Parallaxis

Aliens

2010-10-23T11:18:00.000-07:00

I had a dream last night that left a strong emotional effect after I woke up.

In the dream, I was accompanied by another creature that was something like a cat, but also something like a reptile or alien (it was a dull grayish-green and not at all soft and furry).

At first, there was little relationship between us, except that we weren’t hostile to one another.

But then another creature entered our dream – a creature whose life was precious and beautiful to me. Something gentle. Something innocent. Something harmless and defenseless. Exactly what it was is unclear to me now. But the alien viciously attacked and consumed it. Its prey didn’t resist; it didn’t even have time to react.

I was instantly in shock and grief. In tears, I truly could not fathom the brutality of the act, and remember thinking “nothing deserves to be destroyed that way.”

The alien and I were once again alone together.

Next to me, I noticed what appeared to be some rock candy. I reached over, scooped up a handful, and popped them into my mouth. They were white and crystailine, and crunched between my teeth like salt, but were essentially flavorless. Nonetheless, I munched on them.

When the alien saw what I was doing, it cried in agony. I didn’t understand its anguish until, through its tearful sobbing, it spoke.

“Nothing deserves to be destroyed like that!” it cried.

I realized the alien thought me to be savage and barbaric, even primitive, to have committed such an act. It may even have thought me a lesser creature. But when I thought about what I had done, I didn’t think, “I know better now”, because there was nothing about my action that could make me understand the alien’s reaction. I could empathize with it, however, because my feelings toward the alien were the same. And it certainly didn't understand why I felt they way I did toward it.

And again, we were alone together – not hostile to one another, and not wanting to be – but each of us now questioning how we can coexist while knowing that there are fundamental differences between each of us that may very well be impossible for us to ever comprehend and reconcile, let alone accept.

And so I woke up with these lingering emotions, and it made me think about what’s going on in the world today. In Europe, countries are banning head scarves, burqas, and minarets. And this week, German Chancellor Angela Merkel stated, “Multiculturalism is failing.”

And as you well know, America is struggling with it too. But America’s struggle with it isn’t new. We’ve been struggling with it since we invented it. We know better than anyone that multiculturalism is always hard; it’s always a struggle; it always will be; but you make it work because it is so very, very important. And while it's never pretty, it's such a beautiful mess. The rest of the world needs to learn these truths, and Americans may be the only people with the experience to teach these lessons.

And we must rise to that challenge, because multiculturalism is fundamental to the United States of America. If the spirit of multiculturalism dies, the spirit of America dies with it. And who wants “death to America?”

My heartbreak

2010-05-21T20:08:00.000-07:00

Sherman isn't with me any more. He had a host of problems and complications from the problems, including a heart murmur, feline asthma, and chronic kidney disease. He got pneumonia about 4 months ago and his kidneys tanked. We hospitalized him for 3 days, which bought him some time - he was otherwise a goner. The 4 months since had been full of me giving him medicines and other treatments, sub-cutaneous fluids daily, a hormone injection weekly, and multiple pills and supplements twice a day. But I'm so glad I got those additional 4 months.

2 weeks ago or so, Sherman's blood pressure went through the roof and caused him to go blind. Unfortunately, I don't think we recognized his blindness right away - he was already not very active, and knew the apartment well enough to keep getting around. But Thursday night it was unmistakable. His eyes were so big and it was obvious he wasn't seeing a thing. You could really see the bewildered and concerned look in his face - like he just didn't understand what was happening to him. We took him to the ER the next day. His retinas had ruptured and he would never get his vision back. We started managing his blood pressure as well, and got it back to normal. And even though he couldn't see, he kept going, moved about the apartment, bumped into walls and had to hunt around for the familiar places now and then, but didn't let it stop him. Unfortunately though, this was the beginning of the end.

So last week I juggled working from home half days to make sure Sherman ate and drank, which he didn't much want to do. He would only drink or eat when I was holding him, holding food or water for him, then coaxing him for 2 or 3 minutes (and being very patient). By Thursday, that wasn't always working either and he had grown so weak he could no longer hop up to the spot he had made for himself on the love seat (even with the "step" I had made for him to make it easier). Then, when I was putting him down to do some work, I put him in front of his litter box in case he needed to use it before going to lay down. He went inside and I waited... he was in there a long time so I lifted the lid to see if he was having trouble, and he was just laying in it, too tired to come out I guess. My heart broke for about the 100th time that week when I saw him there.

Friday morning, things were even more grim. I came home at lunchtime to check on him, hoping against hope for a sign of improvement, but there wasn't any. So I called a doctor who makes house calls and who had been referred to us to discuss end of life options. I was planning to make the appointment for Saturday (or if he was unavailable, Tuesday, since he doesn't have hours on Sunday or Mondays). While speaking with him, he offered to come over that afternoon as well. That's the option Jay wanted, thinking it would be easier to get it over with. So I went from having a remaining day to spend with Sherman to having about 45 minutes. The vet came into our bedroom and put Sherman to sleep while I held him. Sherman was comfortable and ended peacefully. But it hit me like a wrecking ball when I laid him down, trying to be gentle, and saw him lifeless as I let go of him. It was beyond anything I imagined and I can't begin to describe the grief, which was likely compounded by the absolute helplessness I felt that I could no longer do anything whatsoever for him and the fact that I was making a purposeful decision, without his knowledge, to end his life and hoping it was the decision he would ask me to make if he could.

In the long run, I think Jay was right - Saturday was probably not as bad as it would have been. But Friday afternoon was about the most painful day I have ever experienced - at least that I remember (and of course, the memory is still fresh). And so I'm still trying to say goodbye to Sherman

Ever since he was a kitten, I sang "Baby Mine" to Sherman. This was the last time I got to sing it to him, the day before he died.

I miss you, Shermonster.

Why do so many people hate the word ‘moist’?

2010-05-05T17:09:00.000-07:00

You’ve probably met them – you might even be one of them: People who hate the word ‘moist’.

If my own personal, unscientific tabulations over the years are any indication, ‘moist’ is among the most-hated words in the English language. In fact, I just Googled the term and two of the top four results were about hating the word. So there, I am right.

But why? I don’t get it. Of the words that mean ‘kind of wet-ish’, ‘moist’ is really about the most positive description there is. By comparison, the ickier versions of ‘kind of wet-ish’ include ‘damp’ and ‘swampy’.

Think about it. I endeavor to achieve brownies and cupcakes that are moist. But I would shy away from any baked goods that were damp. When I put my hands down someone’s pants, I am generally pleased to discover the underwear is moist. Damp underwear, on the other hand, I am not as OK with. Moist panties, good. Swampy panties, bad.

So moist is a good thing! Let’s overcome our distaste for moist. In fact, let’s declare May ‘Moist Appreciation Month’. I challenge you to find ways to love and embrace moist in your life.

Do you hate the word moist? Can you get over it – at least for the month of May? What other words to you hate?

Liberal vs. Conservative

2009-02-04T21:12:00.001-08:00

(Note: I actually wrote this 4 years ago, shortly after George W. Bush began his 2nd term as President of the United States. Now that Obama is in his 2nd week as President, I thought it fitting to repost this)

"CONSERVATIVE, n. A statesman who is enamoured of existing evils, as distinguished from a Liberal who wishes to replace them with others." - Ambrose Bierce, (1842-1914) American satirist

I've heard people (both in private conversation and in public forums, such as the newspaper and television) make a distinction between "Conservative" and "True Conservative" (or "True Conservatism"). I asked several comrades, cohorts, and colleagues some questions regarding the term "True Conservative." I got a different answer from every single person.

But now that the election is over and I witness what appears to be deepening division between Democrats and Republicans, Liberals and Conservatives, Blue States and Red States, I feel myself torn along with the nation.

I always thought I was probably more politically conservative (by the definition I thought I knew of conservatism), contrary to what my family thought. Now, I'm wondering if I am more liberal than I once thought - or if the definition of the word is changing (or being changed). And I feel torn by the divisiveness.

Yet, when I have talked to people on one side or the other, I haven't felt a great divide. Instead, we've connected as human beings. And I am beginning to think that maybe our main division is that we're listening to different people yelling at us. There are certainly fanatics on both sides, and these extremes differ greatly, but for most of us I think our beliefs and values are not nearly so divergent. Am I wrong?

"There is danger in reckless change; but greater danger in blind conservatism." - Henry George (1839-1897), Economist, tax reformist, journalist, author

Growing up, I didn't think of the beliefs and values I learned as either conservative or liberal, really. When I thought of conservative, I thought of caution, as in "conserve your energy" or "conservation of the environment"... and when I thought of liberal, I thought of openness and generosity, as in "liberty" and "liberal portions of food." Neither of them are ugly words.

But I come from what is considered a conservative state, and I felt that I shared in conservative values.

Much of Nebraska still resembles the open frontier, moreso possibly than any other state in the lower forty-eight. Hardly anyone lives there (here in San Francisco, I have more neighbors within seven miles of me than reside in all of Nebraska), and the people who settled there were fiercely independent. At one time, they were the political radicals in this country: the Populist Movement, the Farmers Revolt, The Grange. The defeat of Democratic candidate William Jennings Bryan (a Populist from Nebraska) marked the end of one of the most challenging protest movements in U.S. history. It is part of our heritage, and in our blood, that individual freedom is our most precious right as an American.

And so, I thought it conservative to believe in individual rights, civil rights, and human rights. I still do.

I had family who were farmers and family in the ranching business. I grew up with an enormous respect for the land and for nature. In Nebraska, you can't plan your day without first checking to see what nature has planned for you. And our ranches are in an area known as the Sandhills, an ocean of grass nearly the size of Maine made up of sand dunes hundreds of feet high. If you don't take meticulous care of the grass-covered hills, you'd soon be dealing with 600-ft tall open sand dunes - dunes that blow, and drift, and literally move. If that happens, we're all royally screwed.

So I always thought it was conservative to care about the environment. And I still do.

My sister was born with Spina Bifida. She survived against astronomical odds and is now in her 30s. To this day, it seems like she has an average of one or two surgeries a year. My memory of her first five years are almost entirely memories of hospital rooms. I think my experience growing up with her has shaped my opinion of healthcare.

It may not be the government's job, or responsibility, to provide healthcare for its citizens. But I believe it is an ideal we can strive for. When President Kennedy announced in 1961 that he wanted to put a man on the moon in ten years, it was an idea that seemed so impossible it bordered on lunatic (ooh I love puns!) We did it in eight.

I don't see why we as a society can't put the same determination into healthcare - the idea isn't nearly as crazy. And it may not have been possible in 1776, or even 100 years ago - but we have advanced as a society, culturally and technologically. We are much more sophisticated and compassionate now than we were two-hundred years ago - at least I'd like to think so. As we advance as a society, don't we also want to better ourselves as a people? And when we can achieve better things, for all of us, shouldn't we? Isn't it sometimes good to redefine our society's role, to keep up with our achievements?

And what's not conservative about caring for people who are sick and need help?

So those are my conservative values. Am I a conservative liberal, or a liberal conservative? Is it an oxymoron, or can we get along after all?

"I'm a liberal when it comes to human rights, the poor; so's George Bush. . . . But Liberal and Conservative don't mean much to me anymore. Does that mean we care about people and are interested and want to help? And if that makes you a Liberal, so be it." - Barbara Bush (1925- )

And so what is our big difference? What makes some people red and others blue?

There's a web site circulating where people have posted their pictures, with messages of apology to the world for the outcome of the election. The bulletin board where I first found this site has lots of posts making fun of it.

And yet, I actually got a tear in my eye reading what the kids (mostly kids, it seemed - people who had probably only been voting a few years) were expressing.

(I can hear Hank Williams croonin' already: "You're Bleedin' Heart!!!!") but I digress...

There was an honest sense of failure - personal failure, disenchantment, and powerlessness. I think people were feeling a sense of responsibility to the rest of the world, but that they had dropped the ball.

Of course, I can only truly speak for myself. But that was my biggest motivator, when deciding how to cast my vote. My domestic issues can and will be dealt with, if not now, in a few years. Even though I believe Bush is a tax and spend Republican - none of my reasons, really, for opposing him are "life or death" to us, and therefore nothing to move to Canada over, except, maybe, the path he is taking our nation down as a world leader, as the last remaining Superpower.

Liberals aren't alone in thinking our president is failing when it comes to foreign affairs. Even among Bush supporters, there are a lot of people who believe that our foreign policy is embarrassing, if not shameful. But to me, personally, this is the big issue. And, again, personally, I do believe he has led us horribly astray.

And no matter how we differ, as Americans, on this point - there is a growing distaste (to put it mildly - hatred, to put it more accurately perhaps) for Americans and America, in the rest of the world. I think that was the despair behind these apologies.

Every human on this planet who is born an American is a lottery winner. I don't think, for us, it is even possible to imagine our privilege (don't take this as braggadocio; it is a humble acknowledgement of a very real truth). Most of us can go about our daily lives without giving a thought to a single foreign nation, not even a fleeting thought to a single thing that is happening outside our safe bubble full of comfortable houses, spacious shopping malls, restaurants, clubs, and theaters. That's fortune.

It's not true of a single person who lives in any country besides ours, because the United States, for better or for worse, is a major player in the lives of every single person on the planet, every single day. Luckily for us, that's US!

But that makes me feel responsible, when I vote for the person to lead this nation, to vote for a person who will lead the WORLD wisely, carefully, and morally. I feel responsible to choose a person who values the environment, and values human life, not just the lives of Americans. I feel responsible to choose a person I think is honorable, and worthy of respect - a person who cares about our planet, and wants the world to be a good place for everyone, not just America.

America has assumed a role among the nations of Earth - kind of like, we're the president. And that gives us Americans a lot of privilege, and also the responsibility to do right by the world. I'm happy to take on that responsibility - the privilege is more than worth it.

And that's why I was moved, when i looked through the apologies on that web site. Because I shared in the sense of failure to that responsibility. And I saw also the smatterings of forgiveness from other nations - also from very young people. And I thought that there was hope and optimism there. And connection.

But again, many conservatives agree that our foreign policy is failing. Many Republicans have acknowledged that we've made a mess in Iraq. Even people who continue to maintain that invading Iraq was the right decision will admit that something needs to change. (And to be fair, a lot of liberals (like me) didn't like Kerry that much. A lot of Democrats still question what he really stood for.) I think that most of us have some common ground here.

It seems to me, once again, that the divisiveness among most of us lies more in our perception of the "other" than anything else. And perpetuating that perception is who we are listening to. It's the Limbaughs, Novaks, Carlsons, Hannitys, Begalas, Carvilles, et. al. driving a wedge between us. Perhaps I'm just a hopeless optimist, but I think we'd all come together, at least in some ways, if we stopped listening to them, and started listening to each other.

Slow Death of a Hospital

2008-07-20T18:30:00.000-07:00

Click to enlarge.

The Public Health Service Hospital
San Francisco, CA

Click to enlarge.

Built in 1931.

Click to enlarge.

Abandoned in 1981.

Click to enlarge.

Today, Monday, July 21, 2008, work begins on its "rehabilitation."

Click to enlarge.

Good news for this old building. But also a bit sad, because there is twenty-year's of graffiti art covering the walls of every room inside that will be lost.

Click to enlarge.

I had to be happy with just photographing the outside of the building one last time before construction begins.

Click to enlarge.

Click the image below to see more of my photos of the Public Health Service Hospital.

Unfortunately, security wouldn't allow me to go inside. Luckily, someone else already did...

Another photographer was fortunate enough to get inside the hospital a few years ago. Take a look.

Of Light and Height

2008-07-17T22:25:00.000-07:00

Images from Ocean Beach and Twin Peaks, San Francisco, California, 12 July 2008

A Walk Around My Block

2008-05-31T21:19:00.000-07:00

I
walked
out
my
front
door
and
around
my
block.

I didn't cross any streets with traffic signals.

This
allowed
me
to
explore
only
four
streets
and
two
alleys.

See what I saw...>

Hasten to Hesitate

2007-09-16T23:25:00.000-07:00

The following is a "magnetic poem" - which gets its name from the word magnets you may have seen on refrigerators. In this case, a magnetic poem is a poetry game between several players. Each round, one player is the host. The host selects an existing, published poem, arranges all of the words in alphabetical order, and gives the alphabetical list of words to the other players as a challenge. Then, the other players, individually, write their own poems using only the words in the list (or try to come close as possible). After a specified time frame, the players all submit their entries and cast votes. The winner gets to be the host for the next round. This magnetic poem won me the round. I'll post the original poem in a comment.

Both legends and theory are quite strewn
with such units of time.
Each event runs by
as in a low ditch that partly led to yourself,
but rather, on the second hand,
will not.
You’re not blind: these are visible but not seen.

The clock's third hand points directly at you,
holds you perilously, infinitely,
until you snag the laundry (the garters, rather) of time
and find yourself on the rabbit, running, entirely out of oxygen,
with a leap through unanticipated architecture -
the chutes, holes and firehouse poles -
among faces, undead and cardinal red, that become
a Stag's crowd gathered at the corpse of cake
where, smelling the sweet icing of you, human delight,
all is as they expect.

You've been surprised
on the very last birthday.
It marks a nice occasion
to plunge between your breasts
through the yielding strata,
transecting flesh and flower,
and dine on your small, ticking viscera -
on the sticky sugar tassels that will also be delicious.
Will it though?

There are two sides, as correct as not.

OK! OK! I'll Talk!

2007-07-19T13:52:00.000-07:00

So I found out yesterday that I am not cut out to be a spy, work in the intelligence community, or generally be trusted with any information that could be considered "top secret," "valuable," or even "juicy." You might want to keep that in mind the next time you're considering divulging anything to me that you want me to guard with my life.

You see, yesterday I went to a podiatrist for the first time because - well, because I could not put it off any longer. For the past six months, or maybe a year, I have been dealing with four ingrown toenails - both of my big toes and both of my 2nd toes. The 2nd toe on my right foot was actually growing like a straw - the kind you drink out of - forming an almost-complete circle so the left and right edges of the toenail were all but touching. And yes, there was a ball of skin being pinched inside this ring. Last week it was finally too much to bear, so I trimmed it, knowing this brief remedy would actually make things much worse - and soon.

So I sucked it up and went to the doctor yesterday to have my toes repaired. The podiatrist, who I will call Dr. Payne, winced when she saw the straw growing out of my toe. "That's what we call a pincher!" she declared. "Don't worry, we'll take care of ya. I'll go get loaded up."

I pondered what that meant while she was gone. She returned with acid, a syringe, a long, sharp skewer, something that looked to me like a lopper, and I don't know what else because she was trying to conceal everything from me.

I'm pretty sure that over the course of the next hour, the Geneva Conventions were violated more than a couple times. She began plunging sharp skewers deep beneath my toenails, laterally splitting the full length of my toenails along the edges, gripping the split pieces and yanking them out (with all her might) at the root, and then dripping acid onto the exposed nail bed - all while cheerfully and casually asking me questions. It was as though Alice had quit her job as the Brady's housekeeper and become an interrogator for al Qaeda.

I asked her, "Are you a sadist who just loves working on toes?" She laughed and shook her head, which I took as a yes.

I said, "This would make a great scene in a horror movie."

"Or a YouTube video!" she added.

When she was done, I looked down at her handiwork: four toes wrapped snugly in blood-red bandages. "Am I bleeding that much?" I asked.

"No no! I used red bandages!" she said. "I'm sorry, I scared you!"

"No," I said. "I'm not squeamish about blood. Just about people touching my toes."

And it's true, I thought later that evening as I lay on my back trying not to think about the pulsating pain coming from the opposite end of my body. Had she been trying to get information out of me, she would not have gotten to rip out four of my toenails. I would have been singing like a bird before she ever touched the first one.

P.S. All joking aside, I want to give my highest recommendation to The Financial District Foot And Ankle Center and the very qualified podiatrist who has saved my toes (whose real name is Dr. Park and who is young, quite lovely, and bears absolutely no resemblance to Ann B. Davis nor a housekeeper circa 1972). I felt nothing but confidence that I was in the most capable hands to be found in the City. And you know what? Jeremy, the office administrator, is pretty awesome too.

If my above story has left you less than convinced, check out their reviews on Yelp - nothing but 5 stars and glowing accolades. That's how I found these great people.

Now, on to the gore:

My bandaged toes... (click image to enlarge)

TMI Alert!!!!

Dr. Payne's handiwork... the "pincher" is the 2nd toe on the right foot. (click image to enlarge)

Record Rainfall in San Francisco

2007-07-18T13:35:00.000-07:00

July 18, 2007 - San Francisco (Parallaxis)

Record amounts of rain fell in San Francisco today. The official reporting station recorded .01 inches of precipitation, the first time it has ever rained on this date in San Francisco since record-keeping began in 1849.

The moisture caused widespread street-dampness and made many residents look askance at their umbrellas for a moment before heading out the door. Some even paused briefly to re-think their afternoon plans.

"I can't believe it's raining," said Linda, an employee of StubHub in downtown San Francisco. "I wanted to go jogging this afternoon."

By noon, the sun was back out and the good citizens of San Francisco breathed a sigh of relief that they could finally get on with their lives.

It was a different story in the East Bay, where the trace amount of rain moistened dusty power lines, causing more than 80 power outages to over 17,000 customers.

Related article: Slightly Rainy Day Makes History

Bolinas, California and China Camp State Park

2007-02-19T11:24:00.000-08:00

Happy The-weekend-after-President's Day Weekend! Last Saturday, I took a little trip up to Bolinas - the town that doesn't want any visitors. It was my first time visiting Bolinas, which sits on a small peninsula between a lagoon and the Pacific Ocean about 20 miles north of San Francisco in Marin County.

Water was being sucked out of Bolinas Lagoon by the tide, and it was flowing into the ocean like a river. There were several kayakers and surfers enjoying the resulting choppy water. Here's a little video I took:

The beach at Bolinas is covered with shells and interesting rocks. You just can't help picking up a few.

The following Monday, Jay and I celebrated the Chinese New Year by going to China Camp State Park with our friend, Allison.

I got some pretty good photos both days. Click here to visit the galleries.

Nebraska Ice Storm Photos

2007-01-05T13:17:00.000-08:00

Just about everyone's heard about the crazy blizzards in Colorado over Christmas and New Year's weekends. But you might not have heard about the devastating ice storm that accompanied the New Year's blizzard, further to the east and north. A friend sent me a link to these incredible photos of the storm's aftermath, the ice, and the damage.

You might have seen this guy's website before - he's a stormchaser in Nebraska, and has some of the most amazing thunderstorm and tornado photos I've ever seen.

Click the link, below, to see his photos of the Dec. 29-31 2006 ice storm, taken last week in and around Nebraska's Tri-cities (Grand Island, Hastings, Kearney). Grand Island is the town I grew up in, as you may know.

Extreme Instability - Nebraska Ice Storm, Dec 29-31, 2006

There are four pages of photos, then a link to 5 more pages of follow-up photos, taken New Years Day. Some of the follow-up photos are really beautiful, so make sure you check them out.

2 Text -n- 2 Tinkle

2006-12-16T14:31:00.000-08:00

I have a very strict policy when it comes to blogging about work. I don't do it. It's just a bad idea.

I'm telling you this because one could easily assume that the following story takes place at work. But it doesn't. I don't blog about work. This story happens to take place in the other location I go every single day and see the exact same people – Noontime Mass at the Cathedral of the Immaculate Redeemer, which is near where I work. (What can I say? I'm addicted to their Eucharist – so flaky, and made from scratch!)

Anyway, so I wasn't at work, but had just finished Mass (and lunch), and was taking my afternoon nap, like I always do, when someone came into the bathroom and stood at the urinal just on the other side of the metal partition from where I was seated (taking a nap). Soon, the sounds of tinkling joined the sounds of my napping.

Tinkle, Tinkle, Nap, Tinkle, Nap, Nap-p-p-p, Nappity, Nap-p-p

So far, nothing out of the ordinary here. But then:

Tinkle Tinkle Tap Tap (beep beep), Tinkle, Tap (beep), Tabeep-tabeep-tabeep

The gears started turning in my mind. What was he doing? Playing a Gameboy or PSP? At the Urinal? Does he have some kind of new-fangled urination technology I don't know about? A bluetooth enabled P-Mobile phone? That's it... He must be texting someone.

I pondered how important the message must be to require mid-tinkle texting. Even on my most frantic and urgent visits to the urinal, the tinkle timetable is no longer than two minutes – tops.

Tinkle tinkle tinkle, Tabeep tabeep tabeep Then – flush, flap, zip – he flushed the urinal, flipped the flap on his phone, and zipped up his fly.

In that order.

By now, I had finished napping and was standing up. I looked over the top of the partition and identified the tinkling texter as he exited the bathroom.

So, I knew who he was. And I knew what he was doing. But why? What text message could be so important that it can’t wait two minutes – tops?

Then it dawned on me: He must be as addicted to those delicious, flaky, made-from-scratch Eucharist as I am and, before he got any, had a sudden, urgent need to go. Standing in line, mouth watering, starting to fidget, he began shifting from one foot to the other, thinking “Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go right now.” Finally, legs crossed, he realized he couldn’t wait any longer. He broke from the line and whizzed off to the bathroom without even having time to tell a friend where he was going in such a flurry.

I imagined him dashing to the urinal while holding his legs together and doing a sort of half-squat-prance, reaching into his pants and pulling out his phone with one hand (while doing something similar with the other) – getting to the urinal just in the lick of time. With a sigh of relief, he began to text his friend who was still in line for the Eucharist.

Brb. Had 2 p. Snag me a cple xtra Eucharists 4 l8r

So, having answered that question to my satisfaction, I washed my hands and made a mental note that if I ever needed to borrow a cell phone, not to borrow his. If someone else asks to borrow his phone in my presence, however, I don’t know what I will do. I am not the type of person to just stand by and watch when someone is in peril. Whether they are trapped at the bottom of a well, have their hair caught in the doors of a Muni train, or are about to cradle a possibly tinkle-tainted cell phone against their cheek, I’m a take-action sort of guy. That’s just how I roll.

But it would be a little shocking to inexplicably bat it out of his hand before the unwitting borrower got hold of it and brought it up to their mouth. I will have to devise a more discreet cell-block maneuver – some kind of ruse, perhaps, or a distraction of some kind. Something that will trigger a reflex, making people immediately want to hide their cell phones.

Omigod! Is that Naomi Campbell with Russell Crowe?!

That could work.

Heavy Surf in San Francisco

2006-12-13T18:59:00.000-08:00

I like big waves (and I cannot lie). So this past Sunday was the perfect day to go to the beach. A series of storms over the Pacific had the water all sorts of agitated. By Monday, 30-foot swells were slamming the beaches along the Northern California coast.

Seeing huge waves crashing ashore fascinates me in a way that thunderstorms used to fascinate me back home. There's something about witnessing such awesome natural power. And the crashing of waves is about the closest thing we get to thunder out here on the WC.

And though it's not quite thunder, you might be surprised how close it actually is to thunder.

On Sunday, I went to Baker Beach to take some photographs and listen to the waves crash. Baker Beach is on the south side of the Golden Gate, just west of the Golden Gate bridge. Being inside the Golden Gate, the waves at Baker Beach don't get quite as big as the ones striking the beaches that directly face the ocean. But something about the shape of the beach, it's angle, or the underwater topography - I really don't know what it is - causes the waves to crash at Baker Beach with an incredible, thunderous BOOM that, in my experience, is quite unique. The waves don't roll in to Baker Beach, they hit all at once: KABLAM!

Here are a couple of videos I took with my not-video camera. I've embedded the videos here, but they don't seem to like to play smoothly from my page. So, if you get fragmented play like I do, I'd recommend going to the YouTube website to view them. Just click the links below each video.

If this plays all herky-jerky, try playing it again. It should play smoothly. And turn on your speakers. See? Thunder!
Click here to watch this on the YouTube website.

And here's one more. Yeah, there's a dude out there. He was boogie boarding and getting totally pummeled. But enjoying it!
Click here to watch this on the YouTube website.
My photos turned out better - probably because that's what my camera was made for. Though there was a lot of spray in the air, and the light was fading, so they're a tad grainy. You can view the entire gallery of 17 photos here.

And a few choice shots:

Here's Baker Beach. The Pacific Ocean is to the left, outside the frame of this picture. Those are the Marin Headlands across the bridge. And San Francisco Bay is on the other side of the bridge. The wave doesn't look that big, but it was easily 10-15 feet high. (Click the photo to enlarge)

Didn't believe me? How's this for a bit more perspective? (Click the photo to enlarge)

I bet that guy would love seeing this picture of him. Maybe he will stumble upon this somehow. (Click the photo to enlarge)

Now you see him...

...now you dont.

See him under there? Underwear! Hahaha! (Click the photo to enlarge)

Looking west towards China Beach and Lands End. The Pacific Ocean is on the other side of that land mass. (Click the photo to enlarge)

Looking out through the Golden Gate to the west, toward the Pacific. (Click the photo to enlarge)

Fiery Sunset in San Francisco

2006-11-18T18:55:00.000-08:00

I took this shot from our patio this evening (click photo to enlarge).

Morning Fog

2006-11-07T09:30:00.000-08:00

Click the photo to see it a bit bigger.
I took this photo with my phone this morning as I stepped out of the Underground in San Francisco's Financial District. It is mild and humid, and the low fog deck was just starting to burn off, but still hanging in between the buildings on Market Street.

Strong Showing for Nebraska at Company Costume Contest

2006-10-31T14:40:00.000-08:00

San Francisco, CA – Two Nebraskans made a strong showing at their company Halloween costume contest on Tuesday, with one of them taking home the top honor: a Starbuck’s gift card valued at over $24.99.

Matt, the Technical Copywriter originally from Grand Island, Nebraska, won praise as the host of a new cooking program on the Food Network, Matt’s Muppet Meals Made Memorable (M.m.m.m.m.). Sponsored by the letter “M,” the pilot episode, which will premiere soon, features Matt demonstrating how to mince three freshly caught young Muppets into meaty Muppet morsels for a magnificent Muppetloaf.

But Jennifer, the Executive Customer Care representative hailing from Kimball, Nebraska, took the top prize with her hand-sewn, sensual and exquisitely detailed pirate costume that would make even Captain Jack Sparrow swoon.

What does this mean for the future of Halloween in San Francisco? Probably not much. San Francisco didn’t really lose face over this Nebraska victory – though if it had, that would have made a pretty cool costume.

Halloween Costume Ideas for the Lame

2006-10-30T13:24:00.000-08:00

If you’re like me, you thought of an ingenious Halloween costume idea months ago, told everyone what you were going to be, and haven’t done a thing to get it together. Now, it’s a day before Halloween and you’re stuck with no ideas, no materials, and no time. Your Halloween costume is doomed to be lame – but even lamer is having no costume at all.

I’m not going to tell you my great costume idea, because, well, there’s always next year. But I will share some terrific, lame ideas with you.

You see, a great costume doesn’t need to be elaborate or require a lot of thought, planning, or effort. And a lame costume can be great, too. How can you make a lame costume great? By embracing its lameness and wearing it proudly. And it helps if the answer to “What are you supposed to be?” is a hilarious punch-line.

So here are some really lame costume ideas that anyone - even you, lame-o - can put together at the last minute, with almost no effort.

Cut a hole in a tablecloth. Staple some paper plates, napkins, and plastic utensils to it. Draw ants all over it with a permanent marker (the more, the better). You’re a picnic!

Too elaborate? Line an overcoat or trench coat with newspaper and be a “news-flasher.”

No overcoat? Get a big, square piece of cardboard. Paint it a bold color (such as orange, yellow, or pink). Cut a hole in it for your face. Voila! You’re Colorado (or perhaps Wyoming).

Still too much work? No problem, I’ve got you covered. Get a “Hello, my name is…” sticker/name-tag (or make one out of an index card and masking tape). Write “Mitch” in the name space. What are you? A guy named Mitch, obviously.

If all else fails, just go out with a crutch under your shoulder, or walk with a cane (heck, a long, broken tree branch will work) and be exactly what you are: LAME.

Do you have any fun, easy, and exquisitely lame costume ideas to share? Do tell.

Happy Halloween!

P.S. Click the pumpkin photo to see a gallery of drunken pumpkin carving pics from Saturday evening at San Francisco's notorious gay biker bar, the Eagle Tavern!

Photos from My Nebraska Dream Vacation

2006-08-30T13:28:00.000-07:00

I've created a gallery of photos I took during my trip to Nebraska. Unlike the last several Nebraska photos you've seen here, I took these with my camera, not with my phone.

I put some of the photos in the sidebar on the left (see them?), along with a link to the gallery, but I thought I'd put a few up here as well, just to further entice you to go visit the gallery.

The Hall County Courthouse, in Grand Island, Nebraska, taken at 10:15pm (obviously). (Click photo to enlarge)

Not as good as another photo I've taken of Lincoln, Nebraska, this is the view driving toward downtown from the north. The tall building is the state capitol. Known affectionately as "the penis of the plains," it's towering shaft is symbolic of Nebraska's fertility. (Click photo to enlarge)

Perched at the tip of the capitol building's golden dome is "The Sower," a 19-foot tall art-deco bronze statue, spreading seeds over the prairie. (Click photo to enlarge)

Did you know, Lincoln has an acre of parkland for every 15 residents - more parkland per capita than any other city in the country? This is the Sunken Gardens, located near the Capitol Building. That's right, just a seed's toss from our massive phallus, the "sunken gardens" are agape in flower, welcoming any and all who care to enter. (Click photo to enlarge)

So Long, Nebraska!

2006-08-16T10:00:00.000-07:00

The Garden Spot of Nebraska

2006-08-15T23:59:00.000-07:00

One of the most enjoyable and miserable days of my entire trip was last Wednesday, my first full day in Nebraska. The enjoyable part involved meeting the other Indyknow Bloggers, for dinner. The miserable part involved a cruel tag-team of heat and humidity.

Both were pushing the limit of tolerability, and the Heat Index reached 117 that day. Luckily, my rental (a Buik LaCrosse) has a kick-ass AC, so the drive was no sweat.

I met Tonga at the offices of the Grand Island Daily Independent. She introduced me around and even gave me a tour of the place.

The Press - Grand Island, Nebraska, Daily Independent
After my tour of the paper, we went to dinner at Godfather's Pizza. I just want to mention, briefly, that I think Godfather's is just about the best pizza in the world - and their Taco Pizza is a masterpiece of Mexitalian cuisine.

Following dinner, we each took turns trying to help a blind woman find the Wendy's, which was about a half a block to the north. She was lost in the Godfather's parking lot. It wasn't funny, except for the fact that we all tried to help her, and we all failed. She may still be wandering around the parking lot as I type this.

Anyway, Tonga and I then moved on to drinks at a little martini bar called J. Alfred Prufrock's. Nice place, good booze, great people, crappy-ass air-conditioner. We peeled off layers and drank cocktails while fanning ourselves with the leather-bound bar menus. I had five or six Knobb Creek Manhattans. Tonga drank a couple three of her "usuals" (containing I don't know what). Our bill came to $15.50 (it was happy hour - but still... wow).

During my tour of the paper, Tonga took me downstairs to the "morgue," where they keep actual printed copies of every issue dating back to the 1880's. Spread open on a table was an issue dated Saturday, October 4, 1913 with a headline that read Hall County---the Garden Spot of Nebraska.

It was basically a very long-winded article singing (quite loudly) the praises of Hall County, of which Grand Island is the county seat. I'll upload a readable photo of the article from my camera when I get back to San Francisco. But for now, I thought I'd quote an interesting passage describing the Wood River (which flows through the southern edge of town and marked the northern edge of the island) in 1871.

It is a vast serpentine vineyard, literally festooned with wild grapes. To this delightful description might be added that in the bends of this winding river were orchards of wild plums, in their season loaded with fruit, the red and yellow of the ripening fruit with the green of the bordering trees, making a picture of surpassing beauty and loveliness while the fruit itself was most delicious to the taster. Did one wish to cross this river, there were at convenient distances bridges built by those most cunning and ingenious workmen, the beaver. Standing on either bank of this meandering stream, which with its fringe of trees lay like a thread of dark green in the lighter green of the far reaching valley, and looking across the smooth prairie as far as the eye could reach could be seen herds of innumerable buffalo feeding and fattening on the nutritious grasses. Always there could be seen flocks of timid antelope, their white flags discernible even miles distant. Occasionally would pass herds of stately elk, and bounding over the prairie were smaller herds of black tail deer, while the accompanying whir of startled prairie chickens seemed but the echo of fast fleeing footsteps. The Wood River Valley of the Platte. Before the coming of the white man, a land of fatness, a scene of primeval loveliness and beauty. To the white man and his descendants, the home of plenty, a dwelling place of contentment, peace, and happiness.

So, it turns out that Le Grande Ile on the River Platte used to be the Garden of Eden (until sometime between 1871 and 1913). It totally makes sense. You see, I've always held that three of the seven gates to hell were located there.

Steak and Eggs

2006-08-14T20:18:00.000-07:00

I've been in Nebraska six days, now. Among the joys of being here is the fine dining. I'm not talking about eating at Chez Pompeaux, of course. But it's nice to eat the food of my people among my people.

And although I've hit three buffet/salad bars so far, I have managed to not totally pig out (every meal) while I've been here. And just to give you an idea of what I'm up against:

I admit I've eaten a little more ice cream than usual this past week. But I don't see how I've had much choice, really, considering the bowls of fresh peaches and strawberries in the fridge.

I've even pushed my personal culinary envelope while I've been here. When we dined at Chances "R" restaurant in York - which I've read is "a great place to stop between Oklahoma and South Dakota" - I ordered beef in non-hamburger form for the first time in my life. No kidding! Following a lesson in cuts of meat from my mom's beaux, Dan, I took his recommendation and ordered the prime rib. I wasn't totally confident I'd be into it, but I did know that it would be just about the best steak anyone could get anywhere, so the odds were good that I wouldn't puke it back up onto my plate.

The dim light made for a blurry camera photo, but that thing was about as big around as a frisbee and I ate (what I could) without ever needing to pick up the steak knife (just about). Holy crap. Why didn't anyone tell me how good prime rib was before now? I might even order steak again sometime. It was a damn good dinner - I mean, supper.

But by far the best meal of the trip was served right from my mom's own kitchen on Sunday night. We bought sweet corn from a woman selling the cobs right out of the back of her pickup truck. Dan fried filets of walleye he and my mom had caught themselves. My grandma made her (astonishing) potato salad. And I made garlic mashed root vegetables (turnips, parsnips, potatoes) that I accidentally put too much cream and butter in. Mom also made her seven-layer salad (that's lettuce (iceberg, of course), green bell pepper, celery, peas, cheddar cheese, bacon, and sugared mayonnaise). I think I ate ten pieces of fish. But I didn't use the spray-on butter for my corn.

Until today, when we had corn again, and I gave it a try. It tasted buttery, I will give it that!

After the big fish dinner, my brother, his gal, and I were going to go to the Hall County Fair. But that required a 40-mile drive to Grand Island, and none of us could make it to the car.

Heat Index 115

2006-08-11T09:32:00.000-07:00

I guess I'm on a convenience store kick.

Nebraska, Here I Kum (n Go)

2006-08-08T22:00:00.000-07:00

Well, I made it. After a hellish day of flying (complete with delayed planes and terrible, vomit-inducing turbulence that even made me queazy), I landed in Omaha for my week-long dream vacation in Nebraska.

And I made it without incident. This is a relief, you see, because I was a little bit concerned about travelling today. I expressed my concern to Jay last evening as we were following up our delicious last-night-in-Frisco meal of Vietnamese Barbecue Pork and garlic noodles with a glass of bourbon. "I hope I don't have to poop all day tomorrow," is what I said to him.

Pooping while travelling isn't usually a huge concern of mine. But I'm on antibiotics. And I don't know about you, but that has a way of making me rather fluid. "Is there a pill I can take to make it so I don't have to poop?" I asked him.

"Like Squirtz-B-Gone or something?" he quipped.

"Or Runz-Away!" I countered in a stroke of genius.

Of course, Runz-Away doesn't exist - but it should, shouldn't it? Well, we thought so, anyway. And so we proceeded to come up with a long (long) list of advertising slogans for our new product - a brainstorm that proved somewhat viral as we continued to text each other all day today with our latest ideas while I was travelling. I know you want to hear some of them.

Runz-Away - A Solid Bet!
Tell your squirts to take a hike! Runz-Away!
Give your squirts the heave-ho with Runz-Away.
Don't let diarrhea cramp your style - take Runz-Away!
With Runz-Away, you'll never stand for the trots again.

And so on...

But like I said, I made it with no untimely nor unplanned emergences. Yes, I said emergences.

And you're not going to believe this, but it was by sheer coincidence that my first meal in Nebraska, upon landing in Omaha after a full day of not eating, was at a truly Nebraskan (Czechoslovakian, no less) fast-food chain called Runza. And yes, I got a cheese Runza - and it was good. And even after eating the "Runza way," I have no need for Runz-Away. Keep your fingers crossed (and I'll do the same with my legs, just to be safe).

Right next to the Runza restaurant was a convenience store called Kum-n-Go. I'm not kidding. Really - I'm totally serious. Look, I can prove it:

Yes, that's sexual innuendo, right here on the plains, big as day. And you thought people out here in the sticks were unsophisticated!

I took that photo with my camera phone, by the way. Are you impressed with the quality? Because I am.

So, this is your correspondent, signing off for now, from the Heartland. Stay tuned for more Middle-Americana, as I see it.

Overheard at LaunderLand

2006-07-13T09:29:00.000-07:00

A woman driving a scratched and dented white Ford Aspire with a bumper sticker that said, Take matters into your own hands - PRAY, was trying to get her two daughters, Hosannah and Glory Anne, to help carry the laundry into the laundromat.

Glory Anne: But I always carry the bleach!

Hosannah: That's because you're used to getting your way ALL the TIME.

------

Later on, inside the laudromat, as they were assisting in getting the washers started,

Hosannah: Mmmmm! Bleach smells GOOD!