plastic cup.  Look for a cab.  Set up strategic positions, wait some more, check your cell phone again and estimate the exact time you’ll actually get to sleep.  Take the cab home in silence, review your night with some remorse.  Pay the $12 fare, tip the cabbie nicely.  Make your way into your room, look at the clock, the stains on your shoes and the stains on your shirt.  Get undressed and, if you have an ex, think about them.  As you go to sleep, imagine how lousy you’ll feel in the morning, and make drastic resolutions about the future.

The Gabriel Effect of Correspondence

Isn’t it nice to receive an email from a friend?  Especially somebody you haven’t seen in awhile, or who’s living in another part of the world?  Yes, well, perhaps at first, but next thing you know you may find yourself resenting the note and even its sender, all thanks to a strange psychological phenomenon that today I’m defining and coining as my own - the Gabriel effect of correspondence.

Anecdotal Example

While living in Barcelona, I taught English classes to a lovely family, who we’ll call the Orozcos.  They had two fantastic children who I very much looked forward to seeing each week, and when summer came and we had our last class, I was very sad to say goodbye.  Our farewell was made easier by the shared conviction that we would stay in touch (an innocent idea, and one worthy of its own study).  We exchanged email addresses, and in the months following my departure, a small series of emails.

I really enjoyed receiving emails from the Orozco family - first from Sra. Orozco, and then from the children as well.  When one of these messages came rolling in, I would read it, smile to myself, maybe read it again, then, wishing to respond in kind - but not immediately disposed to such activity - move on with my day.  Planted in my mind, the requisite response began to stew.  At first, I’d simply imagine writing back soon, when I’d be more “in the mood”.  Inevitably, however, the day would end, the next one would come and go, and I would still be sans response.  Waiting as I was for the perfect opportunity to present itself, before I knew it, a week would have passed.

During this week, not a day would go by that I didn’t think about the email.  With each successive day of these thoughts, unaccompanied as they were by decisive action, the task at hand grew greater.  Each day that the Orozcos sat waiting for my response, I thought, must be compensated by an increasingly stellar email.  Whereas at first a simple reply would suffice, after two weeks my response had to be at least five paragraphs in length, funny, heartfelt, interesting, emotionally revealing, with individual shout-outs to each Orozco, plus attached photos of my new apartment, latest painting, and some traditional American cuisine.  As my expectations for the quality of my response grew, I saw the amount of effort required to respond increase as well.  A standard 10-minute time slot was no longer sufficient - responding to the Orozcos now required a full hour of prime creative time and space, an opportunity that did not present itself readily.  The wait went on.

Before long, I was trapped in a feedback loop that spiralled dangerously out of control.  Each day I would see the email in my account, cringe at the amount of time it had gone without response, and wish I’d replied immediately.  How easy it would have been to have written just what came to my mind in that moment of first impression!  How quickly I could have tapped out a sincere response!  How much better would my life now be!  Instead I began to resent the email, its constant presence in my life, and the Orozcos themselves.  The grand response plagued my every waking moment with its grandeur, its perfect mix of English, Spanish, and Catalan, its sultry blend of poetry and prose; oh how Sra. Orozco would call the children and her husband to her side, “un email del Gabriel!”, she would say, how they would come running, eyes lit up with excitement, how they would laugh heartily and smile at each other through the comedy, and tear up during the emotional revelations, nodding slowly as my words touched their very souls.  I feared that I was not man enough to create such a response - it had taken on a life of its own, transcended my own capability, and doomed me to continued guilt and paralysis of inaction.  This is the Gabriel effect of correspondence.

Technical Details

In a positive feedback loop, A produces more of B, which in turn produces more of A.

A. Time (Response delay)

B. Expectation

As time passes without a response, the expected quality of said response increases.  As expectation grows, the effort required to produce a response increases, producing a longer delay.  Examples of this effect can be found in emails, letters, voicemail, facebook messages, wall posts, and even text messages.  The only sure strategy for mitigating the effect is to respond immediately to all correspondence.

Summary

Correspondence carries the expectation of a response.  This is an unwritten rule of society, and one that can cause great consternation. By clarifying this phenomenon, my goal is to increase awareness of the powerful effect even the simplest note can have on a fragile psyche, and help others like myself safely navigate social contracts and long-distance friendships.

3 Lessons in 24 Hours

1. Take your damn time

2. Chill the hell out

3. Don’t ever say “fuck you”, even under your breath.

Lesson 1: Take your damn time

Tuesday I was to meet up with Moms at the Apple store where she’d taken her computer for repair.  An important call came in at work right as I’d planned to leave, so instead of leaving at 12:30, I didn’t get out until 12:48.  I snapped on my bike gear and took off post-haste down Market.  I was hungry, hurried, and wired from a morning of officing, and as I passed intersection after intersection without seeing the big silver box that is the Mac store, I started to wonder if I’d passed it.  This made me angry, “how the hell could I have passed it?” - I’d been looking dutifully to the right as I crossed each street.  I picked up the pace even more, determined to get there faster, the realization that I had passed the store slowly sinking in.  My denial finally reached an end when I reached Van Ness.  Somehow this totally set me off.  I felt like screaming, I cursed a bit, and turned my bike around abruptly and began rocking down the bumpy street in the other direction, now checking each intersection on my left.  It was an absolutely beautiful day, but I was determined not to let this raise my spirits.  I was still in denial, and sarcastically said “oh it probably just disappeared completely”.  Finally I reached it - just about 2 blocks from my building, sitting on the corner very solidly - apparently it had been sitting there the whole time.  I parked and collected myself and went indoors to find Mom serenely sitting on a stool, writing in a little notebook, waiting for the blue-shirted mac doctors to return with a verdict on her laptop.

Could’ve enjoyed the ride, would’ve gone straight there if I hadn’t been in such a hurry.  Take your damn time.

Market St. in the morning

Lesson 2: Chill the hell out

Biking to work yesterday, I approached the third street intersection, the lights shining green in the distance.  I wasn’t sure if I’d make it, but as I got closer the light stayed green so I accelerated to try to catch it and it turned yellow just as I approached.  Instead of slowing to a halt I pedalled even harder and blazed through the yellow light.  Now, although this is common practice in a car, on a bike it’s a bit different - even if you get into the intersection before the light turns red, it takes about twice as long to get through it, and as pedestrians prepare to cross on the other side, you’re screaming at them full speed but making almost no noise.  A young woman, eager to get to the north side of Market street, took a great big stride out into the intersection just as the little white man flashed on.  She didn’t see me coming, and I swerved, BAREly missing her.  

Would have been awful.  Saved me about one minute’s time.  Chill the hell out.

Market St. in the afternoon

Lesson 3: Don’t say “fuck you” to people, even under your breath

Yesterday morning my Mom and I sat at the breakfast table and tapped away at our computers, when my Mom looked up and said “I wonder if I have to move my car”.  Wednesday is always street cleaning somewhere in this neighborhood, and after a moment’s debate, she got up - knowing it wasn’t worth the $55 ticket to sit and wonder which side of the street those little buggers will be patrolling today.  As she made to leave she said “and what about Lucy’s car!”, which was parked right out front, and at 7:56, we realized was just minutes away from yet another ticket.  So we scrambled together, me slipping on shoes and grabbing keys and feeling a bit upset that my morning was interrupted by this task, and out the door and down the stairs we went.  Lucy’s Honda was very much alone on this side of the street, and we hopped in, me driving Moms up to where Maxi was parked.  I let her off at 21st and diamond, and prepared to turn around through 21st street, but found my way blocked by a van coming down 21st and looking to turn left on Diamond.  So I pulled over awkwardly as suddenly numerous cars came streaming up and down Diamond - everybody madly scrambling to get out of the way of the traffic cops.  Finally, the traffic cleared and the van turned, and looking over my left shoulder for oncoming traffic, I looped up and around right behind him.  Some gentleman decided to cross 21st street just then, and I didn’t see him at all - my sharp turn cut right in front of his path, and as he walked on I sheepishly realized I was very lucky not to have hit the guy.  He didn’t say anything, but as I prepared to make my left onto Diamond and drive back downhill, I saw he’d stopped in the middle of the street and was staring at me.  This bothered me - ‘what the hell are you looking at, buddy?’ I thought to myself, and as the traffic finally cleared I stared right back at him, saying softly ‘oh you’ve decided I need a talking to, have you?’.  As I made my turn our eyes met and he flipped me a really aggressive bird and mouthed “Fuck you”.  I stared right back at him, said “fuck you!” under my breath, and drove off.  I was pissed, just really freaking pissed at this asshole as I drove down the hill.  God what the hell kind of a way to start off my morning.  I looped down past the apartment and back up Diamond looking for a spot, and I immediately regretted the way I’d handled the situation.  Obviously, I’d given the guy quite a scare, and his strangely aggressive response had elicited the same from me - I appeared some punk kid with no consideration for pedestrians.  I ought to have winced at him, raised my hand in apology, and mouthed “sorry”.  Better yet, I could have dropped the window as I drove by, and given him a chance to speak his mind.  I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t have tried to kill me or anything - and maybe had I told him how sorry I was, he would’ve gotten his beef off of his chest, I would’ve gotten my appropriate punishment, and we both would’ve moved onwards in much happier states of mind.

But the worst two words to say to somebody are “fuck you”.

Claude Monet was French

Today I stumbled upon an article about a Monet exhibition in Paris that has been extended to 24 hours/day thanks to long lines and massive demand.  Apparently 7,000 people visit the show every day.  The article's featured photo knocked my socks off - a lovely lesser-known Monet painting with plenty of personal significance.

Finishing my art degree at UC Davis, I enrolled in an art history course on the impressionist movement, and throughout the first months of 2009 I studied the lovely paintings of Monet, Manet, and Pissarro.  To prepare for exams, I created stacks of flash cards - an image of the painting affixed to the front, and on the back, important details like the artist name and date.  The trick was choosing which paintings to make into flashcards.  Memorizing every single painting in the textbook, or even those mentioned in lecture, would be daunting (one professor, Jeffrey Ruda, actually imposed this ridiculous requirement), and I considered myself very skilled at predicting which paintings may appear on the exam.  With dozens to choose from, and only 5 to 10 on each test, it was logical that our esteemed professor Catherine Anderson would select only the most important pieces.  On the day of our second mid-term exam (worth about 20% of the total grade), I came prepared to identify a good 30 paintings - confident my stack of flashcards included all the slides we were about to see.  I was right on, and I cruised through the test, quickly identifying each painting as it appeared.  Then, near the end of the exam - disaster.  This painting appeared - a Monet piece I’d failed to include in my flashcards.

I didn’t know the title.  I guessed the date within a few years but I didn’t know the darn title - an easy 2 points out the window. I glanced at the desk of the girl to my right, who had set to writing her analysis of the work - and the name she’d written seemed to jump off of her booklet and into my mind: “Claude Monet  - A Day by the Bay”.  Without thinking twice, I wrote this down and proceeded with my mini-essay about the work.  I never thought about the title again, I finished what turned out to be a stellar analysis, the test ended, I handed in my booklet, hopped on my bike and pedaled for home.

On my way through campus I ran into Gab, and she asked how the test had gone.

“Really well” I responded “except for one slide...”  And I explained the situation, and how I’d grabbed the ID from my classmate.  Gab looked at me kind of seriously, and said something like "can't you get kicked out of school for that?", and the true nature of what I’d just done started to sink in.  We said goodbye as she proceeded to class, and I biked home, slowly developing an awful feeling in the pit of my stomach.  By the time I reached the Viking I realized a few things:

a. Since Monet was french, the title of the piece probably wasn’t “A Day by the Bay”
b. The girl on my right was just as clueless as I
c. Our tests would be the only two that incorrectly identified that painting as “A Day by the Bay”
d. The shit would hit the fan

I got inside and laid down on the couch, feeling pretty sick now.  I opened my computer and pulled up the class site and Monet’s pretty little painting read “Terrasse a Sainte-Adresse” and I wanted to throw up.  I imagined every step of the process - professor Anderson grading the tests, marking my ID as wrong, coming upon the girl’s test a few minutes later, reading “A Day By The Bay” again and thinking “hmm.. that looks familiar”, going back to my test, turning to that page and saying “aha!”.  Then me being called in to her office, confronted by the other girl, getting kicked out of UC Davis... and I couldn’t bear it.  I wrote an email to Professor Anderson right then and there.  I laid it all out - what happened, how sorry I was, how I wasn’t in the habit of this sort of thing, (but that I knew there was no way to prove it).  I appealed to her mercy and hoped for the best.

She didn’t get back to me for a couple of long days, but finally she responded and set up a post-class meeting, where she thanked me for my note and told me her decision was to simply mark that part of the question wrong.  She said that from my writing it was clear that I wasn’t casting about for answers.  I was elated.  I was so freaking grateful I painted her a painting.

Despite the lack of consequences, I like to think that I learned something.  Mostly that cheating is never worth it.  I would’ve still gotten an A had I simply left the name blank (Or come up with my own original name like ‘a day by the bay’).  I also learned that I’m not very smooth, and probably never will be.

Anyhow, 2 years later, that little Monet pops up in my Twitter feed, and a really rich memory comes back to me.  I hope the midnight museum-goers are enjoying it in Paris, and I hope Catherine Anderson is enjoying her tulips.