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.

Coping with Coughing

Last night I woke up coughing.  The type of coughs that lift you up off of the bed so that you can lean forward and really cough it out.  Then you lay down and take a few breaths and hope that it goes away, but a few seconds later you’re up off your back hacking away again.  This can go on as long as you’d like, but eventually you have to get up and address the issue.  I chose cough drops and a glass of cold water - a fast fix that I hoped would work.  I padded bare-legged down the cold dark hallway and grumpily grabbed the whole bag of cough drops from the kitchen, filled my mug, and returned to bed.  I propped myself up a bit and began sucking ferociously on the cough drop, popping forward now and again with little fits of coughs, then laying back down and pulling the blanket up to my chin.  I was generally pissed off - mad at the freezing cold SF weather, mad that I was sick for the second time in as many months, and mad mostly that I was losing an hour of valuable sleep.  Gradually, as the cough syrup dripped down my throat and accompanying stream of mucus started to slow, the coughs subsided and I drifted back to sleep.

If this happens again, here’s what I’ll do:  I’ll get up right away, and pretend that I’m doing so for fun.  I’ll take the time to put on socks and sweats and slippers, grab my book, and head to the kitchen.  I’ll turn on the little light over the table and maybe even the heater, fill the kettle and set it to boil.  I’ll sit down and start to read as the water heats.  As the water nears boiling, I’ll grab my favorite mug and fill it with a spoonful of honey and a little slice of Meyer lemon.  I’ll stand over the stove with my hand on the gas knob and watch the steam rising from the kettle.  As it lets out it’s first whistle I’ll shut it off and pour the water into my mug and return to the table and my book.  I’ll get through another chapter or two, mug held to my grill, steam rising warmly into my nose and mouth, and sip my coughs away.  Warmed, relaxed, and content, I’ll shut my book, put the mug in the sink, and go back to bed. At least that's the plan.

Wine, limo rides, and a very frustrating sign

A few weeks ago I went wine tasting in Amador county.  I went in a limo with mostly people I didn’t know but a few that I did.  Gab and I were the youngest, and I was impressed with the efficiency and professionalism with which our older companions constructed a day of debauchery.  Before leaving there were mimosas being gulped, a hearty breakfast being finished, and a batch of cocktails being poured.  We got out the door well before noon, stowed a full-sized cooler full of alcohol in the trunk, and popped a bottle of champagne as soon as the limo got rolling.

It turns out that Amador county is gorgeous, despite the rather unsightly beginning of the trip from Sacramento on Jackson highway.  It was a winter day but the temperature gradually rose and the ground began to pick up into lovely rolling hills, and the clouds parted and let in the crispy December sunlight.  We turned the music up and held our bubbly and looked out at the spectacular clouds and hills.  We stopped just before reaching our first winery and picked up sandwiches - pre-ordered from a pre-selected deli (again, older people know how to roll), and getting out we all felt a little tipsy and quite content and the sunlight felt so good on our skin.  After paying for our sandwiches I ambled back to the bathroom, savoring, as I often do, an empty establishment and a capacious bathroom.  Sort of like stretching out in your hotel room, I find exploring a new building in a leisurely fashion, then relieving myself without the slightest hurry or discomfort very pleasing.  I looked at the pictures on the wall and at myself in the mirror, washing my hands in warm water, then striding rather quickly out as I realized everybody was probably waiting for me.  

Our driver was great.  His name was Steve and he wore secret agent-like sunglasses, a short crew-cut, and a dark suit.  Steve looked like he’d been through a thing or two in life, and was very happy to be leading the simple, sober life (at least while on the job) of limo driver.  He took his job seriously, and stood just off to the side of our party as we sat down at the first winery - outside on a patio overlooking rows of gnarled, leafless vines.  Steve busied himself with some sort of wine magazine, but was obviously not reading a word on the page, as he kept glancing up and around and smiling at everybody.  The first tasting was very pleasant - lots of whites and zins and pinos, and I swirled around and sniffed and swished and liked most every single wine, and especially the salami and crostini snacks in the center of the table.  It was so beautiful outside we didn’t really want to leave.  Gab and I moseyed out to the gravel road and into the bright sun, snapping some photos and noticing all four cars parked in a row were Volkswagen.  We were all feeling thoroughly tipsy at this point, but the fatigue of the day had yet to set in, and so we laughed and soaked up the sun and posed for pictures on an old, rusty, but very picturesque truck.  Steve took the role as photographer very seriously, darting back and forth exchanging cameras with the girls.

Our second stop was at Bray Vineyards.  We tasted wine inside at the bar, and the place had a casual, comfortable vibe which was perfect for our party to really ramp up the party.  There were barrels full of buttons, and wines named “Brayzen Hussy”.  Our previous pourer was some rosy-cheeked and fast-talking attorney; here we were served by t-shirt wearing folks - one older fellow, one younger fellow, and a pregnant lady.  Gab and I found a slot near the end of the bar and were served by the younger fellow Eric - a tall and good-natured chap with a penchant for sarcasm.  Although he served us wine, he was far from obsequious, and we began to develop a bit of a banter.  I examined the sign hanging on the wall behind him - a yellow roadsign depicting a farmer popping a wheely on his tractor and guzzling a bottle of wine.  The sign read “farm responsibly”.

I soon became bothered by the contradictory nature of the sign, and pointed this out to Eric:

“That sign doesn’t really make sense.  If the message is to farm responsibly, shouldn’t there be a big ‘X’ over the farmer?”

Eric turned and looked at the sign, then back to me: “I think you’re putting a little too much thought into this”.

Our audience (2 people) laughed, but I went on: 

“I’m not really - the sign is a complete contradiction - I mean if the message really is to ‘farm responsibly’, the sign should show somebody farming responsibly.  If it shows somebody not farming responsibly, there should be a big “X” over it - like a ‘no smoking’ sign.”

Eric insisted that “it was just a sign”, and that I was really giving this too much thought, and the ensuing conversation focused on the fact that I was wearing a sport coat, and how when I’d first introduced myself that morning, people wondered just who exactly I thought I was.  My taking issue with a simple, funny, sign was obviously further proof that I took myself too seriously.

To make matters worse, in an attempt to explain why the drawing clearly depicted an irresponsible piece of farming, I mimicked the farmer rearing backwards on his tractor and swigging a bottle of wine, and I smacked my glass of wine right over onto the counter, spilling the contents.  This was quite funny, and Eric was quite kind to clean it up, but I’m pretty sure he got in a jab about my responsibility (I felt much better a few seconds later when somebody in our party toppled an entire row of wine bottles, smashing a few glasses in the process).

Eventually I gave up the argument - obviously I wasn’t about to convince Bray vineyards to change their sign, and I went back to my wine (which was excellent), and the conversation drifted elsewhere and I ended up buying 2 bottles and then we all sat down to lunch in the sun.

We stopped at one more winery, people got a little bit more drunk, conversations heated up, and eventually we all returned to reality and Sacramento in our long white limousine.

But I never forgot that sign and its frustrating contradiction.  And my question to you my dear readers, is this: was I really putting too much thought into that little sign?  Is it too much to ask that printed, posted, and sold items such as this sign - unofficial as they may be - adhere to some principles of grammatical and visual integrity?  Am I so off-base to call attention to such inconsistency?  AM I THE ONLY PERSON THAT THINKS THAT SIGN IS A SLAP IN THE FACE TO THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE, THE HUMAN MIND, AND CRITICAL THOUGHT?

In defense of noses

Ever seen somebody scratch their nose?  Was it calm, casual, or mild?  Or was it vigorous, aggressive, and perhaps even violent?  I’ve seen many of the latter, particularly when the scratcher doesn’t know he or she is being watched.  Perhaps the nose’s soft, pliable character lends itself to more manhandling, and perhaps the itch that afflicts one’s nose is more potent than others, but I’ve seen some scratching that makes me cringe.

First off, at least two fingers are used in conjunction, sometimes even the entire palm.  Secondly, instead of a particular point being targeted and scratched, the entire nose is mashed and moved, often in a circular motion, in a desperate attempt to alleviate the itch.  The word frantic comes to mind - as if the itch were a life-threatening condition that must be emphatically eradicated.  Vigorous rotations of the snout are accompanied by sharp inhales and exhales.  The entire upper body tenses, eyes close, and the pace of the attack picks up to a frightening crescendo.  Finally, presumably as the itch subsides, the rotations slow, the shoulders relax, the eyes open, and the scratcher exhales gratefully.

I feel poorly for little noses around the world that fall victim to these attacks - and I can’t say I’m innocent - but maybe we can all go a little easier on our noses.  Just use one finger, get to the source of the itch, and scratch with precision.  Your nose will no doubt be happier.