The other Wednesday, Tommy and I went to San Francisco for a ritual we hadn't participated in for about 3 (for me) or 4 (for him) years: a Boy Scout meeting. We went to a meeting of Troop 88 to talk about our experiences of becoming eagle scouts. My mental forecast predicted ineloquence with a 70% chance of awkward. The meeting turned out surprisingly well, and I didn't make too big a fool of myself in front of the cool-as-shit 14 year-olds.
The biggest treat was the post-meeting schmoozing. Since I left the troop, the scrawny, rinky dink scouts I once knew had grown up into the current leadership. And the mid-level scouts I had taken backpacking had now taken my place as the aloof, old men of the mountain.
There's something inherently satisfying about seeing something come full circle to its end-state. Maybe I should take up farming. Watching a new crop come in would never get old.
05 December 2009
The Out-of-Doors
I'm pretty happy that I've been getting to go outside more these days. There were times earlier in the semester when I was worried that I might start to suffer from nature deficit disorder if I spent one more glorious afternoon in the library.
But luckily, I just got back from my first ever Christmas tree cut with the Cal Forestry Club. The experience was a very new (and fun) one. We left Friday afternoon and spent the night at Blodgett, one of UC Berkeley's four research forests in the Sierras. Anyway, there were cabins for us (about 20) to spend the night in. Highlights: eating homemade pizza (and vegan carrot soup), winning at Apples to Apples, and singing the Cal drinking song (among others) with a room full of foresters.
The next day (today), I got to be a lumberjack (or the closest I'll ever get). I got up at dawn, put on my longjohns and flannel, and ate some flapjacks before heading out to the timeberlot to cut down some white fir. I'm surprised that the whole process didn't make a beard spontaneously sprout out of my face. I'm rubbing my chin right now just to make sure. All told, we filled a U-Haul with 214 trees, anywhere from 3-20 feet tall.
It was some good fun.
Unrelated (except perhaps tangentially), two weeks before the tree cut, I had another outdoor adventure, except it was through my work. I never thought I'd ever get paid to go backpacking, but sometimes you find yourself living the dream (which is a bit of a shame, since reality doesn't quite always measure up to one's fantasies).
I got this opportunity because I was lucky enough to work with the Junior Rangers (JRs) in the month of November. The way it works at my job as an Interpretive Student Aide in Tilden Park is that we get our work assignments on a monthly basis, so our work schedules have a good deal of flexibility (and unpredictability). The JR program is for kids aged 9-13, with additional spots for high schoolers, who bear the auspicious title of "JR Aide."
Most months, the JRs go on an overnight camping/backpacking trip. To be honest, it was the lure of backpacking that drew me in; kids be damned. In comparison to JRs, my Boy Scout troop was a well-oiled military machine. Maybe it was the saluting.
But I digress. There's a point I want to get to. The most surreal moment of the trip came at night, as the campfire was still going strong in the large structure we were all staying inside of, and everyone was asleep in their bags. It was only 11pm, but it had been dark since 5. Surveying the room, I got to see a cross section of childhood, from age 9 to 16. By the light of the fire, I could barely make out the lumps scattered across the cement floor, so mostly I stared at the fire, thinking.
I thought about the day, how it had gone, all the JRs I had met, the impressions I had of them. Collin never stop talking about liopleuridons, these badass aquatic reptiles from the Jurassic. I thought about the teenagers flirting with each other off in the corner, their heads clumped, their sleeping bags radiating out.
As I looked around the room, I had the feeling as if I could put myself into each person's head. There were the two best buddies, side by side, who earlier were talking about the relative merits of their favorite computer games. There was the boy who admitted to the nighttime anxiety he often felt as he fell asleep. There were the awkward teens with braces whose sleeping bags rustled together in the hush of the fire. I felt like I was experiencing, for the first time, that moment from the point of view of everyone in the room simultaneously. Maybe it's just that I'm getting older. The next morning, they guessed that I was 20.
But luckily, I just got back from my first ever Christmas tree cut with the Cal Forestry Club. The experience was a very new (and fun) one. We left Friday afternoon and spent the night at Blodgett, one of UC Berkeley's four research forests in the Sierras. Anyway, there were cabins for us (about 20) to spend the night in. Highlights: eating homemade pizza (and vegan carrot soup), winning at Apples to Apples, and singing the Cal drinking song (among others) with a room full of foresters.
The next day (today), I got to be a lumberjack (or the closest I'll ever get). I got up at dawn, put on my longjohns and flannel, and ate some flapjacks before heading out to the timeberlot to cut down some white fir. I'm surprised that the whole process didn't make a beard spontaneously sprout out of my face. I'm rubbing my chin right now just to make sure. All told, we filled a U-Haul with 214 trees, anywhere from 3-20 feet tall.
It was some good fun.
Unrelated (except perhaps tangentially), two weeks before the tree cut, I had another outdoor adventure, except it was through my work. I never thought I'd ever get paid to go backpacking, but sometimes you find yourself living the dream (which is a bit of a shame, since reality doesn't quite always measure up to one's fantasies).
I got this opportunity because I was lucky enough to work with the Junior Rangers (JRs) in the month of November. The way it works at my job as an Interpretive Student Aide in Tilden Park is that we get our work assignments on a monthly basis, so our work schedules have a good deal of flexibility (and unpredictability). The JR program is for kids aged 9-13, with additional spots for high schoolers, who bear the auspicious title of "JR Aide."
Most months, the JRs go on an overnight camping/backpacking trip. To be honest, it was the lure of backpacking that drew me in; kids be damned. In comparison to JRs, my Boy Scout troop was a well-oiled military machine. Maybe it was the saluting.
But I digress. There's a point I want to get to. The most surreal moment of the trip came at night, as the campfire was still going strong in the large structure we were all staying inside of, and everyone was asleep in their bags. It was only 11pm, but it had been dark since 5. Surveying the room, I got to see a cross section of childhood, from age 9 to 16. By the light of the fire, I could barely make out the lumps scattered across the cement floor, so mostly I stared at the fire, thinking.
I thought about the day, how it had gone, all the JRs I had met, the impressions I had of them. Collin never stop talking about liopleuridons, these badass aquatic reptiles from the Jurassic. I thought about the teenagers flirting with each other off in the corner, their heads clumped, their sleeping bags radiating out.
As I looked around the room, I had the feeling as if I could put myself into each person's head. There were the two best buddies, side by side, who earlier were talking about the relative merits of their favorite computer games. There was the boy who admitted to the nighttime anxiety he often felt as he fell asleep. There were the awkward teens with braces whose sleeping bags rustled together in the hush of the fire. I felt like I was experiencing, for the first time, that moment from the point of view of everyone in the room simultaneously. Maybe it's just that I'm getting older. The next morning, they guessed that I was 20.
Blue Grass
Man, I just heard this really great bluegrass song this weekend. It's "Wagon Wheel" by Old Crow Medicine Show (youtube). It makes me feel lonely, but in the best way possible. I suppose the mixture of a traveler's isolation and longing for home is nothing new (The Odyssey), but I guess that kind of thing gets me every time (this song is choc full of it).
Shoelaces
In the past year, I've taught two people, one age nine and one age eighteen, to tie their shoelaces.
29 November 2009
Post-Thanksgiving Analysis
2009 was a pretty good Thanksgiving in my book.
It started off with dim sum on Clement with my Grandma. First came turnip cake. Then the shrimp dumplings. Then the beef patty in the big floppy noodle and then the fatty steamed pork in a little dish. It didn't stop until I was nauseous with delight.
Afterward, I went and saw Fantastic Mr. Fox with Karyn at the Four Star Theatre. The Four Star is one of those few remaining holdout neighborhood theaters that lives in constant fear of an omniplex coming in the night to gobble it up. Verdict: Wes Anderson did Roald Dahl justice. George Clooney, being a fox himself, fit his role as Mr. Fox quite naturally.
For Black Friday (known in some circles as Buy Nothing Day), Karyn and I hung out in the Park. We had a pretty good time in the Botanical Garden learning the scientific names of trees (Monterey cyprus = Cupressus macrocarpa, the secret is to visualize HUGE fingers). A lot of the day was spent in playgrounds, and I was grateful for the hearty breakfast and multiple cups of coffee that propelled me to ever greater heights on the swingset. You know you're going the right speed when you can feel your fingers going slack on the chains because you're about to black out.
Anyway, it was probably the happiest I've been since the summer when Karyn and I explored the ruins of the Sutro Baths and went into this shady cave that smelled boozy and later climbed on this big rock that was being engulfed by the incoming tide before we went to watch the waves crash on the rocks and the pelicans fly around near the Cliff House, and then we ate mustard sardines with rye crackers and flew kites on the beach.
Eventually, we met up with Elena, and we had an afternoon snack at the Baghdad Cafe (ever since childhood, I've always passed by, but that was the first time I ate there). Apparently, Elena's still the same badass, having satiated her hunger for butt-kicking with ultimate frisbee down in San Diego. Restless and filled with french fries, we left the Baghdad. One impromptu hike later, we were on top of Corona Heights, near the Randall Museum. It had just rained, and we could see for miles. Corona Heights is one of my favorite places in the City to look at the rest of the Bay.
But now I'm back in reality and about to start finals, and I feel a bit daunted. I've been reading Bobby Fischer Goes to War to stall for time and forget about the clouds on the horizon. It's quite good; I'm at the part where Fischer and Spassky are about to have a showdown in Iceland for the world chess championship. I bought it last night at Moe's Books on Telegraph, where there's an entire shelf of chess literature. My choice was one of the less intimidating books; the others, books like Beating the Sicilian II, were about equal parts chess notation and English.
I suppose this is the part where I get all cheesy and wrap things up, about how my Thanksgiving really made me appreciate all the wonderful, special people in my life and all. Well, there's really nothing I can write that will adequately express the feeling of gratefulness for living a charmed life. Instead, I think I will sit here and smile.
It started off with dim sum on Clement with my Grandma. First came turnip cake. Then the shrimp dumplings. Then the beef patty in the big floppy noodle and then the fatty steamed pork in a little dish. It didn't stop until I was nauseous with delight.
Afterward, I went and saw Fantastic Mr. Fox with Karyn at the Four Star Theatre. The Four Star is one of those few remaining holdout neighborhood theaters that lives in constant fear of an omniplex coming in the night to gobble it up. Verdict: Wes Anderson did Roald Dahl justice. George Clooney, being a fox himself, fit his role as Mr. Fox quite naturally.
For Black Friday (known in some circles as Buy Nothing Day), Karyn and I hung out in the Park. We had a pretty good time in the Botanical Garden learning the scientific names of trees (Monterey cyprus = Cupressus macrocarpa, the secret is to visualize HUGE fingers). A lot of the day was spent in playgrounds, and I was grateful for the hearty breakfast and multiple cups of coffee that propelled me to ever greater heights on the swingset. You know you're going the right speed when you can feel your fingers going slack on the chains because you're about to black out.
Anyway, it was probably the happiest I've been since the summer when Karyn and I explored the ruins of the Sutro Baths and went into this shady cave that smelled boozy and later climbed on this big rock that was being engulfed by the incoming tide before we went to watch the waves crash on the rocks and the pelicans fly around near the Cliff House, and then we ate mustard sardines with rye crackers and flew kites on the beach.
Eventually, we met up with Elena, and we had an afternoon snack at the Baghdad Cafe (ever since childhood, I've always passed by, but that was the first time I ate there). Apparently, Elena's still the same badass, having satiated her hunger for butt-kicking with ultimate frisbee down in San Diego. Restless and filled with french fries, we left the Baghdad. One impromptu hike later, we were on top of Corona Heights, near the Randall Museum. It had just rained, and we could see for miles. Corona Heights is one of my favorite places in the City to look at the rest of the Bay.
But now I'm back in reality and about to start finals, and I feel a bit daunted. I've been reading Bobby Fischer Goes to War to stall for time and forget about the clouds on the horizon. It's quite good; I'm at the part where Fischer and Spassky are about to have a showdown in Iceland for the world chess championship. I bought it last night at Moe's Books on Telegraph, where there's an entire shelf of chess literature. My choice was one of the less intimidating books; the others, books like Beating the Sicilian II, were about equal parts chess notation and English.
I suppose this is the part where I get all cheesy and wrap things up, about how my Thanksgiving really made me appreciate all the wonderful, special people in my life and all. Well, there's really nothing I can write that will adequately express the feeling of gratefulness for living a charmed life. Instead, I think I will sit here and smile.
04 November 2009
X-Country
A parable of the current novel-writing situation:
A tinny bang and a puff of smoke. The girls ran through the damp grass with springy mesh running shoes, ponytails bobbing, elbows jockeying for position in the pack. It was the second heat of junior varsity girls.
She was in the thick of it, the undulating sea of bibs and numbers and gaudy school colors. The air was brisk but she didn't feel the cold; all she felt was the sting in her lungs. Each stride she felt the tight then the slack, pulse in then out of her quads.
She started pushing up the hill, planting firmly each time into the grassy hillside, the smell of the damp almost perceptible. She was turning over and climbing the hill, steadily, still with the pack. She felt the first beads of perspiration, not yet congealing into sweat. And in a moment she felt for the firmness of the ground, and it was not there, just the sudden jerk downward of a hamstrung horse. She went down, grounded, no more rhythmic pulsating forward.
She got up and limped back toward the start.
A tinny bang and a puff of smoke. The girls ran through the damp grass with springy mesh running shoes, ponytails bobbing, elbows jockeying for position in the pack. It was the second heat of junior varsity girls.
She was in the thick of it, the undulating sea of bibs and numbers and gaudy school colors. The air was brisk but she didn't feel the cold; all she felt was the sting in her lungs. Each stride she felt the tight then the slack, pulse in then out of her quads.
She started pushing up the hill, planting firmly each time into the grassy hillside, the smell of the damp almost perceptible. She was turning over and climbing the hill, steadily, still with the pack. She felt the first beads of perspiration, not yet congealing into sweat. And in a moment she felt for the firmness of the ground, and it was not there, just the sudden jerk downward of a hamstrung horse. She went down, grounded, no more rhythmic pulsating forward.
She got up and limped back toward the start.
02 November 2009
NaNoWriMo Day Two
Story starts here.
But his sense of calm shattered when the warm orange lights of the incubation room withered away as streams of blinding white light pierced through the triple-pane ceiling.
Well, that was then, and this was now. And now he was running for his life. He glanced over his shoulder to look back, into the hold of the helicopter he had just been released from. He saw the small, blinking red lights peering out of the darkness of the hold. He knew they were waiting giving him a head start. He knew he would be chased relentlessly, that the chasers were programmed with the sole intention of finding him.
Well, that's show business, he thought. All a part of the price of fame.
He wasn't entirely sure why he had signed the release. He blamed the bright lights. They knew that bright lights made him eye implant act up. But then there was the issue of the prize, of course he wanted the prize as much as the others. That's how it worked, they paid the money on one end to hunt him, and he got a share of it if he survived for long enough. Seemed like a fair enough deal at the time. He thought that he was smarter, better than them. He had the benefit of wits and good looks, and the others, well, they'd just have to live with vaporization at the hands of a metallic beast controlled by a spoiled fourteen year-old.
It really was a fabulous plan on paper. It just killed so many birds with one stone, so to speak, though he wasn't entirely sure what a bird was. He had heard about them in childhood, but he didn't really believe in birds. Anyway, the system was efficient. Everyone consented and some of them might even live. He still wasn't sure why the telekineticvision people had approached him. Maybe he shouldn't have entered that raffle that one time.
But the offer was good. He was willing to be hunted, for a price. And somewhere out there, people wanted to hunt, also for a price. Well, it was only a matter of time before a central program planner at the TKVN (telekineticvision network) had the bright idea of bringing these two groups of people together.
Of course the money was good. Otherwise he wouldn't be facing a godforsaken wild with a child's school backpack stuffed with survival supplies. He still didn't understand that part, the child's school backpack. He had a vague recollection of someone at the network saying that they were getting requests that there be more humor in the show. Blood and guts just got blase, after a while. So now it was blood and guts and Dora the Explorer. There was probably some sort of promotional tie-in as well, he thought.
He felt his eye-implant buzz with a mild current. He knew they were broadcasting, live too. He didn't quite recall what handicap he had, this time. This was his fourth time out. He had only to complete this one, and then one more, and he could go home, mound of cash in tow. But he wasn't thinking about that right now. Right now he needed a suitable place to stay while the others got weeded out. He could already see some of them right now, huffing along the ridges of the valley he was in. Idiots. The surest way to not last the first hour was to be as conspicuous as possible. Better you than me. He ducked down through the willow leaves, pushing them aside like a bead curtain in a doorway. The creek was running low and stones in the streambed were barely damp. It was cool, and he could feel his chest tire of running, the adrenaline wearing off, the wet square of t-shirt against his backpack against his back.
It was dusk, and through the gaps in the tree he saw the specks of the other contestants, silhouetted against a brilliant orange sky, warm and all-embracing. He looked back down to his feet, he didn't want to twist his ankle on the uneven stones. He had come this far. He didn't want an anticlimactic ending.
He saw something. From the smooth rounded forms of the stones, a distinctly angular object broke with the prevailing geometry. He stopped to pick it up.
But his sense of calm shattered when the warm orange lights of the incubation room withered away as streams of blinding white light pierced through the triple-pane ceiling.
Well, that was then, and this was now. And now he was running for his life. He glanced over his shoulder to look back, into the hold of the helicopter he had just been released from. He saw the small, blinking red lights peering out of the darkness of the hold. He knew they were waiting giving him a head start. He knew he would be chased relentlessly, that the chasers were programmed with the sole intention of finding him.
Well, that's show business, he thought. All a part of the price of fame.
He wasn't entirely sure why he had signed the release. He blamed the bright lights. They knew that bright lights made him eye implant act up. But then there was the issue of the prize, of course he wanted the prize as much as the others. That's how it worked, they paid the money on one end to hunt him, and he got a share of it if he survived for long enough. Seemed like a fair enough deal at the time. He thought that he was smarter, better than them. He had the benefit of wits and good looks, and the others, well, they'd just have to live with vaporization at the hands of a metallic beast controlled by a spoiled fourteen year-old.
It really was a fabulous plan on paper. It just killed so many birds with one stone, so to speak, though he wasn't entirely sure what a bird was. He had heard about them in childhood, but he didn't really believe in birds. Anyway, the system was efficient. Everyone consented and some of them might even live. He still wasn't sure why the telekineticvision people had approached him. Maybe he shouldn't have entered that raffle that one time.
But the offer was good. He was willing to be hunted, for a price. And somewhere out there, people wanted to hunt, also for a price. Well, it was only a matter of time before a central program planner at the TKVN (telekineticvision network) had the bright idea of bringing these two groups of people together.
Of course the money was good. Otherwise he wouldn't be facing a godforsaken wild with a child's school backpack stuffed with survival supplies. He still didn't understand that part, the child's school backpack. He had a vague recollection of someone at the network saying that they were getting requests that there be more humor in the show. Blood and guts just got blase, after a while. So now it was blood and guts and Dora the Explorer. There was probably some sort of promotional tie-in as well, he thought.
He felt his eye-implant buzz with a mild current. He knew they were broadcasting, live too. He didn't quite recall what handicap he had, this time. This was his fourth time out. He had only to complete this one, and then one more, and he could go home, mound of cash in tow. But he wasn't thinking about that right now. Right now he needed a suitable place to stay while the others got weeded out. He could already see some of them right now, huffing along the ridges of the valley he was in. Idiots. The surest way to not last the first hour was to be as conspicuous as possible. Better you than me. He ducked down through the willow leaves, pushing them aside like a bead curtain in a doorway. The creek was running low and stones in the streambed were barely damp. It was cool, and he could feel his chest tire of running, the adrenaline wearing off, the wet square of t-shirt against his backpack against his back.
It was dusk, and through the gaps in the tree he saw the specks of the other contestants, silhouetted against a brilliant orange sky, warm and all-embracing. He looked back down to his feet, he didn't want to twist his ankle on the uneven stones. He had come this far. He didn't want an anticlimactic ending.
He saw something. From the smooth rounded forms of the stones, a distinctly angular object broke with the prevailing geometry. He stopped to pick it up.
NaNoWriMo
Well, as we all know, November is National Novel Writing Month. The last two attempts at literary glory never made it past 10,000 words. But here we go.
The Next Great American Novel
(c) 2009
The bell rang and Josiah was off, out of the gate. He could hear the beeping of the countdown timer on his wristwatch signifying how much time he had left before the chasers were released. An electronic beep came from his wrist and he knew he was screwed. He knew he was screwed before he even got into this mess, before he even landed on this strange and distant land. He knew he was screwed when the flash of lights took him away from his home planet. He could trace it all back to the night he had gone out to tend to his hydroponic fields of hyper-corn.
The growing season that year had been a good one, and the famines in the Central Republic States of Lesser Europa had helped increase demand. Aid agencies the world over were buying up all available stocks of hyper-corn to feed the skeletal peoples of Lesser Europa (in the news, they were pejoratively referred to as "twigs," in addition people from that region spoke a strange dialect of American). Anyway, life couldn't have been going better for a central farmbelt grower of hyper-corn.
But that night was unlike any other. The usual gale-force winds that came from the north had stopped and an unnatural stillness filled the air. Josiah walked over to where the chicken coop used to be where there now stood a large structure of steel and glass that vaguely resembled a greenhouse, but more squat and glowing with a warm orange light. He scanned his thumb and went inside the airlock where he zipped into a hermetically sealed suit. He went through another doorway, this one separated with only vertical strips of clear rubbery plastic. As he checked on the nutrient broth pools, and even the poultry protein ovules seemed to quiver with fear in their petri dishes at the aberrant weather behavior. The backlit glow of the petri dishes cast odd shadows against the ceiling as Josiah paced up and down the rows, methodically checking for molds or other infections in the incubation room.
He liked to think in the incubation room. There it was warm, warmly lit too. The orange light and the gentle humming of the fans pushing the lazy hot air through the room made him feel as if he were in the womb. He could close his eyes, and almost taste what it felt like to be suspended in amniotic fluid. In the room, he liked to think, and he liked to not think. There he could watch the embryos develop with complete involvement, abandon, or disinterest. Whatever he felt he projected into the nutrient broth. On a good day he was feeding America. on a bad day, he was another embryo in a cup, to be consumed or flash-frozen within a metric week of spawning.
The Next Great American Novel
(c) 2009
The bell rang and Josiah was off, out of the gate. He could hear the beeping of the countdown timer on his wristwatch signifying how much time he had left before the chasers were released. An electronic beep came from his wrist and he knew he was screwed. He knew he was screwed before he even got into this mess, before he even landed on this strange and distant land. He knew he was screwed when the flash of lights took him away from his home planet. He could trace it all back to the night he had gone out to tend to his hydroponic fields of hyper-corn.
The growing season that year had been a good one, and the famines in the Central Republic States of Lesser Europa had helped increase demand. Aid agencies the world over were buying up all available stocks of hyper-corn to feed the skeletal peoples of Lesser Europa (in the news, they were pejoratively referred to as "twigs," in addition people from that region spoke a strange dialect of American). Anyway, life couldn't have been going better for a central farmbelt grower of hyper-corn.
But that night was unlike any other. The usual gale-force winds that came from the north had stopped and an unnatural stillness filled the air. Josiah walked over to where the chicken coop used to be where there now stood a large structure of steel and glass that vaguely resembled a greenhouse, but more squat and glowing with a warm orange light. He scanned his thumb and went inside the airlock where he zipped into a hermetically sealed suit. He went through another doorway, this one separated with only vertical strips of clear rubbery plastic. As he checked on the nutrient broth pools, and even the poultry protein ovules seemed to quiver with fear in their petri dishes at the aberrant weather behavior. The backlit glow of the petri dishes cast odd shadows against the ceiling as Josiah paced up and down the rows, methodically checking for molds or other infections in the incubation room.
He liked to think in the incubation room. There it was warm, warmly lit too. The orange light and the gentle humming of the fans pushing the lazy hot air through the room made him feel as if he were in the womb. He could close his eyes, and almost taste what it felt like to be suspended in amniotic fluid. In the room, he liked to think, and he liked to not think. There he could watch the embryos develop with complete involvement, abandon, or disinterest. Whatever he felt he projected into the nutrient broth. On a good day he was feeding America. on a bad day, he was another embryo in a cup, to be consumed or flash-frozen within a metric week of spawning.
29 October 2009
Long Live College Radio!
Friends/DJs, past and present:
At a certain point, eclectic becomes its own genre, but KUSF still finds ways to surprise me from time to time. For a while I enjoyed opera on Sunday nights, and occasionally, I'd bump into the news being read in Chinese.
But one time KUSF really threw me a curveball. It was about a week after Thanksgiving and I was lying on my bed, listening to my clock radio. I noodled around. Static. Mexican cowboys singing. More static. And then I heard it.
It was the familiar sound of college-age voices, but with an unusual extra stiffness. You see, KUSF's DJs tend to make a self-conscious trade-off between clearer diction and a slower speaking cadence. But the voices weren't there to alert me of the next spontaneous drum circle in Dolores Park or inform me that I had just listened to a half hour of Ravi Shankar. Instead, interspersed with their over-enunciated words were the half-pauses that come from reading a script for the first time.
From what I could piece together from having read Dickens in the fourth grade, I was listening to nothing less than a radio broadcast of A Christmas Carol, as adapted and performed by the staff of KUSF.
It was painfully delicious. The fake British accents. The dialogue as exposition ("Hello good sir, what brings you to this snowy alley in London towne at Christmas-time?"). If I just closed my eyes, and imagined hard enough, I could see the cast of players, clad in their hoodies, standing among the street urchins and ragamuffins of industrial England.
Thank you, college radio.
- WTBU, Boston University. Julian M.
- KDVS, UC Davis. Ramon S.
- KALX, UC Berkeley. Anna V.
At a certain point, eclectic becomes its own genre, but KUSF still finds ways to surprise me from time to time. For a while I enjoyed opera on Sunday nights, and occasionally, I'd bump into the news being read in Chinese.
But one time KUSF really threw me a curveball. It was about a week after Thanksgiving and I was lying on my bed, listening to my clock radio. I noodled around. Static. Mexican cowboys singing. More static. And then I heard it.
It was the familiar sound of college-age voices, but with an unusual extra stiffness. You see, KUSF's DJs tend to make a self-conscious trade-off between clearer diction and a slower speaking cadence. But the voices weren't there to alert me of the next spontaneous drum circle in Dolores Park or inform me that I had just listened to a half hour of Ravi Shankar. Instead, interspersed with their over-enunciated words were the half-pauses that come from reading a script for the first time.
From what I could piece together from having read Dickens in the fourth grade, I was listening to nothing less than a radio broadcast of A Christmas Carol, as adapted and performed by the staff of KUSF.
It was painfully delicious. The fake British accents. The dialogue as exposition ("Hello good sir, what brings you to this snowy alley in London towne at Christmas-time?"). If I just closed my eyes, and imagined hard enough, I could see the cast of players, clad in their hoodies, standing among the street urchins and ragamuffins of industrial England.
Thank you, college radio.
26 October 2009
Roommates
Then (Fall '08 -- Spring'09)
Now (Summer '09 -- present)
I think these are pretty self-explanatory.
Now (Summer '09 -- present)
I think these are pretty self-explanatory.
24 October 2009
Koyaanisqatsi
I just watched Koyaanisqatsi, and I must say that I couldn't stop once I started. Not only because the pause button wasn't working, but also because I was transfixed to the screen at times. I've seen clips/parodies of this film before, but it was something else entirely to watch the entire thing.
I've never noticed this before, but the movie lulled me into what I could describe as a drugged state. My consciousness was very much altered as I stared/listened in rapture at a screen of pure audiovisual stimulus to the point of almost feeling overwhelmed.
Watch Koyaanisqatsi on google video (no ads, low resolution).
Watch Koyaanisqatsi on youtube (annoying ads completely contrary to meaning of film, high resolution).
You might not want to watch this if it's a weekday night and you have work. But, if like me, you are procrastinating on a weekend and feel a little bit off color (under the weather), you should have the 86 minutes needed to be transported into a world where everything is timelapse, and the only sounds are Philip Glass's orchestration.
I've never noticed this before, but the movie lulled me into what I could describe as a drugged state. My consciousness was very much altered as I stared/listened in rapture at a screen of pure audiovisual stimulus to the point of almost feeling overwhelmed.
Watch Koyaanisqatsi on google video (no ads, low resolution).
Watch Koyaanisqatsi on youtube (annoying ads completely contrary to meaning of film, high resolution).
You might not want to watch this if it's a weekday night and you have work. But, if like me, you are procrastinating on a weekend and feel a little bit off color (under the weather), you should have the 86 minutes needed to be transported into a world where everything is timelapse, and the only sounds are Philip Glass's orchestration.
23 October 2009
Sleep
He could not sleep. He was trying to lie still in his bed. But his foot was at the wrong angle, so he adjusted it. The foot adjustment had wrinkled the sheets and now he felt like the sheets were twisted about his knee so he squirmed with his whole torso to even things out. There. That was better. Now all he had to do was be still enough and then it would be light outside again and he would feel better and everything would be better again. It's as simple as that. All I have to do is close my eyes and stay still. Before I know it, it'll be tomorrow. He had heard somewhere, probably some big scientific study, that thinking about falling asleep while trying to fall asleep is a surefire way to not fall asleep. Damn.
Self-conscious of his mistake, he tried to visualize the desert. He saw the endless plain of cracked, dried ground extend to a hazy smear of a horizon in the distance. The pure pale blue of the sky above, pierced by the blinding eye of God.
He sweated in the flannel sheets. He felt the humid cloth against his back. He twisted again and the sheets sucked in a breath of cool, fresh air. He was on his side now. He wished he had something to hold onto. No, he wished he had someone to hold onto. It wasn't something he wanted to admit. But the comfort of it was undeniable. The ebb and flow of someone else's breathing as comforting and hypnotic as watching the tide come in.
When he was a child, when he was safely tucked into his bed, there was always the lingering sense of anxiety in the darkness until sleep would finally come. Some nights sleep came quickly. Other nights, he would listen for passing cars, and then watch the distant beams of light struggle through the blinds, into his room, and across the ceiling. He wondered what people would say about him if his funeral were tomorrow. He would think about the ridiculousness of monsters living under his bed, only to shudder in fear. Eventually, he would wrap himself into a tight cocoon, wedging himself against the wall. He would be safe there.
But now he was big and he didn't have to wrap himself in a cocoon of sheets and wedge himself against the wall anymore. He didn't have to listen to passing cars, and he didn't think about what they'd say of him if his funeral were tomorrow. But even though he was comfortable and safe, alone in his bed, he still felt the lingering sense of anxiety until sleep finally came.
Self-conscious of his mistake, he tried to visualize the desert. He saw the endless plain of cracked, dried ground extend to a hazy smear of a horizon in the distance. The pure pale blue of the sky above, pierced by the blinding eye of God.
He sweated in the flannel sheets. He felt the humid cloth against his back. He twisted again and the sheets sucked in a breath of cool, fresh air. He was on his side now. He wished he had something to hold onto. No, he wished he had someone to hold onto. It wasn't something he wanted to admit. But the comfort of it was undeniable. The ebb and flow of someone else's breathing as comforting and hypnotic as watching the tide come in.
When he was a child, when he was safely tucked into his bed, there was always the lingering sense of anxiety in the darkness until sleep would finally come. Some nights sleep came quickly. Other nights, he would listen for passing cars, and then watch the distant beams of light struggle through the blinds, into his room, and across the ceiling. He wondered what people would say about him if his funeral were tomorrow. He would think about the ridiculousness of monsters living under his bed, only to shudder in fear. Eventually, he would wrap himself into a tight cocoon, wedging himself against the wall. He would be safe there.
But now he was big and he didn't have to wrap himself in a cocoon of sheets and wedge himself against the wall anymore. He didn't have to listen to passing cars, and he didn't think about what they'd say of him if his funeral were tomorrow. But even though he was comfortable and safe, alone in his bed, he still felt the lingering sense of anxiety until sleep finally came.
21 October 2009
Well, so
"Ah," he said.
"What?" she said.
"Nah," he said.
"What?" she said.
"Eh," he said.
"Ugh," she said.
"Mmm..." he said.
"Well?" she said.
He paused.
"Pfft," she said.
"What?" she said.
"Nah," he said.
"What?" she said.
"Eh," he said.
"Ugh," she said.
"Mmm..." he said.
"Well?" she said.
He paused.
"Pfft," she said.
18 October 2009
17 October 2009
Ground Control to Doctor Pon
The molecules of air had reconfigured, and he could feel them, sloshing and slogging together. He was poured in cement, was far away from his body, giving it directions on a time delay. The lag made it awkward to move through the sloppy air. He blinked and saw a flash of the inside of his eyelids. Honey-combed planes of undulating geometry soared past. He opened his eyes.
He walked along the curb, balancing tentatively, concentrating hard to place one foot in front of the other. Not to place his foot on the crack, not to loose his balance.
He walked along the edge of memory and consciousness, concentrating hard to take in the words coming from their mouths. Not to get distracted by the honey-combs, not to drown in the cement.
The words came and went, faded away. Each distinct and meaningful, but together a misshapen rabble of sounds.
He walked along the curb, balancing tentatively, concentrating hard to place one foot in front of the other. Not to place his foot on the crack, not to loose his balance.
He walked along the edge of memory and consciousness, concentrating hard to take in the words coming from their mouths. Not to get distracted by the honey-combs, not to drown in the cement.
The words came and went, faded away. Each distinct and meaningful, but together a misshapen rabble of sounds.
Aircraft Carriers
He liked to sit on the carpeted stairs and read. Each step was just wide enough for him to stretch his legs out, back against the wall, head beneath the wooden banister. He liked to look in the books with cut-aways of tanks and airplanes, cathedrals and castles, the heart and the spleen. Nuts and bolts and bricks and mortar and blood and guts spilled out of the pages. He couldn't get enough. The best times to read were during the golden hours of the afternoon that stretched on endlessly, when the light soaked in through the windows and stained everything with a luminous glow. The sun traced the shape of the window across the carpet, but he did not notice. He had more important things to attend to; the castle was under seige and the invaders with the battering ram were having boiling oil poured on their heads.
Many years later.
He sat in the library of the university, staring into one of the beige boxes bolted down to the table. The keyboard clacked satisfyingly. He was reading about nuclear-powered aircraft carriers on en.wikipedia.org. Nimitz-class supercarriers can stay at sea without refuelling for up to 20 years. They displace 100,000 tons of water. They carry over 3,000 aviators and seamen and a compliment of over 50 aircraft. And for a little while, he sat on carpeted stairs on a golden afternoon.
Many years later.
He sat in the library of the university, staring into one of the beige boxes bolted down to the table. The keyboard clacked satisfyingly. He was reading about nuclear-powered aircraft carriers on en.wikipedia.org. Nimitz-class supercarriers can stay at sea without refuelling for up to 20 years. They displace 100,000 tons of water. They carry over 3,000 aviators and seamen and a compliment of over 50 aircraft. And for a little while, he sat on carpeted stairs on a golden afternoon.
27 September 2009
Choose Your Own Adventure
Part One
He paid for his coffee with three $1 bills; two crisp, one crumpled.
The crisp bills were the last of the money he had saved from Chinese New Year. He still had the red envelope that come stuffed fat with dollar bills. Right now it was tucked away, snugly fitted into the spine of a book he had long ago started but forgotten about.
The wrinkled bill he had found. It was laying on the floor of one of his favorite Vietnamese noodle shops. It was probably a tip, but he had a firm belief in the rule of law, and had no other moral choice but to uphold the code of Finders Keepers.
He paid for his coffee with three $1 bills; two crisp, one crumpled.
The crisp bills were the last of the money he had saved from Chinese New Year. He still had the red envelope that come stuffed fat with dollar bills. Right now it was tucked away, snugly fitted into the spine of a book he had long ago started but forgotten about.
The wrinkled bill he had found. It was laying on the floor of one of his favorite Vietnamese noodle shops. It was probably a tip, but he had a firm belief in the rule of law, and had no other moral choice but to uphold the code of Finders Keepers.
13 September 2009
BART
He took a seat on the coffee-stained upholstery. He let his head rest against the place where thousands of heads had rested before his. He fidgeted a little bit with his bags. He got out a book that he read with enough interest to keep him distracted for a stop or two before his mind started wandering again. He just couldn't help himself from eavesdropping. He overheard a first-person account of a man's harrowing experience of seeing the gross gay couple from across the hall kiss.
He sat there, half-interested in the middle part of a paragraph he couldn't seem to finish, and half-interested in the angst of another man's homophobia.
He sat there, half-interested in the middle part of a paragraph he couldn't seem to finish, and half-interested in the angst of another man's homophobia.
02 September 2009
Smells
I remember the smell of waking up on Saturday mornings in my house. The aroma would hit me as soon as my foot touched the last step at the bottom of the staircase into the dining room. Sitting in his dining room chair with its sagging cushion would be my dad, back from his morning run in the Marin Headlands. That was back when he ran marathons. Sometimes he still does, even though it's bad for his knees. Anyway, he'd sit there and read the newspaper and maybe eat some junk food as a reward. And the room would smell like his sweat. Not like the body odor of the armpit in need of deodorant squeezing against you on the bus. Rather, it was the smell of sweat that has gone cold and permeated into one's clothes.
Usually (always, actually) it was just me and him, awake that early in the morning. I'm pretty sure I prided myself on being the second earliest waker in the family, even if it was only to watch morning cartoons instead of train for a marathon. I liked the tense stillness in the air of those Saturday mornings, like the house was holding its breath, about to sigh. My dad sat there, seemingly at rest, and yet I knew where he had come from and how the house would start buzzing again once my sisters and my mom woke up.
But for the time being, it was still quiet in the house, so I would make my bowl of cheerios and head towards the living room TV, without saying anything.
This morning I went running with my roommates. When we came back, I got a whiff of that same sweat smell, and was immediately transported back to this memory.
Usually (always, actually) it was just me and him, awake that early in the morning. I'm pretty sure I prided myself on being the second earliest waker in the family, even if it was only to watch morning cartoons instead of train for a marathon. I liked the tense stillness in the air of those Saturday mornings, like the house was holding its breath, about to sigh. My dad sat there, seemingly at rest, and yet I knew where he had come from and how the house would start buzzing again once my sisters and my mom woke up.
But for the time being, it was still quiet in the house, so I would make my bowl of cheerios and head towards the living room TV, without saying anything.
This morning I went running with my roommates. When we came back, I got a whiff of that same sweat smell, and was immediately transported back to this memory.
28 August 2009
Summer Snapshots
Crusty sourdough bread from scratch. Homemade jam. Swimming in Lake Mississippi. Sleeping under the stars. Kombucha mother that resembles snot. SF Pride. IT'S IT. Sunbathing on Elena's roof. Kite flying and picnicking at the beach. Ruins of the Sutro Baths. Karyn's messy room. Biking through Golden Gate Park late at night. Burritos with crinkle cut fries in San Diego. Riding the bus across the Bay Bridge. Craig the rooster in a cardboard box. Speeding past the ocean, through the fog, down highway one. A boombox playing a cassette tape of Hawaiian chants.
26 August 2009
First Day Back
The freshmen in the back were exchanging names of residence halls. The sophomores just yawned. A nervous person asked, if indeed, he was in right classroom for College Writing R4B. Indeed, he was. I was sitting next to the nervous boy. He reminded me a little bit of myself, so I tried to distance myself from him as much as possible. So I played it cool. I cracked my knuckles and put on my most impassive stare, a look I wear in crowded buses and movie theaters before the lights go down. But his anxiousness was contagious, and I started shaking my leg. Students continued to trickle in at eight past the hour. Finally the teacher arrived, and the class went through the rituals of handing out the syllabus and culling the waitlist.
03 June 2009
Photos: May 2009
Picture One: I was riding MUNI and BART to Berkeley last week. I thought it was a good chance to take a blurry picture. I've always wanted to take a blurry picture of a train in a tunnel. I guess I can check that off the list.
Picture Two: Lonesome is the life of a cup of noodles. Maybe someday I will write about the adventures of that particular chicken-flavored cup of noodles.
Picture Three: I live near a reservoir surrounded by "NO TRESPASSING" signs. It's gated and (usually) locked. One day I noticed the gate was open. Then I saw the beehives. What else could a boy do?
Picture Two: Lonesome is the life of a cup of noodles. Maybe someday I will write about the adventures of that particular chicken-flavored cup of noodles.
Picture Three: I live near a reservoir surrounded by "NO TRESPASSING" signs. It's gated and (usually) locked. One day I noticed the gate was open. Then I saw the beehives. What else could a boy do?
Photos: April 2009
These first three pictures are from a Biology 1b "field trip" to the UC Berkeley Botanical Garden in Strawberry Canyon. I was in a group with three sophomores. There was hard-partying pre-med girl, a guy who wanted to be a physical trainer, and girl on the rugby team. And there was me, the Forestry Major. Hard-partying pre-med girl liked tequila and hated Bio 1b. I believe she also enjoyed longboarding in addition to drinking. She seemed especially fond of drunk longboarding. The guy who wanted to be a physical trainer was planning on joining the Air Force. He said that the big draw was the fact that "you'd have to fuck up really bad to not get promoted." And the rugby player did some work in a lab with viruses that target specific bacteria.
The last is from another field trip, but for my geology class (Earth and Planetary Science 50). I wasn't totally into the rocks, but this cell phone tower disguised as a tree seems to have caught my attention.
The last is from another field trip, but for my geology class (Earth and Planetary Science 50). I wasn't totally into the rocks, but this cell phone tower disguised as a tree seems to have caught my attention.
31 May 2009
Year
I don't really know whether to look forwards or backwards. Time is funny like that. Maybe I should just stay trapped in now. Like the woman I talked to the other day. About twenty years ago, she was in a coma for eleven days. She had been riding her bike in San Francisco (something I do with a certain irregularity but with great pleasure) when she was hit by a car. Her advice: live every day like it's your last, because you might not wake up to see the next. I bumped into her as I was running in my neighborhood and she was walking her dog. We started talking because she made some crack about running the Bay to Breakers. So I stopped and we chatted, and I learned about her daughter with a learning disability and how she likes running to the ocean and how I absolutely have to run the Bay to Breakers next year for its centennial. What a sweetheart.
But under different circumstances, I might not have so wholeheartedly approached her the way that I did. I'm not sure if the version of me from a year ago would have allowed myself to give a stranger a chance to open up a little. Well it was a nice chat, and it only reinforced the idea that the most valuable things I can ever hope to accumulate are the connections I make with other people.
What a nice thought.
But under different circumstances, I might not have so wholeheartedly approached her the way that I did. I'm not sure if the version of me from a year ago would have allowed myself to give a stranger a chance to open up a little. Well it was a nice chat, and it only reinforced the idea that the most valuable things I can ever hope to accumulate are the connections I make with other people.
What a nice thought.
29 May 2009
Bicycles
I like bicycles. I like the feeling of going somewhere, the purposeful sense of forward motion towards a definite destination. I like the feeling of alertness, the amount of attention I pour into riding the streets, the level of complete absorption of navigating city streets. I like the feeling of my feet against the pedals against the cranks against the bike frame against the tires against the pavement. Especially on a smooth street. I can almost feel the traction of the street against the soles of my feet. I like ducking low on the big hill near my house, my profile as tiny as possible against the wind tearing through my ears. I like standing on my pedals to sprint up block-long hills and coast down the other side as a reward. I like to sit up straight and take my hands off the handlebars on big empty streets. Sometimes I also pump my arms and pretend that I'm running, far faster than I could ever run. I like passing cars stuck in traffic. I like banked turns. I like getting into my toeclips on the first try. I like going into the hardest gear at the start of a flat, and feel the resistance increase on the pedals. I like bicycles.
Birthday
He loved the park across the street. Sometimes, after school, his older sister would walk him across the green pedestrian bridge that spanned the cement river below, the occasional car speeding down.
But today was a special day. It was a warm day in late May, rare in San Francisco. Not only that, but he was turning six. All his friends he made in Kindergarten would be there, including some of the children who weren't.
He knew what a birthday was. It was a day when his parents smiled a lot and took a lot of pictures and looked tired and exhausted at the end. He had observed this very phenomenon before at other birthday parties, at swimming pools and bowling alleys and museums. The parents would smile a pained smile as the children ran circles around them. At play time and cake time and presents time, always smiling, or chatting with other grown ups, gesturing occasionally toward their specific child.
So on this particular morning, he was especially excited as he brushed his teeth and even more excited as he velcroed his Power Rangers shoes onto his feet.
I could go on, but I feel tired. I could describe his yellow t-shirt with a pocket over the left breast that felt too hot in the sun. I could tell you about the juice he spilled on himself and the way it felt sticky against his skin for the rest of the day, except that after a while he stopped noticing. I could go on about the guests, and how some of them were friends, and some of them he felt ambivalent towards. I could go into the complexities of the social life of a six year old, but right now, I don't have the energy.
But today was a special day. It was a warm day in late May, rare in San Francisco. Not only that, but he was turning six. All his friends he made in Kindergarten would be there, including some of the children who weren't.
He knew what a birthday was. It was a day when his parents smiled a lot and took a lot of pictures and looked tired and exhausted at the end. He had observed this very phenomenon before at other birthday parties, at swimming pools and bowling alleys and museums. The parents would smile a pained smile as the children ran circles around them. At play time and cake time and presents time, always smiling, or chatting with other grown ups, gesturing occasionally toward their specific child.
So on this particular morning, he was especially excited as he brushed his teeth and even more excited as he velcroed his Power Rangers shoes onto his feet.
I could go on, but I feel tired. I could describe his yellow t-shirt with a pocket over the left breast that felt too hot in the sun. I could tell you about the juice he spilled on himself and the way it felt sticky against his skin for the rest of the day, except that after a while he stopped noticing. I could go on about the guests, and how some of them were friends, and some of them he felt ambivalent towards. I could go into the complexities of the social life of a six year old, but right now, I don't have the energy.
28 May 2009
Outside
I came home and my childhood playground was missing. No, I didn't misplace it, it was gone. Torn out of the ground. My slides, my fort, my tire swing, even my cypress tree. All gone. Now it's just a big dirt field across the street from my house.
I can remember playing with plastic green soldiers in the sand. I would dig in the sand until I hit clay, then dig a little more before giving up. I was part of an afterschool program called "Latchkey Kids" run by SF parks and rec. And everyday I'd come back home, but before I could come into the house, I'd have to shake the sand out of my shoes and pants and hair.
Inside the big cinder block building at the park there was a kitchen, an office, some bathrooms, and a common area with some old MacIntosh computers. There was this one vector game I was pretty good at, where you get to drive a tank. For a while, I had the high score, which made me pretty damn proud.
I remember the other kids who went there after school, though not too well. I was probably about 9-10 years old when I went, and there were some other kids who went who were probably in middle school, I don't know where. Well, I guess that they were just at the age when the opposite sex starts to become mysterious and fascinating and despicable, so they'd play these games that really made no sense to me.
I suppose that some of the older boys had seen Starship Troopers, and thought that it was pretty awesome, being a rated "R" action movie and all, complete with human brains sucked out through a translucent tube and the obligatory one second flash of female nipple. Well, the way that this plays in is that the boys would play the part of the Starship Troopers, and the girls the part of the alien bug species bent on destroying the human race.
There was this pile of scrap wood near the door in the cement blockhouse that Latchkey Kids was based out of, old pieces of wooden picture frame mostly. Well, when you're a boy in a certain age range, anything and everything that can resemble a gun is a gun. And so, in their post-modern version of cowboys and indians, the boys and girls played starship troopers and aliens.
Basically, the way it went, as in the movie, was that the alien girl species would charge the boy troopers, armed with their picture frame machine guns, sputtering off rounds as rapidly as their sounds effects could allow. Most of the bugs would get blasted away, their dead strewn by the swing set and the slides. But occasionally, one would make it through the hail of gunfire sounds, and leap onto a hapless trooper.
At this point, no one really knew what to do. The girls usually didn't make it this far, and when they did, there was a sense of "now what?" And so, in this moment of weakness, picture frames at the ready, his comrades would rescue him from certain ... I don't know what.
I didn't know what. I was in fourth grade then. My favorite color was red and the best show on TV was Arthur, the anthropomorphic aadrvark. But even then, I could sense that the game was more than just cowboys and indians the way that your dog senses your bad day. There was a tension in the air whenever they played the game. I did not play.
I can remember playing with plastic green soldiers in the sand. I would dig in the sand until I hit clay, then dig a little more before giving up. I was part of an afterschool program called "Latchkey Kids" run by SF parks and rec. And everyday I'd come back home, but before I could come into the house, I'd have to shake the sand out of my shoes and pants and hair.
Inside the big cinder block building at the park there was a kitchen, an office, some bathrooms, and a common area with some old MacIntosh computers. There was this one vector game I was pretty good at, where you get to drive a tank. For a while, I had the high score, which made me pretty damn proud.
I remember the other kids who went there after school, though not too well. I was probably about 9-10 years old when I went, and there were some other kids who went who were probably in middle school, I don't know where. Well, I guess that they were just at the age when the opposite sex starts to become mysterious and fascinating and despicable, so they'd play these games that really made no sense to me.
I suppose that some of the older boys had seen Starship Troopers, and thought that it was pretty awesome, being a rated "R" action movie and all, complete with human brains sucked out through a translucent tube and the obligatory one second flash of female nipple. Well, the way that this plays in is that the boys would play the part of the Starship Troopers, and the girls the part of the alien bug species bent on destroying the human race.
There was this pile of scrap wood near the door in the cement blockhouse that Latchkey Kids was based out of, old pieces of wooden picture frame mostly. Well, when you're a boy in a certain age range, anything and everything that can resemble a gun is a gun. And so, in their post-modern version of cowboys and indians, the boys and girls played starship troopers and aliens.
Basically, the way it went, as in the movie, was that the alien girl species would charge the boy troopers, armed with their picture frame machine guns, sputtering off rounds as rapidly as their sounds effects could allow. Most of the bugs would get blasted away, their dead strewn by the swing set and the slides. But occasionally, one would make it through the hail of gunfire sounds, and leap onto a hapless trooper.
At this point, no one really knew what to do. The girls usually didn't make it this far, and when they did, there was a sense of "now what?" And so, in this moment of weakness, picture frames at the ready, his comrades would rescue him from certain ... I don't know what.
I didn't know what. I was in fourth grade then. My favorite color was red and the best show on TV was Arthur, the anthropomorphic aadrvark. But even then, I could sense that the game was more than just cowboys and indians the way that your dog senses your bad day. There was a tension in the air whenever they played the game. I did not play.
Meta-List
Shopping
- ox-tail (for stew)
used pantsreturn textbooksa donut
- go to bank (deposit birthday check)
- go to post office (mail thank you card to Auntie Norma)
- go running
- pack things for moving out
- move into Berkeley apartment
- negotiate work hours with employers
- celebrate 19th birthday
- hang out with Kyle
withdraw from summer school
- take Karyn somewhere nice for dinner
- get dad a birthday gift
- The Crying of Lot 49, Thomas Pynchon
- Why We are Hungry, Dave Eggers
- Fresh Air Fiend, Paul Theroux
For Whom the Bell Tolls, Ernest HemingwayCat's Cradle, Kurt Vonnegut
11 May 2009
Ways that I am like my dad
We both:
1. like old war movies like Bridge on the River Kwai.
2. drink black coffee.
3. enjoy cracking our necks.
4. eat sardines with crackers.
5. read books like Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.
6. are skeptical of anything that sounds too good.
7. like to backpack in the Sierra Nevada.
8. tan easily in the sun.
9. dislike driving.
1. like old war movies like Bridge on the River Kwai.
2. drink black coffee.
3. enjoy cracking our necks.
4. eat sardines with crackers.
5. read books like Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.
6. are skeptical of anything that sounds too good.
7. like to backpack in the Sierra Nevada.
8. tan easily in the sun.
9. dislike driving.
05 May 2009
04 May 2009
Ahoy there!
This is perhaps the third time I've christened a blog to set sail on the high seas. The first, the Satiric Party Headquarters, went down in the sea of apathy. She had 13 souls aboard her. Satiric Party II fared no better.
As of yet, there really is no destination for this blog. As the old adage goes (I believe it was Archimeides), "Without knowing what port you're headed to, no wind is favorable." I suppose that I shall steer my little blog to the far reaches of teh internets, meet its strange and exotic people, and trade off what trinkets I can for their hospitality.
I suppose that after thoroughly plundering what I can, I shall display the fruits of my ill-gotten gains in this, my digital trophy room.
About the name. I'm not really a doctor. I take no personal responsibility for shoddy medical advice posted on this blog. My usual prescriptions include drinking more water and sucking it up. Administer at personal discretion.
As of yet, there really is no destination for this blog. As the old adage goes (I believe it was Archimeides), "Without knowing what port you're headed to, no wind is favorable." I suppose that I shall steer my little blog to the far reaches of teh internets, meet its strange and exotic people, and trade off what trinkets I can for their hospitality.
I suppose that after thoroughly plundering what I can, I shall display the fruits of my ill-gotten gains in this, my digital trophy room.
About the name. I'm not really a doctor. I take no personal responsibility for shoddy medical advice posted on this blog. My usual prescriptions include drinking more water and sucking it up. Administer at personal discretion.
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