Changing Gears

Hello out there in cyberspace (I had a friend in middle school who always started his blog posts that way)!

I have a new blog that I plan to work on exclusively. Here it is.



Blogger templates have gotten pretty snazzy, if you haven't noticed.

Campus

Today I was walking to class and took a moment to appreciate the clouds. Blue skies are fine and dandy, but clouds have so much more drama to them. The way they play with light is especially pleasing as well. Here is an especially dramatic picture of some clouds with the Campanile in the foreground.



I force all sorts of metaphors when I visit our huge, subterranean library complex. I like to think of it as a sort of Hades-type underworld, a place not necessarily bad in-of-itself, but where you'll end up sooner or later. It helps that there's a huge spiral staircase, which adds nicely to the "descent into the underworld" effect. Transitioning from studying for two hours on the bottom floor of the pit to going outside is something overwhelming. It definitely feels like re-entering the realm of the living.





There probably won't be so many school groups roaming around campus once the rains start, but they still make me smile whenever I see them.

Back to Business

The sound he enjoys most is of the soles of his shoes against a lonely linoleum hallway irradiated by a long line of fluorescent light. He likes to clasps things under his arm. It doesn't matter what, as long as it makes him feel important. Some days, it's the Times. Other days, it's a goldenrod folder, the top sealed with red string doubled-back and tripled-back and quadrupled-back around itself. He gets himself into a hypnotic daze, gliding through underground passages to the metronome of his stride.

He's very good at what he does; he prides himself upon professionalism. Because a professional is in complete control, has mastery of his craft. Nothing can perturb him when he is in his zone.

When he creases paper, he hunches over, aligning the straight edges with each other. He checks one side, then the other. In a swoop, his index finger crushes the bubble in the paper, the sound of a million fibers bending to his will.

He's very good at what he does.

When We Were Young and Damned Good-Looking

When we were young and handsome and damned good-looking, we didn't have to comb our hair. That was a job befitting only the ocean winds, slick rocks, and salt spray. We knew that stares came in only one variety: envious.



When we were young and confident and damned good-looking, we didn't have to play coy little games. But we did anyway, just for sport. That was half the fun, anyway.



When we were young and lost and damned good-looking, we didn't have to know where we were going. Dead-reckoning got us to wherever we were, and dead-reckoning would get us back. Maybe not the way we came, but the way we wanted to go was where we went.



When we were young and strong and damned good-looking, we didn't let walls stop us. Walls only meant that there was something on the other side worth having. Walls were a sign of the opulent, of people with so much stuff they didn't even know how to enjoy it all. They would never know that you snuck into the garden of their Seacliffe mansion, just to steal their multi-million dollar view of the Golden Gate. They wouldn't notice it. They wouldn't even miss it.







When we were young and starving and damned good-looking, we didn't take multivitamins. Multivitamins meant that you accepted the vision of the future where all food is in pellet form. No, we ate they way the Pharohs dreamt of; only the very zenith of the food pyramid was worthy of our diets.



When we were young and genius and damned good-looking, we didn't study. Essays were plucked from the clairvoyant fog of too many energy drinks the night before deadline. We knew that if we zig-zagged our answers on the scantron sheet, we'd probably get enough right, probably more than most, because, let's be honest, guessing is a skill, and woe to those who never learned to be lucky the way we did.



When we were young and immortal and damned good-looking, we didn't die. Death was an impossibility, more remote than the liquor store across campus. More remote even than home, whatever that was anymore anyway.



We didn't wear bike helmets. We didn't floss. We didn't count our beers. We didn't sleep. We didn't wear underwear.

We didn't forget we were alive.

A Day in the Park

Why do people do drugs? There are too many pleasures to be had in this world for free. Walking hand in hand through the dahlia garden, letting their colors wash over the eyes. Reclining in the grass, watching the clouds soar overhead. Walking through the City with bare feet, kissing the sidewalk with every step.

The Plums of August

These fallen fruits
Found only hard, sterile street.
And now they waste themselves in the sun.

Dream Journal

I am in a massive garden, beautifully landscaped. Trickling streams crisscross the stone paths that lead to small wooden arch bridges. This is the garden of Yu Wu Lu, Chinese peasant and robotics genius. His creations wander the hedgerows. Today there is a festival (or does this happen everyday?) and his garden is having an open-house. There are some tables set up with spare parts, and children are invited to create their own machines. The children squat in the pathways, watching their contraptions. They all look down to the ground, absorbed. All I can see are the backs of their heads and their bowl haircuts. They all wear athletic gray sweatsuits.

I am in a black, windowless room with a high ceiling. I am in theater class. Brandon the instructor tells us that we'll be improvising award acceptance speeches. One of the walls lifts away revealing a gigantic green screen. The green is so vivid it's like having lime juice sprayed in your eyes. In front of the green screen is a diminutive podium (or is it a lectern?). The relative scale is something similar to that of George C. Scott standing in front of a monumental American flag in the opening scene of Patton.

Some thoughts on beats

No, not those. Beats.

Kerouac didn't consider himself a great writer, he thought he was a great rememberer. Makes me wish I weren't so forgetful.

I recently read on Wikipedia that the origin of beat comes from the beatitudes. For the non-religiously inclined, the beatitudes are some of Jesus' sayings from his sermon on the mount, "blessed are the meek" and all that jazz.

Kerouac:

Beat doesn't mean tired, or bushed, so much as it means beato, the Italian for beatific: to be in a state of beatitude, like Saint Francis, trying to love all life, trying to be utterly sincere with everyone, practicing endurance, kindness, cultivating joy of the heart. How can this be done in our mad modern world of multiplicities and millions? By practicing a little solitude, going off by yourself once in a while to store up that most precious of golds: the vibrations of sincerity.

St. Francis, gentle soul and patron saint of my hometown. From doctorpon.

This Time, Years Ago

This time, one year ago, I was biking through Golden Gate Park at 2am, when everything is still. I'm riding home from Karyn's place. My heart aches a little, and I'm smiling on the inside. The lighting from the street lamps makes everything look flat, almost black and white. The air is cool and I feel prickly as I start to sweat. I stand on my cranks and pedal hard to get a running start at the last bit of hill. I have to wake up at 7am for work tomorrow.

This time, two years ago, I was eating a pile of breaded, deep-fried something with a scoop of mac salad on the side. The diversity of Honolulu makes me feel at ease. I like that people wear Hawaiian shirts without any irony. After having malasadas for breakfast, I feel a bit disgusted with myself.

This time, three years ago, I was having tea. The teahouse is tucked into the mountains above Lake Louise in the Canadian Rockies. Everybody's a tourist and the squirrels sneak off with bits of scone when no one is looking.

This time, four years ago, I was looking at the stars. I'm shivering in the cold at 12,000 feet, but that doesn't matter because I can see the Milky Way. Everywhere it is dark except for the light of distant stars. Laying down on my bed of granite, I feel like I am made of stone. My legs are stiff from hiking, and I'm too excited/uncomfortable to fall asleep. I will wake up at dawn tomorrow and hike to the top of Mount Whitney.

Devil on my Shoulder

"Should I?" he asked.
"Yeah, do it," she said.
"Really?"
"Sure."
He dropped his pants and pressed himself against the chain link fence. He felt the ocean breeze against bare skin. Rush-hour traffic streamed beneath the footbridge. A car honked. Smiling, he buckled himself back together.
"Your turn," he said.
Most days he was merely alive, but this day he had truly lived.

Impressionism

From doctorpon

Bridges

From doctorpon

Mated Pairs

From doctorpon

From doctorpon

Two Weekends Ago

From doctorpon

Outskirts of Eugene, Oregon. Friday morning, 5am. Ramon's Mercedes, our diesel-powered chariot of the night, comes to rest in the Denny's parking lot. Ramon gets all you can eat pancakes. Ramon can eat two pancakes. David drinks watery coffee. He sees the free refills as a personal challenge. Tommy and Karyn eat sensible meals.

From doctorpon

University of California, Davis campus. Monday, 2pm. Karyn and I are waiting at the shuttle stop. We will ride the bus for an hour and a half. Our next stop is reality.

Let Freedom Swing

I hate to sound like a self-congratulatory asshole, but I stuck to my guns tonight. My house had a big party tonight and I was detailed on security. By the end of the night I have to turn out a group of 3 fratty giant and their lady friend. They keep insisting that they're on their way out or have a host, but they keep lingering and making up names of people they know.

I kept hounding them about if they had a host, and if so, could they procure that person? Well, these two guys, about as fratty as Natty and wide as a pine tree kept lingering after every time that I ask that they leave. Eventually they link up with their 3rd fratty friend. They linger together, looking over their shoulders to see if I'm still watching them. I ask that they leave. They drift around and collect their lady friend. I ask that they leave. Their lady friend claims to know someone. I ask if they have a host. Lady friend offers to find her host and disappears into the crowd. The three fratty giants stay with me by the door. They keep shit-talking ("this party's lame anyway") but I just watch their reflections in the glass, unmoving. Lady friend returns.

"We didn't want to stay anyway," Lady Friend says is a huff, filled with as much indignation as a 5-year old deprived of his birthright to lollipops.

I shake hands with each of the fratty guys. They are each a head taller than me.

"I don't like you, William Wallace," the third one says.

It is a 90s-themed party. I am dressed as Mel Gibson in Braveheart. Half my face is painted blue and I am wearing nothing but a kilt. I hold a plastic sword in my hand. My face is impassive and simply stares at them as they leave.

Sketchy-ass mofos stay outta my house!

The Tap's Run Dry

Went out to water the nursery today, but only drips came out of the nozzle. Don't know where to find the valve to get things running again. Just wish I could find that valve. Wrap my fingers around the enameled metal fitting. Give it a firm twist. But until then, only drips.

Independence Day

If I ever changed my last name, I think I'd have to chose "Freeman."

Some things, even familiar things, feel so different when you experience them as an independent adult.

From doctorpon

From doctorpon

From doctorpon

From doctorpon

From doctorpon

From doctorpon

From doctorpon

From doctorpon

Philosophie du Jour (Part un of a series)

I used to work at the Tilden Little Farm (my boss balked at the phrase "petting zoo"). We had cows (milking shorthorns), sheep (black Welsh mountain), goats (alpine and nubian), pigs, ducks, geese, and chickens. Of our flock of 15 sheep, we had two rams, each confined to his own pen adjoined to the main pasture.

One morning, a coworker and I were opening up the farm. I was pretty new, so she was teaching me the rhythms and routines of getting the farm ready for the public. We brought our wheelbarrow over to the ram pens, and we tossed a compressed mat of alfalfa (a "flake") into each of the pens.

"And now for the most important part," she said, and stuck an arm through the horizontal wood slats of the fence. She put her outstretched hand on the kinky black wool of the feeding ram's head. "You gotta show these guys some love," she said, giving him a pat.

Take the time to show you care.

The Giving Tree

Now that I think about it, the first love story that I ever really appreciated was probably The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein. And I don't think I really realized that The Giving Tree was a love story until recently, and a pretty tragic one at that.

Well, if you've read the story, then you know that [WARNING: SPOILER ALERT] the tree keeps giving to this one little boy until there's nothing left but stump. And the boy never does a single thing in return. In fact by the end, the boy (now grown into an old man) still finds a way to exploit the tree: he sits down on the stump.

That last part always infuriated me. I was infuriated mainly at the ungrateful boy, but a little bit of my anger found itself directed at the foolish tree as well.

Well, I'm older now. I think I've come to the point where I can appreciate the Giving Trees and forgive the Little Boys in my life.

Summer Reading

Read (or at least start):

• Fresh Air Fiend by Paul Theroux
• Ulysses by James Joyce (22 CDs of audiobook, aborted)
• Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov (in progress)
• The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat by Oliver Sachs
• The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon
• The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini
• In Patagonia by Bruce Chatwin
• Living Poor: A Peace Corps Chronicle by Moritz Thomsen

Online book club, anyone?

Point Reyes National Seashore

I spent the last three days out in Point Reyes with my co-worker Hazel. She'd never been backpacking before, and I was glad to introduce her to my favorite pasttime. She's a bit older than me, and enlightened me a good deal on things like work, writing, good books, and the foster care system. Otherwise, we spent a lot of time in our own mental spaces.

I guess when you only go backpacking with one other person, the experience is much more personal than communal. I feel like we're trained to fear silence in a conversation, that it's the end of the world when we run out of sensible things say. But in some settings, living to that standard only distracts from fully absorbing the surrounding beauty. Sometimes, the sensory, rather than the social experience is more important. It's nice to have someone there to share that with, but ultimately, the thoughts we have in reaction to that beauty are a deeply personal experience.

So here are some images of things that left me in rapture, the experience of which I can't ever fully share.


Morning dew.


Succulents.


Sea cliffs.

Drafts

• Date: 6/3/10
  Title: Going Solo
  Premise: Reflect on the experience of leading a volunteer group. Draw parallels to working for the Park Service, except now you're a leader instead of a follower. Explain the exhilarating pride of moving up the ladder.
  Quote: "I stood in front of the semi-circle of high school kids."
• Date: 4/19/10
  Title: Day 109
  Premise: Describe the sex noises coming from upstairs. Compare it to a leaky roof, but for sounds instead of water. Use humor and a third-person narrative to reassure yourself that you're not a whiner. But really, you hate (and possibly envy) these fucking people.
  Quote: "His apartment had a leaky ceiling. Every now and again, drama seeped through the floorboards from above."
• Date: 3/15/10
  Title: Day 74
  Premise: Use first person. Reflect upon the recent experience of rejection. Use writing as a way of catching your breath.
  Quote: "I'm not going to publish this post. This isn't that kind of a blog."
• Date: 12/7/09
  Title: Billie
  Premise: Recount the conversation you had with the schizophrenic performance artist who hangs around campus.
  Quote: "deserted marines in 1967"
• Date: 11/6/09
  Title: Brothers
  Premise: Reflect on how you wished for brothers as a child. Compare that with your current living situation: two other dudes in a one-bedroom apartment.
  Quote: "He expected it to be something like summer camp, except every day."
• Date: 10/27/09
  Title: The Joy of Economics
  Premise: Explain your former philosophical/moral code that was based upon Economics. Critique its internal logic and self-justification.
  Quote: "The truth is that there is a lot of suffering in the world. The joy of economics comes from the reassurance that it's okay that I did nothing."
• Date: 10/21/09
  Title: Games
  Premise: Explain your general lack of competitive spirit, with specific regards to board games. Perhaps explore the dark, perverted nature of your love/hate for competition.
  Quote: "He liked to win."
• Date: 9/26/09
  Title: Current Pretensions
  Premise: Explain how you're a pretentious sonofabitch.
  Quote: "Igor Stravinsky and correspondence chess."
• Date: 9/21/09
  Title: (Untitled)
  Premise: Describe the guy you saw earlier today.
  Quote: "He walked down the street, false confidence in his stride. He held a bundle of flowers in front of him, gripped in his right hand like he was ready for battle."

Co-operative Living

Whenever I try to explain to an outsider what it's like to live in my co-op, I say this: "Imagine the dorms, but after the revolution." Imagine the ranks of Berkeley students, but purged of all the business majors and 99% of the Asians. Rather than the tripartite tenets of "liberté, égalité, fraternité," the neo-Communards live by but one word: Frivolité.

Some clips and soundbites:

I sat at the dining room table (and makeshift dance platform), eating a big bowl of broccoli for breakfast. Directly in front of me, the thick, brass stripper pole extended from bolts in the table to the skylight above.

They sat in the computer room, researching the LD50 for caffeine.
"Yup, she has enough," he said. "Several times over, actually. That was a pretty big baggie."

Dinner was ten minutes late and I still had about fifty falafels to go. I scooped the chickpea paste from the industrial-sized serving pan and furiously packed it into my cupped hands, making fat little pucks. I was sweating bullets and Daft Punk was playing over the speakers.

He retched a little bit as he emptied the kitchen compost into the big green dumpster at the loading dock. The fruit flies evacuated in a swarm. He vowed to send out an e-mail to discourage people from putting ranch dressing in the kitchen compost.

Live the Dream

The Common Buckeye

Tommy and I have a motto, and it's "Live the Dream." I think that just about sums up how things are going for me right now.

I have something of a Little Prince complex; I have an insatiable urge to find a corner of the earth and become its guardian. If you're unfamiliar with the story, it's about a little blond boy in a green jumpsuit who's the custodian of an asteroid and the single rose that grows on it.

Well, it so happens that I've become the manager of a native plant nursery on campus, with the main objective of propagating plants for use in restoring the native ecology of Strawberry Creek. It's a job that makes me aware of the ecological degradation in my immediate environment, and at the same time empowers me to reverse the damage. That's a great feeling.

We are humans, and we live in a world of our own creation. Through carelessness, greed, or ignorance, we can very easily turn our earth into a dirty, uninhabitable place. However, with engagement, charity, and education, we can make our surroundings beautiful.

In a sense, these are also the two faces of the student co-op where I currently live. It is a place where someone will bake a mixing bowl-full of chocolate chip cookies to share with everyone else. It is also a place where people throw glass bottles off the roof, if only for the joy of hearing glass break.

Why do I celebrate chocolate chip cookies and detest broken glass? I guess it goes back to my desire for order. Perhaps a good example is a wooden sailing ship. This is an example that a Philosophy major-turned-EMT-turned-carpenter once posed to me.

"Consider a wooden sailing ship," he said. "The universe wants nothing more than to see a wooden sailing go to pieces. Without maintenance, the boards will rot, the sails will tear, and the anchor will rust. In essence, a sailing ship is a symbol of man's battle against entropy, that tendency for all systems to head towards chaos. But instead of chaos, we have order, which requires a constant struggle to maintain."

I don't doubt the fact that the earth is a messy system. But that doesn't deter me from striving to create a planet that is more beautiful and livable than the one we have right now.

Update: I was brushing my teeth when I realized that the Netherlands is my dream country. Almost the entire country is below sea level, which is quite inconvenient for a country that borders the ocean. And so originate the dikes and windmill-powered pumps for which Holland is famous. There's a saying that goes, "God made the earth, but the Dutch made the Netherlands."

Excuse me, but did you lose something?

I apologize for butting in, but you seem distressed, like you've lost something. If you've lost your way, I'm not sure if I'm certain of the way out. You can follow me, but I'm not making any promises. If you've lost your dignity, I'll try to prop you back on your feet for a bit, but I think it's reasonable to expect that I won't stay there forever. If you've lost your dreams, I am so very sorry to hear that. Not least of all because there's absolutely nothing I can do to bring them back. Well, maybe you didn't need those dreams and it was time you had some new ones anyway. If you've lost your patience, then take a breath; you'll probably feel better afterwards. No, you haven't lost any of those things? Well lucky you.

Losing something doesn't hurt. It's wishing that you still had it.

The View from Twenty

Here are some pearls of wisdom, handed down by the wise sage of the East (Bay). It is a known fact that wisdom in pearl form is more easily digestible, and more readily forgotten. So, now for some "wise beyond his years" advice from a grown man of one score years:

• Make decisions. Take responsibility for them. Bad ones count too.
• Not all people are alike. You are probably just as much an abhorrent freak of nature to them as they are to you. Take this in stride.
• Bad things will happen to you. Friends are the people who let you complain in front of them.
• Generosity is one of the surest ways to feel wealthy.
• Loneliness is a form of self pity. Never forget that there are people who care about you.
• Self-destructive people can't help it. If they had a choice (or at least an easy one), they wouldn't be.
• Some people need mind-altering substances to glimpse beauty in the world. Don't feel sorry (or left out or superior) because you don't.
• Fortune cookies can give surprisingly good advice.

That's enough for now. I hope that's not a promise for more to come in the future.

Hi, How Are You?

Hi, how are you? I hope that you are well. It pleases me to see you in good health and spirits. What's troubling you right now? That's too bad. I wish that it didn't have to be that way. What are you looking forward to? Really? The excitement in your face is contagious; I can't help but feel some of that too. We should make some plans. Perhaps someday we will see each other. Yes! Yes! And we will have something to do. Just think of all the fun that's to be had in the future, isn't it wonderful? Yes, our plans sure were fun to think of, just now, weren't they?

Oh, how am I? Well, I thought you'd never ask! (Though this whole time I've been wishing that you'd ask). Well, you know me. I've got nothing to complain about. It goes as it always has and always will. People come and go. Books come and go. Bad habits come and go. Hobbies come and go. I'm fine, really. Nothing here to complain about. It sure is nice that we took the time to talk on this rooftop, phone, or computer.

But really, how are you?

It is the distant future in the year 2010...

Me: Look at us!
Anna: What?
Me: I mean, we're talking, face-to-face.
Anna: I guess we are.
Me: Isn't that so analog? Like, there's no electronic interface separating us. We're not holding banana-shaped pieces of plastic to our heads, or pushing buttons. No, we're looking at each other in the face with our eyes and then we're speaking to each other using our vocal chords. How crazy is that?
Anna: Quite remarkable.

Just the other day, Anna and I were contemplating what it means to socialize. I suppose that neither of us has the firmest grasp on the subject, and we spent some time comparing notes on when we considered it appropriate to use a text message. But what freaked us out the most was the sheer size and power of online social networks. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that we were left in awe or had our minds boggled. For me, the image that immediately comes to mind when I think of web 2.0 and social networking is that of a glob of grey matter, a mosh pit of neurons, firing off impulses in a storm of activity.

Anyway, Anna recounted how Tumblr, through a string of posts and re-posts of some content that she had made, ended up linking her to an acquaintance who she had not contacted for the better part of a decade. Bizzare. Welcome to the future of human interaction, I guess.

Postscript: Sorry Anna, but I know that that's not how you talk. Well, that's not really how I talk either.

Drawing is Hard

Started with this:


Created this:


Total elapsed time: 30 minutes.


Damn, drawing is hard. I was talking (internet chatting) with Kimmie last night about the difficulty of reproducing an image of something by hand. I think that the conclusion we came to was that drawing depends more heavily on the ability to observe, rather than the ability to touch pencil to paper. It's easy to think of drawing as this active process full of movement as your pencil glides across the paper. But I think I've realized how much of an internal activity it is; I spend the bulk of my time staring when I draw.

Thinking back, I realize now how much drawing aided me in learning to identify plants. I had this internship with the National Park Service a couple summers ago, and my boss gave me a handy dandy little Write in the Rain field notebook. Even if I made just a quick sketch, the process of drawing still challenged me to make a careful observation and pick out the identifying features characteristic to a particular plant.

I remember this one sketch of a naked lady that I was especially proud of. I spent probably a good half hour on it, but found the result rather pleasing. I wish I had my old field notebook with me right now. I should go out and buy a new one.

Day One

(Interior, afternoon, a windowless high school classroom)
Me: What day is today?
Mister Shimmon: Today's the first day of the rest of your life!

So yesterday I turned twenty. Not quite a monumental occasion in our culture, but it's still a nice, round number. Aesthetics aside, I spent the day quietly, picnicking with the family (my parents, my sisters, and their longterm boyfriends) out at the Berkeley Marina. These are my sisters:

From doctorpon

Hats! Yes, hats are all the rage! If my sisters look a little bit dour, it's because one of them is eating a chocolate (or a chocolate-covered coconut macadamia nut) and the other has something in her teeth. So they tell me. Can you correctly identify which sister belongs to which excuse? For the sake of anonymity, let's refer to them as Sister 2 and Sister 1, going from left to right.

Anyway, it's been some time since I've had "family time," and I'd forgotten how many worlds apart it is from all other social interaction I've gotten used to. I can't believe that that's the social universe I used to live in; it definitely reminds me of all the reasons why I was no good at navigating that social landscape, which as I recall, quite strikingly resembled the surface of Mars.

Sister 2: Happy birthday David!
Longterm boyfriend 2: Happy birthday!
(I extend my hand towards LTBF 2, Sister 2 accepts it, shaking my hand)
LTBF 2: I think that one was for me.
Sister 2: Oh.
(Sister 2 and I quickly hug)

...later...

Mom: I brought bottles of San Francisco tap water for everyone! Here Sister 1, you can use this one. (Mom indicates a Nalgene bottle with a Hello Kitty! sticker on it)
Sister 1: Oh, I brought my own bottle of water. (Sister 1 indicates her aluminum Sigg water bottle)
Mom: Well then LTBF 1 can have this bottle then.
Sister 1: We can share my bottle of water.
Mom: No, no, he can have his own bottle of water, you don't have to share.
Sister 1: No, we can just share.
Mom: Are you sure?
Sister 1: Yes.
Me: I think she's trying to say that she would prefer that they share her bottle of water.
Mom: Okay then.

...later still...

Sister 2: So did I tell you that LTBF 2 and I almost died during our vacation in Oahu?
Mom: Oh my God... (look of unmitigated horror)
Sister 2: We were using the Inside Guide to Oahu and it had this hike "for locals only."
Me: (snicker)
Sister 2: Anyway, for the first part, we basically had to hack through the jungle
Mom: oh my God...
LTBF 2: A machete would have been useful.
Mom: oh my God...
Sister 2: There was 2,500 feet of climb in the first two miles
Me: (snicker)
Mom: oh my God...
Sister 2: Anyway, we get to this jackknife ridge, since the guidebook says to follow the ridge...
Mom: oh my God...
Sister 2: And there's this drop-off on either side of probably a thousand feet
Mom: Oh my God!
Me: Sweet.
Sister 2: You probably would have enjoyed it though, we were right in the clouds. I guess that guidebook had a disclaimer for a reason.

Every family looks bizarre from the outside. They all operate on their own internal logic. Too bad I still have absolutely no clue what the hell is going on.

Post-script: By popular demand, here is a digitally-enhanced photograph of beets. If you haven't had the pleasure of eating beets, they make everything turn red. Everything.

From doctorpon

Casa Zimbabwe

I just moved into my room for the summer at Casa Zimbabwe, the first co-ed co-op in the United States. I've been pretty disappointed to find out that I won't have time to go abroad during college, but lately I've been feeling that the experience of living here won't be that different from being in a foreign country.

Casa Zimbabwe, also known as Krackistan, has a population of roughly 130, with partying as its number one export. Homegrown weed was former number one export before the rooftop growing operation got shut down.

Here's my place as of my move-in day:

Seems like the guy before me left in something of a hurry. There was definitely a neat little pile of nail clippings in the keyboard tray of the desk that was waiting for me. The desk had a sprinkling of weed bits and dust, and the drawers variously had condoms and loose change scattered about them.

Well, at least I have my own room! Let my reign over the Kingdom of David begin!

Crispbread

There's almost nothing I enjoy more than a good crispbread.

There are a multitude of factors that contribute to the ideal crispbread experience:
1) Brand -- I've tried only a handful of brands, but I must say that I'm a loyal consumer of Wasa Light Rye. If the mood strikes me, Ak Mak will do as well.
2) Topping -- Arguably more important than the crispbread itself is what goes on top. One of the wonderful things about crispbreads is that the delicious serving suggestion picture on the box is often very much obtainable in reality. Reach for the stars! Buy smoked salmon and alfalfa sprouts and hothouse tomatoes and avacados! Stack them on your crispbread with wild abandon! Feel like you're a rich person who's socializing with other rich people by eating rich-people foods at a rich-people social event. Or, if the mood strikes you, a can of sardines will do just fine.
3) Ambience -- Arguably more important than both the crispbread and its toppings is where you are. Because let's be honest here, you know that crispbread tastes like cardboard and that you can only afford a can of bottomshelf sardines for a dollar. What's much more important than any of those things is the environment you're in and the company you're with. A golden, summer day at the beach or crisp, mountaintop air in the Sierras are probably going to be the greatest factors contributing to your overall enjoyment of a crispbread. And always remember to share the joy! Bring a bestfriend, or two, or three!

I think I can vaguely recollect a time when eating tasteless, fiber-rich crispbreads was a chore, something like eating pipe cleaners and foam packaging peanuts rolled into a single package. My friend Gus introduced them to me on a backpacking trip. I was unimpressed. Since then, I've come to associate the eating of crispbreads with some of my fondest outdoor/travel memories. It's a beautiful thing when something that seems bland and unappealing to so many people can bring me instantaneous joy.

Wedding Photo

Flipping through my parents' wedding pictures, my eyes were awash in bellbottoms and double-exposures. Then I came across this:

It's my dad and my grandpa sharing a moment of congratulations. For some reason, it didn't register in my mind as belonging to the rest of the corny, posed photos in the album. Maybe it had to do with the general vibe I got from the other photos that had my grandpa in them. I just felt like I could tell that he was grinning on the inside. For the short time that I knew him, I never saw my grandpa smile or laugh. I guess the general impression I got was that this was a man who smiled only when he really meant it.

I suppose that one of the big things that drew me into this picture was the total father-son moment that it captured. Just going by the facial expressions, they could have read (from left to right) as "did you see me make the winning touchdown?" and "good catch." But instead, they're wearing tuxedos (velvet has no place in a bowtie).

Maybe it was just mindblowing for me to think that my dad might once have basked in the approval of his dad, that he too felt the warm glow of paternal love.

Maybe it was how stark the contrast was between these two generations of men, whiskey in one hand, champagne (that would remain untouched) in the other.

Or maybe it was just the ruffles.

Irwin Blood Center

Today I donated blood and some other blood-related stuff. Afterward, at the snack bar, I ate an old-fashioned chocolate donut.

Above: Red cells, plasma, and platelets that were formerly inside my body.

I think the first time I donated blood, it was because all the cool kids were doing it. A blood-mobile was visiting my high school, and all my hip, altruistic friends eagerly lined up to get stuck in the arm, so that they could anonymously share the gift of life with total strangers, not expecting anything in return. Well I thought that that was pretty cool, so I faked my mom's signature on the consent form and headed over to the blood-mobile during my lunch.

My phlebotomist was a middle-aged Russian woman. She seated me on a couch and started to prepare my right arm. "Excuse me, but I need that arm," I said. "I have classes later today and I need to take notes."

"Ha!" she said. "Always are students making excuses!" She continued to swab the inside of my elbow with an alcohol wipe. When it came time to insert the needle, I couldn't help but scream a little bit on the inside. As a child, my mom had to hold me down while my pediatrician gave me a chickenpox vaccination. One pint of blood and a cup of cranberry juice later, my limp arm and I sat through Mr. Shimmon's afternoon Psychology lecture.

Since then, I've become a regular blood donor. I kept coming back, partly to confront the terror of the needle and partly to help people in need. People need blood like neighbors need sugar, infrequently. Besides, do you really need all that sugar for yourself? It'd just be plain greedy to hoard all of that sweet goodness for yourself, now wouldn't it?

Richmond Field Station

Today I got to go out into the field and play Restoration Ecologist. Tromping through fields of invasive grasses, with steno notepad and camera in hand, I had a great time learning to identify native and invasive plant species.

I can't believe how much I miss working outside; I'd forgotten the power of hands-on learning. This is going to be a fun summer.

Juncus phaeocephalus in bloom.

Blue-eyed grass

Killdeer egg.

The City.

Davis, CA

I spent the last two nights in Davis at Ramon's place. It was a nice way to end the year. I rode the train up, and the pacing of train travel helped calm me down after what has been a somewhat hectic academic year, a year that left me practically carving tally marks into my bedroom wall (instead, I wrote blog posts).

Anyway, it just so happened that I showed up in Davis the same day as the Tour of California. Pictured above is Lance Armstrong (!).

After the start of the Davis stage of the tour, Ramon and I ate at Fuji's, an all-you-can-eat sushi boat restaurant. The lunch special cost twelve bucks each and the Asian inside of me made it a personal vendetta to get my money's worth, even at the price of physical discomfort (because what feels better than a good deal?). Pictured above are our stacks of dishes. Mine is the one on the right (!). Ramon is thinly suppressing a look of utter pain. We were getting looks from the other patrons sitting at the counter every time I tried to entice Ramon into eating "just one more" plate of sushi.

(The sushi boat rounds the corner. The tail of a tempura shrimp sticks out from the end of a small roll of sushi, topped with roe and what appears to be coleslaw.)
Both: Oh my God...
Me: Do you believe in love at first sight? Because I do. (Grabs the plate from the sushi boat.)
Ramon: I don't know, you can have this one...
Me: No man, we saw it at the same time.
Ramon: [Sigh.] (Picks up a piece with his chopsticks and barely fits it into his mouth.)
Me: Yeah? Is it good?
(Ramon looks queasy.)
Me: Keep chewing, hang in there. You're more than halfway; you only need to eat six more plates.
Ramon: (With a mouthful of food.) No!
Me: Dude, it'll be easy. Watch this. (Shoves the endpiece into his mouth. The tail of the tempura shrimp barely makes it in.)
Me: (With a mouthful of food.) Holy crap this is decadent. This is why the terrorists hate us.
Ramon: I can't do this.
Me: That's defeatist bullshit, man. (Gesturing with chopsticks.) Now get in there and eat some sushi.

All told, we made pretty good account of ourselves. Between the two of us, we ate twenty plates of sushi, two dishes of fried red bean balls, two dishes of cake, and a dish of oranges.

The bike ride back to Ramon's house was not a pleasant one.