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.

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.

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”.

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.

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 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!!

The Physical Effect of Cherries

At 4pm yesterday, I hit a bit of a wall. I felt like someone from that awful awful 5 hour energy ad - "we all know what 2:30 feels like...". Oh how I loathe that ad. I'd post it here, but then I'd be furthering their cause.

The first thing I did was take off my shoes. This always provides some cooling relief by releasing all the pent-up heat energy in my feet. Then I got up and headed for the ki

tchen. My legs were sore from soccer - especially where the quads meet the hips. (How in the world does one stretch this region? You can yank your feet up behind you all day long, and you'll most likely end up with a hyper-extended knee, and sore quads the next day).

In any case, I decided to pull the bag of cherries from the fridge rather than the bag of oatmeal-raisin cookies from on top. I poured a goodly amount into a bowl, planning on sharing with vFlyer, and gave them all a nice cold rinse. I also grabbed a little tupperware for the pits. The first one was delicious, and I had two or three before I began to make the rounds of the office.

The devteam was deep in conversation - something about computers - so I started with Todd. He had two or three while I told him the story of the cherries' purchase - an extreme organic grocery store impulse buy (along with $23 of other assorted goods, all gathered in my arms in a matter of 3 minutes).

Sindy obviously likes cherries, and took 3. She smiled and actually said "I'll take three".

Sam doesn't like cherries. Nor fruit in general. "I like oranges", he said. "I eat alot of oranges".

I returned to my desk and my work, and as 5pm neared I noticed I only had 2 cherries left. I counted the pits in my tupperware: 25. Twenty-five cherries! This seemed like alot - too much, even, so I did some research.

I found some good news:

"Cherries are a potential treatment for diabetes that may lower blood sugar levels. They may help prevent colon cancer, significantly reduce pain due to muscle damage, provide relief from the pain of gout and arthritis and lower LDL (low-density lipoprotein) cholesterol, a contributing factor in heart disease and strokes." -Life 123.com

I also found a troubling tale:

"Former President Zachary Taylor ate a substantial amount of cherries the day of his death. He i

s presumed to have died from a foodborne illness that lasted 5 days."

I suspect Taylor's death had more to do with what was on those particular cherries, and the gulps of warm milk he was simultaneously downing. And then the subsequent bleeding by his doctors.It turns out there's a conspiracy theory surrounding this cherry-lover's death, with enough momentum to warrant digging up the old bones in 1991 for a scientific examination (read: the exhumation of Taylor's remains): http://bit.ly/ctjKME

Me? I had two more cherries, bringing my grand total to 27. I made it home just fine, with no ill effects to report, and I'm happily back to the cherry-eating today.

Overall, I feel that cherries have a lot to offer those looking for an afternoon pick-me-up. They're sweet and juicy, and according to one loyal non-reader, eating a cherry is:

"Like playing a little game - you try to eat the cherry

without breaking your tooth on the pit"

And, best of all - the satisfaction of spitting the little wooden pit, especially hearing it plunk into the bottom of a plastic container.