Pooping on campus can be something of an ordeal for the uninitiated, but follow these helpful hints, and you'll be on your way to mid-day gastro-intestinal relief in no time!
Step 1: Find the right building. Ideal buildings are new or have been recently renovated. It helps to think which departments get funding for those sorts of things. For me, that would mean going to the engineering/business/biological sciences buildings. I tried using the bathroom in the Anthropology/Art building (Kroeber) once, but there was a hobo taking a nap in one of the stalls. Like, a real hobo, with a bindle and everything. Traffic is also an important factor to take into consideration. Always choose graduate student/professor bathrooms over undergraduate bathrooms.
Step 2: Find the bathroom. Some floorplans are less intuitive than others. A rule of thumb I like to use is to follow the plumbing. If I can spot a water fountain, that usually means that I'm pretty hot.
Step 3: Check cleanliness. A visual check of the toilet seat is pretty important. My general criterion is for moisture/liquids. I like to avoid public toilet seats with foreign moisture/liquids on them. When this happens, I go to the next stall over. If I exhaust all the stalls in a given bathroom, I go to a harder to reach, less accessible (and by extension, cleaner) bathroom. This usually means climbing some stairs to a spot directly overhead the bathroom on the lower level.
Step 4: Poop!
30 April 2010
29 April 2010
Day 119
I'm pretty awful at smalltalk. That's just how it is.
It was about two years ago, right around this time in high school that I was smalltalking with Griffin. We were both in AP English, and right before the exam, our school's English department hosted a miniature buffet of power foods. So there we were, standing in the lobby of our school's auditorium, waiting to take our test, amidst a press of people. I must have had a dixie cup full of fruit salad or something, but I distinctly remember that Griffin had a paper plate filled to the brim with rice cracker snacks.
Now, Griffin and I were never especially close (though at that moment, we were practically squeezed together), but it was senior year of high school, and everyone was supposed to be everyone else's friend. I have something of a bad habit of talking to acquaintances. It's a bad habit because I usually barely know the person and we have nary a thing to talk about. What ends up happening is that, in desperate recognition of this fact, I drag out my dusty old fact file on the target acquaintance, and I blather on about something vaguely pertinent to one of the scant facts I know about that person. Usually, the other person is polite enough to smile and nod periodically.
So here's a special peek at the Griffin Tyree dossier that I had on file that day:
1. Griffin is a really nice guy.
2. Even though he's a really nice guy, he played the villain in Le Miserables.
3. Griffin is in Best Buddies club (he mentors kids with learning/developmental disabilities; See fact #1).
4. Griffin is considering joining the clergy (99% sure he's a Christian).
All my life I've never been part of an organized religion, so I seized upon this moment as a golden opportunity to expand my knowledge of the Scripture. It went something like this:
Me: Hey there, Griffin.
Griffin: Hi David.
Me: Hey, what's that bible quote mean, the one that goes, "My cup runneth over"?
Griffin: The overflowing cup is supposed to be a symbol of God's bounty.
Me: Oh, that's cool.
(Pause)
Me: Well, I see that your paper plate runneth over... with rice snacks!
(Silence)
I'd hate to think that those were the last words I ever shared with him, but I have the gnawing suspicion that they were.
It was about two years ago, right around this time in high school that I was smalltalking with Griffin. We were both in AP English, and right before the exam, our school's English department hosted a miniature buffet of power foods. So there we were, standing in the lobby of our school's auditorium, waiting to take our test, amidst a press of people. I must have had a dixie cup full of fruit salad or something, but I distinctly remember that Griffin had a paper plate filled to the brim with rice cracker snacks.
Now, Griffin and I were never especially close (though at that moment, we were practically squeezed together), but it was senior year of high school, and everyone was supposed to be everyone else's friend. I have something of a bad habit of talking to acquaintances. It's a bad habit because I usually barely know the person and we have nary a thing to talk about. What ends up happening is that, in desperate recognition of this fact, I drag out my dusty old fact file on the target acquaintance, and I blather on about something vaguely pertinent to one of the scant facts I know about that person. Usually, the other person is polite enough to smile and nod periodically.
So here's a special peek at the Griffin Tyree dossier that I had on file that day:
1. Griffin is a really nice guy.
2. Even though he's a really nice guy, he played the villain in Le Miserables.
3. Griffin is in Best Buddies club (he mentors kids with learning/developmental disabilities; See fact #1).
4. Griffin is considering joining the clergy (99% sure he's a Christian).
All my life I've never been part of an organized religion, so I seized upon this moment as a golden opportunity to expand my knowledge of the Scripture. It went something like this:
Me: Hey there, Griffin.
Griffin: Hi David.
Me: Hey, what's that bible quote mean, the one that goes, "My cup runneth over"?
Griffin: The overflowing cup is supposed to be a symbol of God's bounty.
Me: Oh, that's cool.
(Pause)
Me: Well, I see that your paper plate runneth over... with rice snacks!
(Silence)
I'd hate to think that those were the last words I ever shared with him, but I have the gnawing suspicion that they were.
28 April 2010
Day 118
Things I wish I could do but can't:
- throat sing
- use an abacus
- circular breath (and by extension, play the didgeridoo)
- enjoy grapefruit
26 April 2010
Little Sam's Finger
It used to be
That little Sam's finger wasn't strong enough
To press the button on the spray can,
The time he built a birdhouse with his dad.
It used to be
That little Sam's eye would wander,
At every falling leaf
And passing car.
But now his grip is sure,
And now his gaze is steady
When he squints through rifle sights
With finger at the ready.
The boy you knew is gone now,
No chance he's coming back.
He's off to see the world now,
And play cops and robbers in Iraq.
That little Sam's finger wasn't strong enough
To press the button on the spray can,
The time he built a birdhouse with his dad.
It used to be
That little Sam's eye would wander,
At every falling leaf
And passing car.
But now his grip is sure,
And now his gaze is steady
When he squints through rifle sights
With finger at the ready.
The boy you knew is gone now,
No chance he's coming back.
He's off to see the world now,
And play cops and robbers in Iraq.
Day 116
I'm slowly building up my street cred as one of the regular eccentrics at the dirt track where I run. It's only a couple blocks away from my apartment, and it's attached to Clark Kerr, the dormitory with the highest proportion of student athletes, which is why they also get a soccer pitch, a baseball diamond, and some tennis courts. It's pretty convenient to do laps there, and the dirt is nice and soft enough for me to run barefoot, which is a habit I've taken to as of late.
Yeah, I'm that guy.
I'd say that demographic breakdown of the other people who use the track goes something like this: about half students, a quarter middle-aged Berkeleyites, and a quarter senior citizen power-walkers.
And then there's the other crazy. If I get to be Barefoot Guy, then I'd like to refer to the other crazy as Rambo. Rambo likes to do his laps in the mid-morning, just as I do, and I seem to see him every time that I go out to the track. I'm pretty sure he's out there everyday, judging by the crumpled tissue paper texture of his skin and the fact that he's browner than me. He brings his dog along, and lets him hang out in the shade near the aluminum bleachers. He always wears cut-off muscle shirts that bear only the manliest of logos, like Everlast, which I like to imagine implies his past boxing career. That would explain his massive guns. He runs with knees braces on both legs and weight-lifting gloves. Finally, there's the headband, for which I give him his namesake. No, he doesn't wear a bandana, because bandanas are for hipster pussies. No, Rambo is fucking hardcore, and only a torn strip of plaid flannel, quite possibly leftover from the aforementioned hipster pussies that he eats for breakfast, has adequate sweat-wicking properties. Oh, and he wears a tape-player, not a Sony Walkman but a knockoff, for his tunes. I assume he loops a mix of Bruce Springsteen and the Rocky soundtrack. His routine usually involves running forwards and backwards, sidestepping, and looking tough. So that's Rambo.
I wasn't feeling especially brave today, but I gave him a sideways glance and a nod of acknowledgment, from one eccentric to another.
Well, my vision is starting to go, which usually means that I haven't had enough to eat. Time for some quinoa!
Yeah, I'm that guy.
I'd say that demographic breakdown of the other people who use the track goes something like this: about half students, a quarter middle-aged Berkeleyites, and a quarter senior citizen power-walkers.
And then there's the other crazy. If I get to be Barefoot Guy, then I'd like to refer to the other crazy as Rambo. Rambo likes to do his laps in the mid-morning, just as I do, and I seem to see him every time that I go out to the track. I'm pretty sure he's out there everyday, judging by the crumpled tissue paper texture of his skin and the fact that he's browner than me. He brings his dog along, and lets him hang out in the shade near the aluminum bleachers. He always wears cut-off muscle shirts that bear only the manliest of logos, like Everlast, which I like to imagine implies his past boxing career. That would explain his massive guns. He runs with knees braces on both legs and weight-lifting gloves. Finally, there's the headband, for which I give him his namesake. No, he doesn't wear a bandana, because bandanas are for hipster pussies. No, Rambo is fucking hardcore, and only a torn strip of plaid flannel, quite possibly leftover from the aforementioned hipster pussies that he eats for breakfast, has adequate sweat-wicking properties. Oh, and he wears a tape-player, not a Sony Walkman but a knockoff, for his tunes. I assume he loops a mix of Bruce Springsteen and the Rocky soundtrack. His routine usually involves running forwards and backwards, sidestepping, and looking tough. So that's Rambo.
I wasn't feeling especially brave today, but I gave him a sideways glance and a nod of acknowledgment, from one eccentric to another.
Well, my vision is starting to go, which usually means that I haven't had enough to eat. Time for some quinoa!
23 April 2010
Day 113
Everyone loves a good villain.
Three years ago, I remember my high school put on a production of Miss Saigon, a musical adaptation of Madame Butterfly, but set during the Vietnam War. As you might imagine, the production fell a bit short of representing the complexity of the Vietnam War in its entirety, though I was secretly hoping for something more Rushmore-esque. Anyway, during intermission people were leaving in droves and not coming back. But I stuck it out. Was it for the hit-and-miss singing? No. Was it for the choreographed Viet Cong dance scene? No. I stayed for the Engineer.
Within the world of the play, the Engineer is a trafficker of sex slaves. The Engineer was also the most compelling character on the stage; the actor who played the Engineer had far more conviction in his role than anyone else. My point is, he was fascinating to watch.
Well, we're doing monologues in my intro acting class right now, and I've been assigned the role of a psychotic stalker-type. Though most people might simply write off my character as "evil" or "crazy," I've found that I've been forced to really think about what it is that pushes him to the edge.
The other night I spent some quality time with Anthony, my character. First he was in the bathroom mirror, and later he was staring at me through the window. There were some moments when I felt pretty uncomfortable making eye contact with him. That guy just gives me the willies.
Three years ago, I remember my high school put on a production of Miss Saigon, a musical adaptation of Madame Butterfly, but set during the Vietnam War. As you might imagine, the production fell a bit short of representing the complexity of the Vietnam War in its entirety, though I was secretly hoping for something more Rushmore-esque. Anyway, during intermission people were leaving in droves and not coming back. But I stuck it out. Was it for the hit-and-miss singing? No. Was it for the choreographed Viet Cong dance scene? No. I stayed for the Engineer.
Within the world of the play, the Engineer is a trafficker of sex slaves. The Engineer was also the most compelling character on the stage; the actor who played the Engineer had far more conviction in his role than anyone else. My point is, he was fascinating to watch.
Well, we're doing monologues in my intro acting class right now, and I've been assigned the role of a psychotic stalker-type. Though most people might simply write off my character as "evil" or "crazy," I've found that I've been forced to really think about what it is that pushes him to the edge.
The other night I spent some quality time with Anthony, my character. First he was in the bathroom mirror, and later he was staring at me through the window. There were some moments when I felt pretty uncomfortable making eye contact with him. That guy just gives me the willies.
21 April 2010
Day 111
"Boom and Bust"
I got high and played some Pictionary(tm) yesterday. My team (the stoned one) was doing pretty well most of the game. Actually, we were kicking ass. We had some telepathy going on. Then someone joined the sober team mid-game and messed with our energy and they made it halfway around the board to catch up to us. In all, we made a good account of ourselves.
But the act of drawing itself was pretty awesome. The lack of an internal critic definitely made it a lot easier to put stuff down on paper, and I feel a rekindled desire to doodle now in my everyday life. Thanks, marijuana!
I got high and played some Pictionary(tm) yesterday. My team (the stoned one) was doing pretty well most of the game. Actually, we were kicking ass. We had some telepathy going on. Then someone joined the sober team mid-game and messed with our energy and they made it halfway around the board to catch up to us. In all, we made a good account of ourselves.
But the act of drawing itself was pretty awesome. The lack of an internal critic definitely made it a lot easier to put stuff down on paper, and I feel a rekindled desire to doodle now in my everyday life. Thanks, marijuana!
17 April 2010
Day 107
I've adopted a hairstyle that's drastically more monastic than before. That is, no hair.
In other news: Money is a curse. It gives me the impulse to buy ridiculous things. Things like a Utilikilt (video). I guess the appeal really lies in the fact that a kilt offers the comfort and freedom of nudity (from the waist-down, at least), with only some of the social stigmatization.
I mean, I've gone skinny dipping before, and I must say, summer breezes never felt more amazing.
16 April 2010
Day 106
As of late, I've been rather negligent in the upkeep of my body. I never imagined that it might be a drag to keep myself adequately fed, bathed, and clothed. I suppose it's a sign that there isn't a lot tying me down in the world when my mortal human body is the most valuable worldly possession I have to worry about. And even then I can't take care of it.
Anyway, there was a point when it got so bad, when my standards had slipped so far, that I couldn't keep to my schedule of alternate showering days. I remember going running in the rain a few weeks ago, and ultimately deciding not to shower. I mean, why waste resources when perfectly good water falls out of the sky? That sounds like a blessing from the gods if ever I saw one. Not only that, but I had to apply the sniff test every morning to not just my socks but every article of clothing I put on, and I started to eat cans of corn as meals in their own right.
Well, before the pellagra could set in, I finally got around to food shopping today after class. I loaded up the bicycle with my cargo buckets and headed on out to Trader Joe's in Oakland. Walking amongst the aisles of vacuum-sealed goat cheeses and individual heads of cauliflower in plastic wrap I suddenly realized that I was out of place. I think I've backslid on the socioeconomic scale, because honestly, that place just felt way too bourgie (excuse my French) for me. Well, at least now I have something to aspire to, a day when I can afford $4 wine.
Waiting in the checkout line (I got caught in the 5 o'clock rush), I got a real kick out of pretending to be a CIA spook by looking at everyone else's shopping carts and making inferences about their lives. For some reason or the other, I was having a conversation today and the topic of job interviews came up. I mentioned that I heard somewhere that this one interview for some CIA position involved looking at the contents of a refrigerator for a set amount of time, and then extrapolating as much information as possible (what does the brand, positioning, and relative depletion of the pickle jar say about its owner? age? gender? income?).
I went for the low-hanging fruit. Here are some of my field observations of people and the contents of their shopping carts:
Dinner last night. I felt healthier from just looking at my bowl of lentils, cabbage, and yam.
Anyway, there was a point when it got so bad, when my standards had slipped so far, that I couldn't keep to my schedule of alternate showering days. I remember going running in the rain a few weeks ago, and ultimately deciding not to shower. I mean, why waste resources when perfectly good water falls out of the sky? That sounds like a blessing from the gods if ever I saw one. Not only that, but I had to apply the sniff test every morning to not just my socks but every article of clothing I put on, and I started to eat cans of corn as meals in their own right.
Well, before the pellagra could set in, I finally got around to food shopping today after class. I loaded up the bicycle with my cargo buckets and headed on out to Trader Joe's in Oakland. Walking amongst the aisles of vacuum-sealed goat cheeses and individual heads of cauliflower in plastic wrap I suddenly realized that I was out of place. I think I've backslid on the socioeconomic scale, because honestly, that place just felt way too bourgie (excuse my French) for me. Well, at least now I have something to aspire to, a day when I can afford $4 wine.
Waiting in the checkout line (I got caught in the 5 o'clock rush), I got a real kick out of pretending to be a CIA spook by looking at everyone else's shopping carts and making inferences about their lives. For some reason or the other, I was having a conversation today and the topic of job interviews came up. I mentioned that I heard somewhere that this one interview for some CIA position involved looking at the contents of a refrigerator for a set amount of time, and then extrapolating as much information as possible (what does the brand, positioning, and relative depletion of the pickle jar say about its owner? age? gender? income?).
I went for the low-hanging fruit. Here are some of my field observations of people and the contents of their shopping carts:
- Hipster college girls - two buck chuck, bottom shelf liquor, fruit juice, salad mix. More calories in liquid than solid form. Conclusion: It's Friday! Whoo! And we're watching our weight, too.
- Berkeley family; both parents, two children - about 6 boxes of different types of breakfast cereals, a pile of fruit leathers, other family-friendly foodstuffs. Conclusion: Someone's watching a whole crapload of cartoons tomorrow morning and eating a whole lotta Peanut Butter Panda Puffs too.
- Single Asian woman, mid-twenties - frozen pizza, other frozen/instant foods. Blackberry strapped to her waist. Wearing a tucked-in expedition shirt from REI and big, black leather boots. Conclusion: Really busy executive/mountaineer? An alpine lawyer?
- Me - Tub of plain yogurt, various canned beans (kidney, garbanzo, black, cuban), tortillas, organic unsweetened soymilk, goat gouda, almonds. Conclusion: Hippie with his parents' credit card.
Dinner last night. I felt healthier from just looking at my bowl of lentils, cabbage, and yam.
15 April 2010
14 April 2010
Day 104
So, right now in my closet I'm harboring a host of burbling containers of yeasty anaerobic fermentation goodness. We owe so much to our little friends, the yeasts.
A quick rundown of current brew projects:
- Summer Ale (in the big carboy w/ airlock) - Should be nice and light. I bought the grains from San Francisco Brewcraft, a fine establishment where one might find all things good in the world, given that their main ingredients are barley, hops, and yeast. Whenever I go there, there's always this guy who hangs out in the back corner of the store, sitting in a leather easy chair that groans under his weight, wearing denim overalls with one strap unbuttoned. The other employees refer to him as "Griz," and I have a hard time imagining him in a past life without his silver beard and ponytail. Anyway, I asked for something summery, and Griz wrote up the grain recipe for me. He dubbed it "Lawnmower Ale," wrote the ingredients on a sheet, and one of the other guys at the store measured out the prescribed quantities of grains into a bag for me. Once I got the brew going, I added a whole crudload of dried fruits, persimmons (from my grandma; they were already starting to ferment) and nectarines (sulfur-free from Berkeley Bowl). Prescription: Sip on a co-op roof during an especially golden afternoon.
- Hard Pear Cider (green wine bottle on the left) - Made this one real quick and dirty; it's pear juice + champagne yeast, but in a fancy looking bottle. Also, it's pretty fancy pear juice too (organic pear nectar of ambrosial origins, to be exact). Let's see what happens. Might need some aging. Prescription: Serve during a vegetarian dinner for two.
- Applejack (brown bail-top bottle on right) - A holdover from last semester (Fall 2009 vintage) when I made about 5 gallons of hard apple cider. There was a bunch left over that I didn't have the storage space for, so I concentrated it using the time-honored, pioneer-tested method of freeze distillation. Initial tastings concluded that it could use some aging to eliminate the rather unpalatable rocket fuel taste. Prescription: Toast to the new year on a mountaintop.
Spring Break Photodump
Finally got around to uploading my pictures from spring break, which was a couple weeks ago.
Sweet no-name designer tie I got from the Goodwill in the Fillmore in SF. I like the abstract floral pattern and the color scheme.
Had to play dress up. I imagine myself as a crazy businessman. I don't think I'd excel in the world of commerce.
You want a raise?!
Coconut autopsy part one, in which Karyn demonstrates her tool-wielding abilities.
Extraction of the essential juices.
Revelry in victory.
The soft, fleshy interior.
A tasty morsel.
Team bike. I got to go bike camping for work! We took a kids' group called the Junior Rangers. Authority figure-to-children ratio = 1:9. I felt pretty stoked about my tactical walkie talkie holster.
Falling down or flying away? One of the Junior Rangers (pictured) taught me how to fold origami cubes. We used aluminum foil and tried to pop corn in them. Tried to.
Toasty. I was the guardian of the flame.
Sweet no-name designer tie I got from the Goodwill in the Fillmore in SF. I like the abstract floral pattern and the color scheme.
Had to play dress up. I imagine myself as a crazy businessman. I don't think I'd excel in the world of commerce.
You want a raise?!
Coconut autopsy part one, in which Karyn demonstrates her tool-wielding abilities.
Extraction of the essential juices.
Revelry in victory.
The soft, fleshy interior.
A tasty morsel.
Team bike. I got to go bike camping for work! We took a kids' group called the Junior Rangers. Authority figure-to-children ratio = 1:9. I felt pretty stoked about my tactical walkie talkie holster.
Falling down or flying away? One of the Junior Rangers (pictured) taught me how to fold origami cubes. We used aluminum foil and tried to pop corn in them. Tried to.
Toasty. I was the guardian of the flame.
13 April 2010
Day 103
Remember the days when science was fun? When candles sucked boiled eggs into jars and food coloring turned carnations blue? Well, you can live through those days once more! Behold the penny-cleaning powers of vinegar and salt on oxidized copper!
Before:
During:
After:
(Fun fact: Note the penny on the far left, which has a small "s" beneath the date 1970. This mint mark indicates that this penny is from San Francisco, just like me.)
My college-level understanding (supplemented by Wikipedia) of what happens runs something like this: salt (NaCl) dissolves in vinegar (which is already a solution of acetic acid, CH3COOH). Both acetic acid and salt dissolve in water, creating sodium (Na+), chloride (Cl-), acetate (CH3COO-), and hydrogen (H+) ions in the solution. Dull pennies, coated with copper oxide (CuO), get thrown into the mix. Chloride ions bond to the copper to make copper chloride (CuCl2) and hydrogen ions bond to to the oxygen to make water (H2O). If we had added our pennies to a solution of hydrochloric acid (HCl), we would have had the same outcome, since hydrogen (H+) and chloride (Cl-) ions were the main actors in removing the copper oxide (CuO).
It sure is reassuring to know that my college education is arming me with the tools necessary to understand an eight year old's rainy day science project, or an entire episode of Bill Nye the Science Guy, for that matter.
Well, that sure was fun.
Before:
During:
After:
(Fun fact: Note the penny on the far left, which has a small "s" beneath the date 1970. This mint mark indicates that this penny is from San Francisco, just like me.)
My college-level understanding (supplemented by Wikipedia) of what happens runs something like this: salt (NaCl) dissolves in vinegar (which is already a solution of acetic acid, CH3COOH). Both acetic acid and salt dissolve in water, creating sodium (Na+), chloride (Cl-), acetate (CH3COO-), and hydrogen (H+) ions in the solution. Dull pennies, coated with copper oxide (CuO), get thrown into the mix. Chloride ions bond to the copper to make copper chloride (CuCl2) and hydrogen ions bond to to the oxygen to make water (H2O). If we had added our pennies to a solution of hydrochloric acid (HCl), we would have had the same outcome, since hydrogen (H+) and chloride (Cl-) ions were the main actors in removing the copper oxide (CuO).
It sure is reassuring to know that my college education is arming me with the tools necessary to understand an eight year old's rainy day science project, or an entire episode of Bill Nye the Science Guy, for that matter.
Well, that sure was fun.
12 April 2010
Day 102
I'm not a vegetarian by any stretch of the imagination; I'm definitely someone who sees the coagulated sausage grease in the frying pan as an opportunity to enhance my tofu-eggplant stirfry. But I've cut back my meat consumption considerably in the past week. A lot of it has to do with how I shop. Ironically, the bell peppers at Berkeley Bowl (my local purveyor of self-righteous fodder) are more expensive than the chicken at Safeway on a per-pound basis. On a per-calorie basis, veggies are definitely more expensive. It sounds a bit absurd, but I need to find a source of fat in my diet.
Anyway, here's a quick rundown of the relative pros/cons of reduced meat consumption that I've experienced.
Pros:
Cons:
As far as cons go, I think the two that I've listed are interlinked. I just haven't gotten a feel yet for the sheer volume of food that I have to consume. As such, I can make a pile of cucumbers and tomatoes disappear for a midnight snack and still feel oddly unsatiated. I think I'm still adjusting to what foods I need to buy in place of meats. I'm burning through bags of bulk dried fruit with alarming rapidity. I probably should have gotten more nuts. Aw nuts!
I have to admit though, that the spicy tofu-eggplant that I whipped up for lunch today was pretty bitchin'. I put in cilantro and lime juice, which were nice touches, though it was the diced jalapeno that really made the dish. It brought so many delicious tears of pain to my eyes. Definitely something I'll try to recreate in the days to come.
Anyway, here's a quick rundown of the relative pros/cons of reduced meat consumption that I've experienced.
Pros:
- sustainability
- freshness
- all the entertaining people at Berkeley Bowl
- the taste of self-righteousness
- greater appreciation for meat when I do have it
- bowel movements that could win the Indie 500
Cons:
- constant hunger
- more frequent shopping
As far as cons go, I think the two that I've listed are interlinked. I just haven't gotten a feel yet for the sheer volume of food that I have to consume. As such, I can make a pile of cucumbers and tomatoes disappear for a midnight snack and still feel oddly unsatiated. I think I'm still adjusting to what foods I need to buy in place of meats. I'm burning through bags of bulk dried fruit with alarming rapidity. I probably should have gotten more nuts. Aw nuts!
I have to admit though, that the spicy tofu-eggplant that I whipped up for lunch today was pretty bitchin'. I put in cilantro and lime juice, which were nice touches, though it was the diced jalapeno that really made the dish. It brought so many delicious tears of pain to my eyes. Definitely something I'll try to recreate in the days to come.
11 April 2010
Day 101
Today I spent about an hour talking to myself. I normally try to project the conceit that I maintain some semblance of sanity, but no one else was home, so I decided to spend some quality time with myself in front of the mirror. I was trying to work on this self-written monologue assignment for my theatre class, but it wasn't really making any progress. So I thought that I'd have a conversation with myself to work things out.
It's been a long time since I've sat down with myself and had a nice, long talk. To be honest, it was a lot of fun. To be narcissistic, I'm pretty damn charming and witty. There were times when I couldn't but help burst into laughter. Maybe I really am crazy.
Well, I ended up burning through the better part of an hour without making any real progress, but the exercise itself was satisfying. It blew off a lot of people-anxiety stress that I accumulated at work yesterday. It was a much needed chance to make faces and talk in funny voices. I really don't think I'd ever need a TV if I just had a mirror. I wonder if that's what old people mean when they say that they had to make their own fun when they were young.
It's been a long time since I've sat down with myself and had a nice, long talk. To be honest, it was a lot of fun. To be narcissistic, I'm pretty damn charming and witty. There were times when I couldn't but help burst into laughter. Maybe I really am crazy.
Well, I ended up burning through the better part of an hour without making any real progress, but the exercise itself was satisfying. It blew off a lot of people-anxiety stress that I accumulated at work yesterday. It was a much needed chance to make faces and talk in funny voices. I really don't think I'd ever need a TV if I just had a mirror. I wonder if that's what old people mean when they say that they had to make their own fun when they were young.
09 April 2010
Day 99
Potlucks are a metadish of sorts. They can't succeed without good ingredients: good friends and good food. Tonight I went to two potlucks. Potluck one: fistfuls of bread and eco-hipsters. Potluck two: homemade pizzas, three styles of eggplant, salad with four kinds of bell peppers, and people for whom environmentalism is more than a fashion accessory.
Success rate: 50%
Success rate: 50%
08 April 2010
Day 98
I think I have something of a time obsession. One time in middle school, during the course of a normal conversation, I must have checked my watch an inordinate number of times, since it prompted one of my friends to ask me if I have "some sort of watch-checking fetish or something."
Well maybe I do. If I ever happen to be wearing an analog watch, I find something oddly soothing about watching the second hand make its endless circuits around the face of the dial. If I'm in the right mood, I can get engrossed enough where I start to lose minutes from my life without noticing. I recently purchased such a watch for this very purpose, among others. I chose a design so nondescript and utilitarian that my inner German could only approve ("Alles muss praktisch sein" is a saying that means "Everything must be practical").
As stupidly self-evident as it sounds, it's difficult to believe that 98 days have passed since 98 days ago; that so much could happen in such a span of time that it feels like it's been a year that passed by in a moment.
I guess the comfort of watching the seconds hand comes from knowing that things aren't moving any faster or slower than they ever have been. It feels like something akin to taking a deep breath. It's a kind of reassurance. Sometimes, when I am stressed, I look at the sky, just to make sure it's still blue.
I don't think that a digital watch can comfort me in the same way an analog can, oddly enough. The reassurance that comes from analog watches just isn't there when I look at the angular numbers on a digital watch display. Every time I check my digital watch, the time seems to mercilessly jump ahead without my knowing it. I get antsy and wonder where the time went, whether I used it effectively, whether what I was doing was worthwhile. This only makes my time anxiety grow, and pretty soon, I'm checking my wrist every minute. That's no way to live.
I think a lot of this has to do with scope. On a digital watch, all you ever see is the second you're in right now. And now. And now. And now. There's this disjunction from one moment to the next. In contrast, the sweeping movements of the hands of an analog watch acknowledge what has come before, and what is yet to come. The circular dial visually reminds me that there's a past and a present, that I don't exist stranded on the point of an icepick.
Wow, that got angsty in a hurry. Good thing I caught myself before making an ass of myself with a Faulkner quote*. That sure would be embarrassing.
* Misattributed to Absalom! Absalom! Quote is actually from The Sound and the Fury. Trying to read either will frustrate you to no end.
Well maybe I do. If I ever happen to be wearing an analog watch, I find something oddly soothing about watching the second hand make its endless circuits around the face of the dial. If I'm in the right mood, I can get engrossed enough where I start to lose minutes from my life without noticing. I recently purchased such a watch for this very purpose, among others. I chose a design so nondescript and utilitarian that my inner German could only approve ("Alles muss praktisch sein" is a saying that means "Everything must be practical").
As stupidly self-evident as it sounds, it's difficult to believe that 98 days have passed since 98 days ago; that so much could happen in such a span of time that it feels like it's been a year that passed by in a moment.
I guess the comfort of watching the seconds hand comes from knowing that things aren't moving any faster or slower than they ever have been. It feels like something akin to taking a deep breath. It's a kind of reassurance. Sometimes, when I am stressed, I look at the sky, just to make sure it's still blue.
I don't think that a digital watch can comfort me in the same way an analog can, oddly enough. The reassurance that comes from analog watches just isn't there when I look at the angular numbers on a digital watch display. Every time I check my digital watch, the time seems to mercilessly jump ahead without my knowing it. I get antsy and wonder where the time went, whether I used it effectively, whether what I was doing was worthwhile. This only makes my time anxiety grow, and pretty soon, I'm checking my wrist every minute. That's no way to live.
I think a lot of this has to do with scope. On a digital watch, all you ever see is the second you're in right now. And now. And now. And now. There's this disjunction from one moment to the next. In contrast, the sweeping movements of the hands of an analog watch acknowledge what has come before, and what is yet to come. The circular dial visually reminds me that there's a past and a present, that I don't exist stranded on the point of an icepick.
Wow, that got angsty in a hurry. Good thing I caught myself before making an ass of myself with a Faulkner quote*. That sure would be embarrassing.
* Misattributed to Absalom! Absalom! Quote is actually from The Sound and the Fury. Trying to read either will frustrate you to no end.
04 April 2010
Day 94
Today was a rainy day. I think rain pattering, on rooftops, down drains, or onto sidewalks, is one of the best sounds in the whole world. I remember sitting in my elementary school gym when they would play movies on rainy days during lunch. It was crowded and damp, and the smell of Lunchables salami hung in the humid air. I can't remember a single movie that we watched. Maybe it didn't happen.
In class, I realize now the chaotic nightmare the teachers must have had to deal with. I simply remember the contentment of building. It didn't really matter with what; tiny wood cutouts of color-coded geometric shapes or interlocking plastic cubes with sockets and connectors on their faces were some of my preferred materials, though.
Perhaps it is symptomatic of my being male, but from an early age, anything that vaguely resembled a gun was a gun. One rainy day we had an illicit gun workshop, and business was good. We were using the interlocking plastic cubes, since the ability to detach and reattach the clips of ammo was so cool. We had a stockpile of weaponry stashed away in the classroom, and I remember a distinct sense of shame upon its discovery.
Working with kids now, I am reminded of the lack of inhibitions and the plethora of anxieties that used to fill my life; how great it was to run around with arms locked rigid like the wings of an airplane, and how terrible it was to have to wait in line for ice cream when the people at the front were already getting theirs. I think it's easy to forget how much we worried as kids, maybe we worried more. How else could we channel the joy, the wild abandon of the play yard if not for the nagging possibility that one recess the sky might start falling?
Well, I'm a big kid now; bigger, but still vulnerable to the same anxiety when I was small. Some nights, I fall asleep with a feeling of dis-ease. The dark caves in, and the old feeling comes back. And when the next morning finally comes, what a joy it is to come back to the surface and feel the sunshine once more.
In class, I realize now the chaotic nightmare the teachers must have had to deal with. I simply remember the contentment of building. It didn't really matter with what; tiny wood cutouts of color-coded geometric shapes or interlocking plastic cubes with sockets and connectors on their faces were some of my preferred materials, though.
Perhaps it is symptomatic of my being male, but from an early age, anything that vaguely resembled a gun was a gun. One rainy day we had an illicit gun workshop, and business was good. We were using the interlocking plastic cubes, since the ability to detach and reattach the clips of ammo was so cool. We had a stockpile of weaponry stashed away in the classroom, and I remember a distinct sense of shame upon its discovery.
Working with kids now, I am reminded of the lack of inhibitions and the plethora of anxieties that used to fill my life; how great it was to run around with arms locked rigid like the wings of an airplane, and how terrible it was to have to wait in line for ice cream when the people at the front were already getting theirs. I think it's easy to forget how much we worried as kids, maybe we worried more. How else could we channel the joy, the wild abandon of the play yard if not for the nagging possibility that one recess the sky might start falling?
Well, I'm a big kid now; bigger, but still vulnerable to the same anxiety when I was small. Some nights, I fall asleep with a feeling of dis-ease. The dark caves in, and the old feeling comes back. And when the next morning finally comes, what a joy it is to come back to the surface and feel the sunshine once more.
03 April 2010
Day 93
I am, and forever will be, an unrepentant picker of scabs. I just can't help it. It always starts out with me staring at a scab. This lasts for perhaps ten to thirty seconds. The staring makes the scab feel extra itchy, if only because I become more aware of its presence on my body. After some staring, the feeling of itchiness becomes unbearable, and the compulsion to pick is overpowering. The act of scab picking provides far more satisfaction than mosquito bite scratching for the simple reason that picking has the payoff of clawing out bits of one's own flesh and scratching does not. Instead, scratching turns into a feedback loop that only induces more itchiness. Once the flakes of scab have been picked off, I always enjoy seeing the blood bead and coagulate, the water tension holding the droplets of blood together in little spheres. I usually end up wiping away the little blood droplets, and for some reason I always make a point of smelling the pennies smell that blood makes before I wash it off of my hands.
02 April 2010
Day 92
First a story: We were hiking back to the trailhead, where our car was parked, when we met him. We slowly came to a stop as we approached each other.
"Is the journey far?" he asked in a slight German accent. His translation had taken a rather metaphysical quality.
"No," I said with an embarrassed grin. We had camped at a spot just out of sight of our parked car in the wide desert valley. We had gorged ourselves on sleep and food.
He wore sneakers and drank from reused plastic water bottles. According to the dust that permeated his bandana he had been out for a few days, but his beard said that he had been out longer. His sun spectacles seemed as if they were a permanent fixture his face.
He wished us well and continued on his way.
For the duration of the trip, and the drive back home, the mythos surrounding The German grew only larger. In a flight of fancy, we ascertained that he was composed not of matter, but was rather a light emanation generated by string resonance, and that he thought in harmonics rather than words. Conclusions: 1. The German was a manifestation of the vibrating life force imbued in all living creatures. 2. We had completed our vision quest. 3. The German had been our spirit guide.
Now another story: Today I received the first two of a total of five hours of training. Tomorrow morning I receive the rest as I am hastily pressed into service. It makes me feel very Red Army.
After that, I get my license to kill... invasive, non-native plant species, as a part of the Strawberry Creek Restoration Program, under the auspices of our illustrious leader, Tim Pine (I wish I were named after a conifer). Our trainings had no shortage of war metaphors, the most colorful of which drew on the fact that our poorly-funded program relies on networks of independent cells (of which I will soon be a leader), leading to a comparison with al-Qaeda. That got some laughs. And then he continued to plow on.
As long as I'm planting seeds and not bombs.
"Is the journey far?" he asked in a slight German accent. His translation had taken a rather metaphysical quality.
"No," I said with an embarrassed grin. We had camped at a spot just out of sight of our parked car in the wide desert valley. We had gorged ourselves on sleep and food.
He wore sneakers and drank from reused plastic water bottles. According to the dust that permeated his bandana he had been out for a few days, but his beard said that he had been out longer. His sun spectacles seemed as if they were a permanent fixture his face.
He wished us well and continued on his way.
For the duration of the trip, and the drive back home, the mythos surrounding The German grew only larger. In a flight of fancy, we ascertained that he was composed not of matter, but was rather a light emanation generated by string resonance, and that he thought in harmonics rather than words. Conclusions: 1. The German was a manifestation of the vibrating life force imbued in all living creatures. 2. We had completed our vision quest. 3. The German had been our spirit guide.
Now another story: Today I received the first two of a total of five hours of training. Tomorrow morning I receive the rest as I am hastily pressed into service. It makes me feel very Red Army.
After that, I get my license to kill... invasive, non-native plant species, as a part of the Strawberry Creek Restoration Program, under the auspices of our illustrious leader, Tim Pine (I wish I were named after a conifer). Our trainings had no shortage of war metaphors, the most colorful of which drew on the fact that our poorly-funded program relies on networks of independent cells (of which I will soon be a leader), leading to a comparison with al-Qaeda. That got some laughs. And then he continued to plow on.
As long as I'm planting seeds and not bombs.
01 April 2010
Day 91
I went running with Yang this morning. I'm in better shape than him, so I felt like taking on a handicap and ended up running barefoot. It was a little chilly out, and my toes went numb pretty fast. We stayed on a dirt track and occasionally I'd feel something sharp, freaking out that it might be glass. But otherwise, the experience of having sensation on the soles of my feet whilst running was delectable. It seems like the foot is a too commonly neglected part of the body, sensation-wise.
After the run, I went online and started a search for the pertinent alternative-living fringe community that must surely inhabit some web 1.0 angelfire abomination, and surely enough, I found it. Well, pretty soon I was convinced that all ills in the world could be traced back to the moment in human history when primordial fell from grace upon the first donning of shoes.
Once my blisters heal up and harden into callouses, I'll definitely try barefoot running again.
After the run, I went online and started a search for the pertinent alternative-living fringe community that must surely inhabit some web 1.0 angelfire abomination, and surely enough, I found it. Well, pretty soon I was convinced that all ills in the world could be traced back to the moment in human history when primordial fell from grace upon the first donning of shoes.
Once my blisters heal up and harden into callouses, I'll definitely try barefoot running again.
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