Southern Nevada, after several hundred miles, was not fabulous. Nor were stretches of Colorado, most of Kansas, or the oddly long-seeming chunk of Illinois we travelled between St. Louis and Kentucky.
Monique's car was stuffed to the hilt, with just enough space in the backseat to afford a view out the rear windshield and side windows. The side mirror on the passenger side spent most of the journey doing its best to fall off completely (despite our ministrations with duct tape and pleading), and the back end of the car rode perilously close to the ground.
I won't even mention the food we had to endure for much of the trip, being unwelcome vegetarians in very non-vegetarian lands.
But overall, the trip was amazing. I'm still reeling at the splendor of southern Utah, with its otherworldy landscape racing along with I-70. I'm in love with little Paonia, Colorado, site of our first really good meal in hundreds of miles. I'm amazed that we actually stayed and ate in Frank Lloyd Wright's Price Tower in Bartlesville, Oklahoma, and I'm so happy that I was able to find my way back to the Mad Platter in Nashville for another awesome meal there.
It was somewhere just east of Asheville, coming down the mountains with a madly beautiful sunset behind us and Winston-Salem somewhere ahead, that I thought again of the maxim I'd seen once in a snowboarding ad: "The more you live, the less you die." And I thought, what could've been a straightforward drive from California to North Carolina became so much more because we were willing to go astray and take some chances with our itinerary.
Isn't that always the key, though--turning away from the path? That practice can be anything from mildly inconvenient to a wild pain in the ass sometimes, and it isn't worth it every single time, but in the end it leaves you with a balance sheet with much more in the black column than the red.
That, to me, is worth driving for.
8.19.2004
7.05.2004
Self-evident
When was the last time you read the Declaration of Independence? Until this morning, I hadn't looked at the thing closely for years--perhaps since seventh-grade history. But there it was, on the back page of yesterday's Week in Review section of the Times, so I spent some time digging in to our history.
Here's the weird thing: I don't know whether the Declaration was placed there by the Times staff or whether it was an uncredited ad, but it read to me like a litany of the destruction wrought by the Bush Administration. Perhaps that sounds ridiculous--and I certainly don't mean to imply that things are as bad now as they were when the colonists were living under tyrannical rule 228 years ago. But consider the examples given as "Facts submitted to a candid world" of "a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States":
"He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harrass our People; and eat out their substance";
"He has affected to render the Military independent of and superior to the Civil power";
"He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws; giving his Assent to their Acts of pretended Legislation...."
There are not, of course, direct and absolute corollaries between then and now, but the similarities are striking. Can it actually be that we're moving backwards through history, and will, if we fail to act, find ourselves perilously closer to 1776 by 2008?
Though Bush and his allies would surely write me off as unpatriotic (and an America hater, and a terrorist lover, and what have you) for saying this, it needs to be said: the Founding Fathers and Mothers of the country did what they could to ensure we wouldn't wind up with another King George tyrannizing us without our consent, but their actions can only take us so far.
It's up to us now to be sure we don't wind up with another King George tyrannizing us with our consent, or with the consent of a minority or the ruling of a skewed Supreme Court. We have the chance for our own revolution, and in honor of everyone from Button Gwinnett to Matthew Thornton, we need to take it.
Here's the weird thing: I don't know whether the Declaration was placed there by the Times staff or whether it was an uncredited ad, but it read to me like a litany of the destruction wrought by the Bush Administration. Perhaps that sounds ridiculous--and I certainly don't mean to imply that things are as bad now as they were when the colonists were living under tyrannical rule 228 years ago. But consider the examples given as "Facts submitted to a candid world" of "a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States":
"He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harrass our People; and eat out their substance";
"He has affected to render the Military independent of and superior to the Civil power";
"He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws; giving his Assent to their Acts of pretended Legislation...."
There are not, of course, direct and absolute corollaries between then and now, but the similarities are striking. Can it actually be that we're moving backwards through history, and will, if we fail to act, find ourselves perilously closer to 1776 by 2008?
Though Bush and his allies would surely write me off as unpatriotic (and an America hater, and a terrorist lover, and what have you) for saying this, it needs to be said: the Founding Fathers and Mothers of the country did what they could to ensure we wouldn't wind up with another King George tyrannizing us without our consent, but their actions can only take us so far.
It's up to us now to be sure we don't wind up with another King George tyrannizing us with our consent, or with the consent of a minority or the ruling of a skewed Supreme Court. We have the chance for our own revolution, and in honor of everyone from Button Gwinnett to Matthew Thornton, we need to take it.
6.30.2004
The reason
Scene: SF MoMA atrium, 7.15 p.m., exhibit opening/reception
Woman (to bartender): Hey, I know why you don't serve red wine. It's because you're afraid people will spill it, isn't it?
Bartender: No, we just don't serve it until 8. [No further explanation.]
Em (internally): No! I know why! It's because Dana tried to steal that bottle of red wine after that IFFCON event, and it ended up smashed and running all over the atrium floor. Surely the MoMA event people haven't forgotten that one.
...And that makes me think of our Deadpan days, and how I used to be able to summon the energy to go out and drink at least three nights a week, then get up at 5.30 in the morning to go to work. How? I have no idea. It actually amazes me now, that youthful vigor and liver strength. How did it manage to dissipate so completely in 5 years?
Woman (to bartender): Hey, I know why you don't serve red wine. It's because you're afraid people will spill it, isn't it?
Bartender: No, we just don't serve it until 8. [No further explanation.]
Em (internally): No! I know why! It's because Dana tried to steal that bottle of red wine after that IFFCON event, and it ended up smashed and running all over the atrium floor. Surely the MoMA event people haven't forgotten that one.
...And that makes me think of our Deadpan days, and how I used to be able to summon the energy to go out and drink at least three nights a week, then get up at 5.30 in the morning to go to work. How? I have no idea. It actually amazes me now, that youthful vigor and liver strength. How did it manage to dissipate so completely in 5 years?
6.28.2004
Addiction
Curse you, Melissa, for sending me that invitation to join orkut. I accepted it, and now I have fallen into the rabbit hole of endlessly searching for new communities (Canada! Vassar! Simple Living! Road Trips! Bush is stupid!), trying to determine how many people I know are fellow orkut-ites (thus far: not many), and generally spending way, way too much time on one site.
True, orkut is somewhat like Friendster writ slightly older, slightly geekier, and slightly more exclusive, but it still seems like a fascinating and totally new world. It does have its mysteries (seriously, why so many Brazilians and so many Portuguese-language communities?) and its usability flaws (why can't I search for a community or topic like I can for a person? why can't I filter communities by something other than popularity and newness? what is with the whole crazy colored arrow/rate-your-friends thing?); regardless, it's a seriously cool invention, and is sure to become one of my very favorite time wasters. I have only Melissa to thank.
True, orkut is somewhat like Friendster writ slightly older, slightly geekier, and slightly more exclusive, but it still seems like a fascinating and totally new world. It does have its mysteries (seriously, why so many Brazilians and so many Portuguese-language communities?) and its usability flaws (why can't I search for a community or topic like I can for a person? why can't I filter communities by something other than popularity and newness? what is with the whole crazy colored arrow/rate-your-friends thing?); regardless, it's a seriously cool invention, and is sure to become one of my very favorite time wasters. I have only Melissa to thank.
6.06.2004
Revisionism
As much as I may think his politics were heart-stoppingly, woefully, pathetically simplistic and wrong, I can't claim to actually be happy that Ronald Reagan is dead. He was, in the end, a human, and one suffering a fate no one should have to suffer.
But I'm terrified that the American populace--media and citizens alike--will continue to fall prey to the strains of revisionist history we've seen a bit of over the past 36 hours. Yes, Reagan may have brought a renewed sense of optimism to a country reeling from inflation, unemployment, and general malaise in the early 80s. And yes, he may have had a spectacular and unfailing sense of humor.
But how can those things make up for the fact that he slashed government spending so deeply and severely that unemployment rose, the poor got much poorer, and those who had not previously been poor found themselves thus? How can they make up for the sickening scandal of Iran contra, full of lies? And how can they make up for Reagan's staunch refusal to acknowledge the scourge of AIDS until the epidemic had swelled and exploded?
In the film version of "And the Band Played On," titles appear sporadically with a running tally of the AIDS cases diagnosed, and the number of victims already dead, while the US government did almost nothing to intervene. In Randy Shilts' book, he devotes an entire chapter of the Epilogue to May 31, 1987, the day of the first speech Reagan gave on the AIDS epidemic.
Shilts writes, "By the time President Reagan had delivered his first speech on the epidemic of Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome, 36,058 Americans had been diagnosed with the disease; 20,849 had died."
Reagan had refused to acknowledge AIDS because he (along with many others at the time) viewed it as a disease that affected only gay men. In the President's estimation, gay men's lives weren't worth the federal funding it would take to research AIDS and its treatment. Of course, well before 1987, the disease had spread to other populations (including thousands who contracted it through blood transfusions, rather than any sort of risky behavior), so it wasn't only gays who suffered from Reagan's intolerance and disregard.
In the rush to lionize Ronald Reagan as an American hero, we must not forget that he was complicit in the deaths of over 20,000 people in his own country while he was in office. His own suffering, and our sympathy towards it, should not blind us to the fact that his bigotry contributed to the continued suffering of tens of thousands of others. He had the chance again and again to show the American people that he could rise above the forces of homophobia, misinformation, and hatred masked as morality; again and again, he failed to take that chance.
We have the chance now to remember Reagan not only as he was in his final years--frail, quiet, lost in a disease no one deserves--or in his Hollywood years, but also as he truly was in his White House years. We also have the chance to remember the thousands of other lives--more prosaic, perhaps, but no less valuable--lost to complications from AIDS while, throughout the 1980s, and with Reagan wielding the baton, the band played on.
But I'm terrified that the American populace--media and citizens alike--will continue to fall prey to the strains of revisionist history we've seen a bit of over the past 36 hours. Yes, Reagan may have brought a renewed sense of optimism to a country reeling from inflation, unemployment, and general malaise in the early 80s. And yes, he may have had a spectacular and unfailing sense of humor.
But how can those things make up for the fact that he slashed government spending so deeply and severely that unemployment rose, the poor got much poorer, and those who had not previously been poor found themselves thus? How can they make up for the sickening scandal of Iran contra, full of lies? And how can they make up for Reagan's staunch refusal to acknowledge the scourge of AIDS until the epidemic had swelled and exploded?
In the film version of "And the Band Played On," titles appear sporadically with a running tally of the AIDS cases diagnosed, and the number of victims already dead, while the US government did almost nothing to intervene. In Randy Shilts' book, he devotes an entire chapter of the Epilogue to May 31, 1987, the day of the first speech Reagan gave on the AIDS epidemic.
Shilts writes, "By the time President Reagan had delivered his first speech on the epidemic of Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome, 36,058 Americans had been diagnosed with the disease; 20,849 had died."
Reagan had refused to acknowledge AIDS because he (along with many others at the time) viewed it as a disease that affected only gay men. In the President's estimation, gay men's lives weren't worth the federal funding it would take to research AIDS and its treatment. Of course, well before 1987, the disease had spread to other populations (including thousands who contracted it through blood transfusions, rather than any sort of risky behavior), so it wasn't only gays who suffered from Reagan's intolerance and disregard.
In the rush to lionize Ronald Reagan as an American hero, we must not forget that he was complicit in the deaths of over 20,000 people in his own country while he was in office. His own suffering, and our sympathy towards it, should not blind us to the fact that his bigotry contributed to the continued suffering of tens of thousands of others. He had the chance again and again to show the American people that he could rise above the forces of homophobia, misinformation, and hatred masked as morality; again and again, he failed to take that chance.
We have the chance now to remember Reagan not only as he was in his final years--frail, quiet, lost in a disease no one deserves--or in his Hollywood years, but also as he truly was in his White House years. We also have the chance to remember the thousands of other lives--more prosaic, perhaps, but no less valuable--lost to complications from AIDS while, throughout the 1980s, and with Reagan wielding the baton, the band played on.
4.09.2004
The Organized Life
It's one of those cases in which not getting what you think you want makes you realize you didn't really want it all that much in the first place, and forces you to sit yourself down and figure out what the hell it is you do in fact want, which comes to you in a flash.
You know, like when you interview for a job with another workgroup within your company, based in a different state, and it seems on the surface like the perfect position, despite the implicit uprooting of your life and all that would entail; when the call announcing that you didn't in fact land the job fills you with what can only be described as sweet, lightening relief, as you realize that, quite probably, things wouldn't have been much--if any--better; when you lurk in the Employment section of the local bookstore until you find a sufficiently substantial tome that will help you decide What to Do with Your Life, which you then take home and read; and when something you pick up from the book, combined with an article in a newsletter you've just read and something rushing up from your subconscious makes you realize that you must quit your job, leave the field of technical writing, and strike out on your own as a professional organizer.
And what else can you do but take that realization and run with it, until you have ingested a dizzying array of business facts and requirements, until you've taken concrete steps to make this all real, until you've finally reached a point at which you can rest for a moment, and look around to see that you are in fact somewhere else, somewhere much closer to where you want to be and much farther from what you need to get away from.
That brings you to the Organized Life.
You know, like when you interview for a job with another workgroup within your company, based in a different state, and it seems on the surface like the perfect position, despite the implicit uprooting of your life and all that would entail; when the call announcing that you didn't in fact land the job fills you with what can only be described as sweet, lightening relief, as you realize that, quite probably, things wouldn't have been much--if any--better; when you lurk in the Employment section of the local bookstore until you find a sufficiently substantial tome that will help you decide What to Do with Your Life, which you then take home and read; and when something you pick up from the book, combined with an article in a newsletter you've just read and something rushing up from your subconscious makes you realize that you must quit your job, leave the field of technical writing, and strike out on your own as a professional organizer.
And what else can you do but take that realization and run with it, until you have ingested a dizzying array of business facts and requirements, until you've taken concrete steps to make this all real, until you've finally reached a point at which you can rest for a moment, and look around to see that you are in fact somewhere else, somewhere much closer to where you want to be and much farther from what you need to get away from.
That brings you to the Organized Life.
2.15.2004
On Capturing the Friedmans
Andrew Jarecki's Capturing the Friedmans is a damning portrait, to varying degrees, of almost all of its characters. The film is both An American Family writ large (and much uglier) and a story of what may have been a horrific case of sexual abuse.
Did Arnold Friedman and his son Jesse in fact molest the boys who attended computer classes in the Friedmans' basement? Jarecki won't (and perhaps can't, because of his lack of certainty) say. But his exhaustive presentation of both sides of the story is both painful to watch and immensely compelling.
What to think of the judge who presided over Arnold and Jesse's case, and who declares in the film, "There was never a doubt in my mind about their guilt" (referring, disturbingly, to her thoughts before the case even began)? Or of the sex crimes unit detective with the Great Neck police department whose methods of questioning the possible victims in the case can be described as leading at best?
Jarecki leaves no room to question Arnold's guilt as a pedophile--he was indeed convicted of possession of child pornography, admitted in an affidavit to having molested the son of a friend (and perhaps another boy as well), and, according to Jesse's lawyer, may indeed have molested his youngest son for years. But Jarecki leaves room for the doubts that came up in the case--did Arnold and Jesse actually commit the acts for which they were both sent to prison?
As brilliant as the even-handed presentation of the two sides of the case is the director's decision to allow the Friedmans' home movies to serve as the centerpiece of the film. It's these glimpses into the family's lives that complicate the case even further.
Jarecki could easily have created a film that listed strongly to one side, with occasional glimpses of the opposite pole, but he chose instead to make something much richer and more interesting: a chronicle of one family's dysfunction, one community's scandal and outrage, and the one breed of crime that may be every parent's largest and most unwieldy fears.
Did Arnold Friedman and his son Jesse in fact molest the boys who attended computer classes in the Friedmans' basement? Jarecki won't (and perhaps can't, because of his lack of certainty) say. But his exhaustive presentation of both sides of the story is both painful to watch and immensely compelling.
What to think of the judge who presided over Arnold and Jesse's case, and who declares in the film, "There was never a doubt in my mind about their guilt" (referring, disturbingly, to her thoughts before the case even began)? Or of the sex crimes unit detective with the Great Neck police department whose methods of questioning the possible victims in the case can be described as leading at best?
Jarecki leaves no room to question Arnold's guilt as a pedophile--he was indeed convicted of possession of child pornography, admitted in an affidavit to having molested the son of a friend (and perhaps another boy as well), and, according to Jesse's lawyer, may indeed have molested his youngest son for years. But Jarecki leaves room for the doubts that came up in the case--did Arnold and Jesse actually commit the acts for which they were both sent to prison?
As brilliant as the even-handed presentation of the two sides of the case is the director's decision to allow the Friedmans' home movies to serve as the centerpiece of the film. It's these glimpses into the family's lives that complicate the case even further.
Jarecki could easily have created a film that listed strongly to one side, with occasional glimpses of the opposite pole, but he chose instead to make something much richer and more interesting: a chronicle of one family's dysfunction, one community's scandal and outrage, and the one breed of crime that may be every parent's largest and most unwieldy fears.
2.01.2004
A thanksgiving
Thanks be to Monique for convincing me to leave the comfort and warmth of my bedroom on that damp and chilly night to go out for what began as just one drink.
Thanks be to Val and Isaac for choosing the Hush Hush in the first place.
Thanks be to Jerry for showing up with his tall, quiet friend in tow, introducing said friend to us, and then taking off for the dj booth, leaving us to entertain.
And thanks, most of all, be to that tall quiet man, for putting up with the advanced tipsiness of our little group, for making us laugh with fabricated stories of Edmonton's Scandinavian population, for letting me un-subtly rest my hand on his knee, and for later walking with me out of the Hush Hush, toward my house, toward what would become, three years later, something neither of us imagined then it could be.
Thanks be to Val and Isaac for choosing the Hush Hush in the first place.
Thanks be to Jerry for showing up with his tall, quiet friend in tow, introducing said friend to us, and then taking off for the dj booth, leaving us to entertain.
And thanks, most of all, be to that tall quiet man, for putting up with the advanced tipsiness of our little group, for making us laugh with fabricated stories of Edmonton's Scandinavian population, for letting me un-subtly rest my hand on his knee, and for later walking with me out of the Hush Hush, toward my house, toward what would become, three years later, something neither of us imagined then it could be.
1.18.2004
Notes from an island nation
Val has started a blog to chronicle the adventures she and Isaac are having in Japan. The impish part of me can't help but be junior high-ishly gleeful at the fact that the $400 per month ryokan house they found on the Internet (read: sight unseen), which Kumi warned would be vile despite their protests to the contrary, turned out indeed to be vile.
But I'll let Val describe it:
"Despite the tatami mats on our floor and the kimono hanging in the corner of our room, this place didn't have so much the "traditional Japanese" feel to it as it did the "public housing project in Beijing" vibe--to reach the bathroom, you walked down a cold concrete corridor lit by bug-dimmed fluorescent lights, and once there, squatted over a ceramic hole in a room filled with dirty mops; showering took place in the grease-spattered communal kitchen."
Mmmm. Just makes me wonder what the Web site through which they booked this place could've possibly said to mask that degree of grossness. Also makes me wonder whether Val and Isaac will ever again use the Internet to book long-term housing.
But they've moved to another boarding house in the city, and seem to be doing well, despite the cold weather, unheated hallways and bathroom of their accommodations, unfilling and seriously expensive food, and uncertain job prospects. More power to them for allowing cute schoolkids and generally kind people be enough to outweigh living conditions that would send me packing faster than the flush of a heated, deodorized, noisemaking toilet.
But I'll let Val describe it:
"Despite the tatami mats on our floor and the kimono hanging in the corner of our room, this place didn't have so much the "traditional Japanese" feel to it as it did the "public housing project in Beijing" vibe--to reach the bathroom, you walked down a cold concrete corridor lit by bug-dimmed fluorescent lights, and once there, squatted over a ceramic hole in a room filled with dirty mops; showering took place in the grease-spattered communal kitchen."
Mmmm. Just makes me wonder what the Web site through which they booked this place could've possibly said to mask that degree of grossness. Also makes me wonder whether Val and Isaac will ever again use the Internet to book long-term housing.
But they've moved to another boarding house in the city, and seem to be doing well, despite the cold weather, unheated hallways and bathroom of their accommodations, unfilling and seriously expensive food, and uncertain job prospects. More power to them for allowing cute schoolkids and generally kind people be enough to outweigh living conditions that would send me packing faster than the flush of a heated, deodorized, noisemaking toilet.
1.15.2004
Elsewhere
It's escapism, to be sure: too many hours spent speeding down and up 280, too many spent modifying the mental balance sheet that will determine when and how I leave my job, too many spent wondering whether I should hike out of San Francisco before I watch the majority of my friends do the same--all of these hours have sent me racing backward in memory to moments I want here, now, again.
I want back those hushed few hours in the Bluebird in Nashville, with beer and bar food and songs alternately hilarious and heartbreaking.
I want back the afternoon of swimming half-naked in the Mediterranean, taking myself farther and farther from shore as J held down our fort among the topless French tourists on the beach.
I want back the end of our hike in Waterton, when the fear of plummeting to my death on scree had passed, when G and I lagged behind to look at the waterfalls at the edge of the trail and make out disgustingly, when the promise of pizza, beer, a shower, and a night in a proper bed with a roof over our heads (and presumably no large mammalian visitors) was close enough to taste.
Weird though it sounds, I want back that evening in late March seven years ago when Monique and I drove out of Kansas and into Oklahoma, into one of the most stupefyingly brilliant sunsets I've ever seen. We stopped by the side of the road so we could take it in and I could take a photo, just sat there for a few minutes in silence. Because darkness was coming quickly and we had somewhere (miles away) to be, we didn't stay long. But those moments are still clear to me now, even several years later, a subtle reminder that the things that can make me feel whole and grounded again are out there somewhere, even in the most unexpected places.
I want back those hushed few hours in the Bluebird in Nashville, with beer and bar food and songs alternately hilarious and heartbreaking.
I want back the afternoon of swimming half-naked in the Mediterranean, taking myself farther and farther from shore as J held down our fort among the topless French tourists on the beach.
I want back the end of our hike in Waterton, when the fear of plummeting to my death on scree had passed, when G and I lagged behind to look at the waterfalls at the edge of the trail and make out disgustingly, when the promise of pizza, beer, a shower, and a night in a proper bed with a roof over our heads (and presumably no large mammalian visitors) was close enough to taste.
Weird though it sounds, I want back that evening in late March seven years ago when Monique and I drove out of Kansas and into Oklahoma, into one of the most stupefyingly brilliant sunsets I've ever seen. We stopped by the side of the road so we could take it in and I could take a photo, just sat there for a few minutes in silence. Because darkness was coming quickly and we had somewhere (miles away) to be, we didn't stay long. But those moments are still clear to me now, even several years later, a subtle reminder that the things that can make me feel whole and grounded again are out there somewhere, even in the most unexpected places.
12.29.2003
Back
I do love Christmas, and I'm always glad to spend it at mom and dad's house, but there's no denying the sweetness of returning to the left coast when the holiday is through.
Because, see, there are only so many heavy, multi-course meals I can eat (the hours between them liberally interspersed with cookies) before I swear I will bust out of my clothes (in the worst possible way). It's nice to have a different route for my runs, but running in cold weather is not something I'm meant to do long-term. And though I love being around my big, crazy family, I do miss my own house, and regular phone chats with the boy (without having to drag the phone to some far corner of the house in search of privacy), and being able to sit and read uninterrupted for hours on end if I want.
So tonight I came back from SFO, went out in the rain to Golden Produce, and returned home with the makings of a dinner that did not feature cheese or butter as its central tenet. I ate in front of the computer. I puttered around more or less aimlessly. I might soon take a bath. While I do miss the fam, and while the past week has left me pleasantly full in every respect, it's lovely to once again be back in the sphere of my life here. It feels deliciously like home.
Because, see, there are only so many heavy, multi-course meals I can eat (the hours between them liberally interspersed with cookies) before I swear I will bust out of my clothes (in the worst possible way). It's nice to have a different route for my runs, but running in cold weather is not something I'm meant to do long-term. And though I love being around my big, crazy family, I do miss my own house, and regular phone chats with the boy (without having to drag the phone to some far corner of the house in search of privacy), and being able to sit and read uninterrupted for hours on end if I want.
So tonight I came back from SFO, went out in the rain to Golden Produce, and returned home with the makings of a dinner that did not feature cheese or butter as its central tenet. I ate in front of the computer. I puttered around more or less aimlessly. I might soon take a bath. While I do miss the fam, and while the past week has left me pleasantly full in every respect, it's lovely to once again be back in the sphere of my life here. It feels deliciously like home.
12.21.2003
Seeing the light
I won't claim to be addicted to electicity, but I will admit to finding it terribly convenient. It was something of a disappointment, then, to find myself at 6.30 last night suddenly in the quiet and dark of a blackout. My holiday party, scheduled to start around 8, seemed more and more doomed as 7 arrived, then 7.30, with no sign of electrical relief.
But thanks to the score of candles I'd gathered earlier (intending to use them even under normal functioning on PG&E's part) and my gas stove and the fact that I was anal enough to do a lot of advance prep, it still seemed feasible to have a party. So I did.
And although it seemed for a while that Monique and I would have a lot of food and alcohol to consume by ourselves, people did trickle in. Then they flowed in, and the house was warm without a heater, and the candles gave us all the light we really needed, and we ate and drank and missed only the lights on my little Christmas tree and, until conversation would've drowned it out anyway, some music. Everything else seemed just as it should be.
About half an hour ago, the power snapped back on, as abrubtly as it had gone off last night, and I'm glad: I can do laundry, and homework, and can stop worrying about setting myself on fire while trying to read the paper by candlelight.
But despite the initial frustration it caused, I'm almost happy the city was powerless last night. Sometimes it's helpful--and, dare I say, enlightening--to sit with your friends, some candles, and some mulled wine, and, for a while, just let go. What else can you do?
But thanks to the score of candles I'd gathered earlier (intending to use them even under normal functioning on PG&E's part) and my gas stove and the fact that I was anal enough to do a lot of advance prep, it still seemed feasible to have a party. So I did.
And although it seemed for a while that Monique and I would have a lot of food and alcohol to consume by ourselves, people did trickle in. Then they flowed in, and the house was warm without a heater, and the candles gave us all the light we really needed, and we ate and drank and missed only the lights on my little Christmas tree and, until conversation would've drowned it out anyway, some music. Everything else seemed just as it should be.
About half an hour ago, the power snapped back on, as abrubtly as it had gone off last night, and I'm glad: I can do laundry, and homework, and can stop worrying about setting myself on fire while trying to read the paper by candlelight.
But despite the initial frustration it caused, I'm almost happy the city was powerless last night. Sometimes it's helpful--and, dare I say, enlightening--to sit with your friends, some candles, and some mulled wine, and, for a while, just let go. What else can you do?
12.15.2003
The quest of the year
It seemed simple, really: I wanted to find some plain, normal sized, red-and-white striped, peppermint flavored candy canes. No chocolate mint, no cherry, no jumbo, no mini, no exotic, no Mrs. Fields gourmet. Plain. Damn. Candy canes.
Walgreens had everything but: foot-long, 1-inch-thick? Check. Starburst flavored? Check. Boxes of 100 mini canes? Check. Plain old freakin' candy canes? No way.
Safeway was also no use, nor was Trader Joe's or Bed Bath & Beyond (though they seem to stock every other holiday candy ever created). Finally, tucked away in the corner of Target--out beyond where you have to walk past the security guard and risk setting off the alarm if you take your cart with you--there they sat: box after box of lovely, simple, unassuming candy canes.
The madness of my quest for what seems like it should be a ubiquitous Christmas confection (I mean, seriously: it's not like I was trying to hunt down Peeps or wax lips or anything) was matched only by the ludicrousness of my search for Sara's alarm clock.
My sister-in-law wants a regular (i.e., non-travel) alarm clock that has a 5-minute snooze function. On its face, this seemed like an easy wish to fulfill. But its face clearly lied, as I looked at--and I am not exaggerating--well over 35 alarm clocks trying to find one that didn't have a 9-minute snooze. (Who decided that 9 minutes was the perfect amount of time to delay an alarm once it goes off? And why has the entire electronics industry, with very few dissenters, bought into this insanity?)
I was sure Amazon would pull through, but they really didn't. The huge number of merchants within the site means you're unlikely to get standard info from one product to the next. One alarm clock is listed with exhaustive technical details and a link to the PDF of the user's manual. The next won't admit to anything more than being an alarm clock and sporting black casing. I looked for about 40 minutes last night before I finally gave up.
Finally, as with the candy canes, Target ended my search, though not before I dug out the manual from every alarm clock on the shelf to find out how long the clock's snooze lasted. (Note to manufacturers: Why not print that info on the packaging and save harried shoppers like me a few minutes of frustration?)
So Sara will get whatever model it was I ended up finding (it immediately went into a box of gifts to be shipped home, and I can only remember that it wasn't Timex and it wasn't Sony).
Maybe, for good measure, I should tuck in a candy cane before I wrap it.
Walgreens had everything but: foot-long, 1-inch-thick? Check. Starburst flavored? Check. Boxes of 100 mini canes? Check. Plain old freakin' candy canes? No way.
Safeway was also no use, nor was Trader Joe's or Bed Bath & Beyond (though they seem to stock every other holiday candy ever created). Finally, tucked away in the corner of Target--out beyond where you have to walk past the security guard and risk setting off the alarm if you take your cart with you--there they sat: box after box of lovely, simple, unassuming candy canes.
The madness of my quest for what seems like it should be a ubiquitous Christmas confection (I mean, seriously: it's not like I was trying to hunt down Peeps or wax lips or anything) was matched only by the ludicrousness of my search for Sara's alarm clock.
My sister-in-law wants a regular (i.e., non-travel) alarm clock that has a 5-minute snooze function. On its face, this seemed like an easy wish to fulfill. But its face clearly lied, as I looked at--and I am not exaggerating--well over 35 alarm clocks trying to find one that didn't have a 9-minute snooze. (Who decided that 9 minutes was the perfect amount of time to delay an alarm once it goes off? And why has the entire electronics industry, with very few dissenters, bought into this insanity?)
I was sure Amazon would pull through, but they really didn't. The huge number of merchants within the site means you're unlikely to get standard info from one product to the next. One alarm clock is listed with exhaustive technical details and a link to the PDF of the user's manual. The next won't admit to anything more than being an alarm clock and sporting black casing. I looked for about 40 minutes last night before I finally gave up.
Finally, as with the candy canes, Target ended my search, though not before I dug out the manual from every alarm clock on the shelf to find out how long the clock's snooze lasted. (Note to manufacturers: Why not print that info on the packaging and save harried shoppers like me a few minutes of frustration?)
So Sara will get whatever model it was I ended up finding (it immediately went into a box of gifts to be shipped home, and I can only remember that it wasn't Timex and it wasn't Sony).
Maybe, for good measure, I should tuck in a candy cane before I wrap it.
12.10.2003
Just bleh
I will agree with Gavin Newsom on one thing: as he said in a Times article on Sunday, only in San Francisco could someone who's pro-choice, pro-gun control, pro-same sex marriage, and pro-legalized medical marijuana be considered right-wing.
Of course, it's not Newsom's stance on those issues that makes him seem like a relative Republican. It's his exceedingly slick, pro-business, anti-homeless, Willie Brown, Jr., Jr. attitude that makes me squirm.
The same goes for Kamala Harris. It's a mark of pride that San Francisco has the state's first African-American DA, but that progressiveness is all but eradicated by Harris' creepily perfect politician's demeanor (already!). Listening to her evade or obfuscate on every last question when she was a guest on Forum last week was maddening. I can't imagine it'll get better.
We are, of course, nowhere near as screwed on the city level as we are on the state level (impressive: Schwarzenegger breaks his "won't touch education" campaign promise within a month of taking office). San Francisco will continue to pull between the latter-day yuppies and the latter-day hippies, just as it has for the past several years. And we're still as far left as it's possible to be in the US.
But we had the chance to get beyond the cronyism and false compassion of the Brown administration, and we didn't take it. Not terribly surprising, to be sure, but grumblingly disappointing nonetheless.
Of course, it's not Newsom's stance on those issues that makes him seem like a relative Republican. It's his exceedingly slick, pro-business, anti-homeless, Willie Brown, Jr., Jr. attitude that makes me squirm.
The same goes for Kamala Harris. It's a mark of pride that San Francisco has the state's first African-American DA, but that progressiveness is all but eradicated by Harris' creepily perfect politician's demeanor (already!). Listening to her evade or obfuscate on every last question when she was a guest on Forum last week was maddening. I can't imagine it'll get better.
We are, of course, nowhere near as screwed on the city level as we are on the state level (impressive: Schwarzenegger breaks his "won't touch education" campaign promise within a month of taking office). San Francisco will continue to pull between the latter-day yuppies and the latter-day hippies, just as it has for the past several years. And we're still as far left as it's possible to be in the US.
But we had the chance to get beyond the cronyism and false compassion of the Brown administration, and we didn't take it. Not terribly surprising, to be sure, but grumblingly disappointing nonetheless.
10.27.2003
Chagall
I suppose it was unrealistic to think that going early to MoMA on Sunday would assure me a quick and crowd-free entry to the Chagall show. My hopes for anything of the sort were shattered when I crossed Mission and saw the lines splaying out from the museum.
After a time-killing trip to the museum store, and a short wait in the members' line, I did manage to make my way inside--and then into another line that snaked slowly to the fifth floor. Finally, some force propelled me into the exhibit.
It was not Nice.
That is, it was nothing like the Musee Chagall in Nice, which J and I sauntered into last summer, after dining among the Turks in our hotel's restaurant and wandering the streets for bad postcards and some much-needed eyedrops. In Nice, at least on a day like ours, you can see Chagall's huge murals, and several of his smaller works, with crowds so miniscule they can't really be called crowds. You can do as we did and take copious photos (sans flash, but the museum is so bright you don't need it), edging close enough to the paintings to see the finest detail on the smallest grinning cow. And then you can pop outside for a meander through the grounds, after which you can drive a few hours before stopping in some random seaside village to swim in the Mediterranean.
Which is not at all what you can do if you see Chagall's stuff at MoMA. There you'll do battle with a throng at least the size of the population of Andorra, with some of Luxemborg thrown in for good measure. You'll find yourself stuck in front of one work for a good 8 minutes, not necessarily because you love it, but rather because you are literally hemmed in by everyone around you. You will admire the works as best you can through the gaps between people in front of you. But most of all, you will wish you were in Nice.
I left the museum yesterday (the Diane Arbus show, though all but crowd-free, would have to wait for another day; I needed to regain my strength) glad I'd gone, but wishing that the experience hadn't raised my blood pressure so. I walked home through Yerba Buena Gardens, then down an unpleasantly sun-baked stretch of Market, wanting so much the lightness and glee I felt after the Musee Chagall.
There was a glimmer of it, but just barely. And there was no Mediterranean in sight.
After a time-killing trip to the museum store, and a short wait in the members' line, I did manage to make my way inside--and then into another line that snaked slowly to the fifth floor. Finally, some force propelled me into the exhibit.
It was not Nice.
That is, it was nothing like the Musee Chagall in Nice, which J and I sauntered into last summer, after dining among the Turks in our hotel's restaurant and wandering the streets for bad postcards and some much-needed eyedrops. In Nice, at least on a day like ours, you can see Chagall's huge murals, and several of his smaller works, with crowds so miniscule they can't really be called crowds. You can do as we did and take copious photos (sans flash, but the museum is so bright you don't need it), edging close enough to the paintings to see the finest detail on the smallest grinning cow. And then you can pop outside for a meander through the grounds, after which you can drive a few hours before stopping in some random seaside village to swim in the Mediterranean.
Which is not at all what you can do if you see Chagall's stuff at MoMA. There you'll do battle with a throng at least the size of the population of Andorra, with some of Luxemborg thrown in for good measure. You'll find yourself stuck in front of one work for a good 8 minutes, not necessarily because you love it, but rather because you are literally hemmed in by everyone around you. You will admire the works as best you can through the gaps between people in front of you. But most of all, you will wish you were in Nice.
I left the museum yesterday (the Diane Arbus show, though all but crowd-free, would have to wait for another day; I needed to regain my strength) glad I'd gone, but wishing that the experience hadn't raised my blood pressure so. I walked home through Yerba Buena Gardens, then down an unpleasantly sun-baked stretch of Market, wanting so much the lightness and glee I felt after the Musee Chagall.
There was a glimmer of it, but just barely. And there was no Mediterranean in sight.
9.28.2003
Craigslist, Mon Amour
Yet again, craigslist has done me right. Not only did it help me find my apartment, and the garage that keeps my car safe from maurading window-smashers, but it's gone a long way in helping me clear out my excess stuff.
It's amazing: post an ad (granted, it must be an ad for something reasonable people might actually want), wait an hour of so, and bask in the glow of replies from interested parties. Via craigslist, I've offloaded a futon, tv stand, desk, cd shelf, bike, non-functioning 9-year-old computer, and DSL router. The best things about said offloading are its quick and painless nature, and the fact that it requires of me only that I stick around my house until people come to fetch their desired goods.
But as if craigslist's supremacy as a bulletin board writ large were not enough, the site is also a most excellent source of entertainment. There are few better ways to waste half an hour than by reading the ads others post. To wit, these selections from the "goods wanted" section:
I'm looking for a male budgie (red or blue) for a lonely female budgie
*********FRIENDS OF PHIL McGOLDRICK*******
DOES * ANYBODY * HAVE * ANY * TIN * CANS??? I really need a tin can or 2 for my litchen. I usually keep mjy sugar and flour in them, but mine broke. Please email meif you have one I could have or buy for low cost.
I NEED THE HOOK UP ON 2 KEGS OF BEER FOR 44TH ANNIVERSARY
I NEED BEER/SODA ON TAP IF YOU HAVE THE HOOK UP PLS EMAIL ME NEEDED FOR WEEKEND OF OCT 18,03 ..PLS HELP ME PLS EMAIL YOUR CHARGE I DONT WORK FOR YOUR COMPANY SO HOOK IT UP .... DONT EVEN TRIP ,,,, PUFF
This isn't even to mention the post requesting a $200,000 loan ("serious inquiries only"), or the one penned by a man who appeared to be asking for a fridge in order to store either his recently deceased sister or his now-orphaned niece (though Isaac read the ad, likely from someone for whom English is a second language, as a request for a fridge because the author's sister had died, leaving behind a child to care for). It's all fascinating.
To craigslist, then, I tip my hat. San Francisco is better for having the site as a resource.
It's amazing: post an ad (granted, it must be an ad for something reasonable people might actually want), wait an hour of so, and bask in the glow of replies from interested parties. Via craigslist, I've offloaded a futon, tv stand, desk, cd shelf, bike, non-functioning 9-year-old computer, and DSL router. The best things about said offloading are its quick and painless nature, and the fact that it requires of me only that I stick around my house until people come to fetch their desired goods.
But as if craigslist's supremacy as a bulletin board writ large were not enough, the site is also a most excellent source of entertainment. There are few better ways to waste half an hour than by reading the ads others post. To wit, these selections from the "goods wanted" section:
I'm looking for a male budgie (red or blue) for a lonely female budgie
*********FRIENDS OF PHIL McGOLDRICK*******
DOES * ANYBODY * HAVE * ANY * TIN * CANS??? I really need a tin can or 2 for my litchen. I usually keep mjy sugar and flour in them, but mine broke. Please email meif you have one I could have or buy for low cost.
I NEED THE HOOK UP ON 2 KEGS OF BEER FOR 44TH ANNIVERSARY
I NEED BEER/SODA ON TAP IF YOU HAVE THE HOOK UP PLS EMAIL ME NEEDED FOR WEEKEND OF OCT 18,03 ..PLS HELP ME PLS EMAIL YOUR CHARGE I DONT WORK FOR YOUR COMPANY SO HOOK IT UP .... DONT EVEN TRIP ,,,, PUFF
This isn't even to mention the post requesting a $200,000 loan ("serious inquiries only"), or the one penned by a man who appeared to be asking for a fridge in order to store either his recently deceased sister or his now-orphaned niece (though Isaac read the ad, likely from someone for whom English is a second language, as a request for a fridge because the author's sister had died, leaving behind a child to care for). It's all fascinating.
To craigslist, then, I tip my hat. San Francisco is better for having the site as a resource.
9.09.2003
(Nearly) Everything Must Go
What made me snap? What brought on this sudden inability to deal with the mass of stuff in my life? I can't quite say, but I do know that whatever's hit me has hit me hard.
I need them gone--the books I've read already and won't read again, the ones whose covers I haven't cracked (and won't anytime soon), the cds whose coats of dust prove they've gone long unheard, the trinkets I can never figure out what to do with, the clothes I just don't wear, the bike I've not ridden in years, the PowerBook I can no longer get to power on.
I need my basement clear, my shelves spartan, my desk clean for once. Moreover, I think, I need fretting about stuff--storing it, using it (or not), getting rid of it--to stop being such a useful procrastination tool. Better that it just goes.
But there are some things I just can't give up, like the book of essays about home Paula sent me when I'd first moved to SF and found myself in the midst of a crisis over what to call home, or the Cranks recipe book Rachel gave me as inspiration for us to move to England and open a veggie cafe. I can't let go my very first cd (drivin' 'n' cryin's Mystery Road), or the ones that got me through high school (all the old REM, the Replacements, even--yes, I admit it--a bunch of U2). And anything that I'd truly miss if it disappeared from my life stays put.
The rest of it, though, is on its way out by any means necessary--Half.com, craigslist, tag sale, what have you. When the clutter's finally gone, maybe I'll be able to glimpse what I've been missing.
I need them gone--the books I've read already and won't read again, the ones whose covers I haven't cracked (and won't anytime soon), the cds whose coats of dust prove they've gone long unheard, the trinkets I can never figure out what to do with, the clothes I just don't wear, the bike I've not ridden in years, the PowerBook I can no longer get to power on.
I need my basement clear, my shelves spartan, my desk clean for once. Moreover, I think, I need fretting about stuff--storing it, using it (or not), getting rid of it--to stop being such a useful procrastination tool. Better that it just goes.
But there are some things I just can't give up, like the book of essays about home Paula sent me when I'd first moved to SF and found myself in the midst of a crisis over what to call home, or the Cranks recipe book Rachel gave me as inspiration for us to move to England and open a veggie cafe. I can't let go my very first cd (drivin' 'n' cryin's Mystery Road), or the ones that got me through high school (all the old REM, the Replacements, even--yes, I admit it--a bunch of U2). And anything that I'd truly miss if it disappeared from my life stays put.
The rest of it, though, is on its way out by any means necessary--Half.com, craigslist, tag sale, what have you. When the clutter's finally gone, maybe I'll be able to glimpse what I've been missing.
9.03.2003
Get away
Though it's been only a month since my last trip, it seems now like ages. I'm getting itchy with the need to light out and see more than the Peninsula as it passes by CalTrain's windows.
So first up is Calgary, where the boy and I will do a bit of exploring (though I can't imagine that'll be wildly exciting for him, as he's seen it all before), go for a hike, head out to the university for the Weakerthans show. My priorities (other than the obvious, and the actual purpose of the trip in the first place) are discovering at least one vegetarian-friendly restaurant, drinking some Canadian wine, traipsing through the mountains, and restocking my supply of chocolate.
Then comes Salt Lake City--and, you know, despite everyone's ribbing, I'm quite excited for it. Sure, it'll take some extra doing to score myself a Cosmo anywhere outside of a restaurant, and I'll have to hold my tongue in the Temple Square vicinity, but damn, it just looks gorgeous, and it'll all be totally new. Besides, we'll be staying at the Hotel Monaco, which seems to be the city's hot spot (making it worth the hours spent on a hotel search), and is miles away (figuratively) from the preponderance of chain hotels in the area.
So this is the benefit of insane hours spent working and commuting: even two small weekend trips seem impossibly exciting and adventurous. I have a renewed appreciation for the power of the getaway.
So first up is Calgary, where the boy and I will do a bit of exploring (though I can't imagine that'll be wildly exciting for him, as he's seen it all before), go for a hike, head out to the university for the Weakerthans show. My priorities (other than the obvious, and the actual purpose of the trip in the first place) are discovering at least one vegetarian-friendly restaurant, drinking some Canadian wine, traipsing through the mountains, and restocking my supply of chocolate.
Then comes Salt Lake City--and, you know, despite everyone's ribbing, I'm quite excited for it. Sure, it'll take some extra doing to score myself a Cosmo anywhere outside of a restaurant, and I'll have to hold my tongue in the Temple Square vicinity, but damn, it just looks gorgeous, and it'll all be totally new. Besides, we'll be staying at the Hotel Monaco, which seems to be the city's hot spot (making it worth the hours spent on a hotel search), and is miles away (figuratively) from the preponderance of chain hotels in the area.
So this is the benefit of insane hours spent working and commuting: even two small weekend trips seem impossibly exciting and adventurous. I have a renewed appreciation for the power of the getaway.
8.25.2003
The March
Every time I watch It's a Wonderful Life, the final scene finds me spilling tears. I know like the back of my hand what happens, what's said, and I also know that Capra's intentionally pulling on my heart strings with all his might. But none of that matters, because something in that finale--'Auld Lang Syne,' the bells, the laundry basket full of money--will forever make me goofily weepy.
The same is true, though for far different reasons, of Martin Luther King's 'I Have a Dream' speech, given at the March for Jobs and Freedom 40 years ago this Thursday.
NPR has a great series of pieces about the March on Morning Edition this week, and this morning I actually found myself happy to be in my car making the trek down 280, because it meant I had the chance to listen to Juan Williams' entire piece. And I fully admit it: even before the inevitable clip from King's speech, I was in tears. I knew what was coming.
And it's weird: I cried this morning, like I always cry, not only because of the unquestionable power of King's words, and the cadences of his voice, but also because I so much wish I'd been there to hear him speak in person. I cried because the severe liberal in me (which is to say, most of me) always wishes I'd been born early enough to have the chance to be part of the movement, rather than becomining a student of it many years after the fact. I cried because my studies have taught me that what came after the March was, for far too long, equal parts liberation and desperation. And I cried, perhaps most of all, because I knew, as people at the March that day couldn't, that King would not live another two years.
Unless I'm watching It's a Wonderful Life alone, I always try to hide my tears and my sniffling, as it's a little embarrassing to still cry, after all these viewings, at something so contrived. But for King, for the March, for the movement, I will unabashedly cry in public. To me, there's no shame there; there's only uplift, and sadness, and despite everything, a bullheaded sense of hope.
The same is true, though for far different reasons, of Martin Luther King's 'I Have a Dream' speech, given at the March for Jobs and Freedom 40 years ago this Thursday.
NPR has a great series of pieces about the March on Morning Edition this week, and this morning I actually found myself happy to be in my car making the trek down 280, because it meant I had the chance to listen to Juan Williams' entire piece. And I fully admit it: even before the inevitable clip from King's speech, I was in tears. I knew what was coming.
And it's weird: I cried this morning, like I always cry, not only because of the unquestionable power of King's words, and the cadences of his voice, but also because I so much wish I'd been there to hear him speak in person. I cried because the severe liberal in me (which is to say, most of me) always wishes I'd been born early enough to have the chance to be part of the movement, rather than becomining a student of it many years after the fact. I cried because my studies have taught me that what came after the March was, for far too long, equal parts liberation and desperation. And I cried, perhaps most of all, because I knew, as people at the March that day couldn't, that King would not live another two years.
Unless I'm watching It's a Wonderful Life alone, I always try to hide my tears and my sniffling, as it's a little embarrassing to still cry, after all these viewings, at something so contrived. But for King, for the March, for the movement, I will unabashedly cry in public. To me, there's no shame there; there's only uplift, and sadness, and despite everything, a bullheaded sense of hope.
8.10.2003
I have been to the mountain (view)
It was said last week (I'm intentionally using the passive voice here) that I've not yet tried commuting down the Peninsula multiple days each week, so I can't possibly know whether I like it or not.
But alas, I have, and I know: I do not like it. Not in a house, not with a mouse, &c.
It was one thing when Otis was my companion, and 7.20 or so most mornings would find us hurtling down 17th Street, Peet's in hand (and contributing, no doubt, to the speed of said hurtling), yelling 'Mooooooooove! For fuck's sake, just gooooooooooo!' at any car unlucky enough to come between us and the CalTrain station. It was one thing when we'd meet up with Wilder in the second-to-last car, then chatter with her for a while before we all settled down into our respective reading materials. It was one thing when, on the days we did drive, we'd be able to thumb our noses at the poor saps stuck in the normal lanes on 101 as we sped past in the carpool lane (at least as far as San Carlos, where it mystifyingly ends).
But even then, the commute still sucked. I can't imagine it'll be any better now.
*******
Wallace's departure--the sort of bittersweet icing on the unpalatable cake--has set my mind reeling. More and more, I can't stop thinking that worsening commute or no, it's time to leave. Inertia kept me where I was, work-wise, for so long, at least until my job improved enough that I actually came to like it. But I'm not really willing to sit tight for many months (like I did last time) on the off chance that things will get better. I have a sinking feeling we're beyond that point now.
Besides, isn't there so much more out there? I don't mean jobs in the tech sector (as we all know they're rarer than an 80-degree August day in San Francisco), but rather more of everything: more cities, more companies, more experiences that have zip to do with work, more options and opportunities, provided you know where and how to look.
Wall's move is in some ways a big gamble (what will his co-workers be like? what is Dell culture like? is Austin as liveable as it seems?), but in others it will immediately pay off: he'll no longer have a two-hour commute each day, will be able to afford a larger house, will be more likely to be able to adopt a child, as he and Connie have wanted to do for a while now. It seems to me (from an admittedly removed perspective) that those sure things alone are enough to make the other crap shoots worth it. He's confident, at least, that things won't be any worse than they have been.
I once read a transcribed goodbye note somewhere that said simply, 'I'm leaving because I just can't stay.' Suddenly, irreversably, I'm starting to understand what that feels like.
But alas, I have, and I know: I do not like it. Not in a house, not with a mouse, &c.
It was one thing when Otis was my companion, and 7.20 or so most mornings would find us hurtling down 17th Street, Peet's in hand (and contributing, no doubt, to the speed of said hurtling), yelling 'Mooooooooove! For fuck's sake, just gooooooooooo!' at any car unlucky enough to come between us and the CalTrain station. It was one thing when we'd meet up with Wilder in the second-to-last car, then chatter with her for a while before we all settled down into our respective reading materials. It was one thing when, on the days we did drive, we'd be able to thumb our noses at the poor saps stuck in the normal lanes on 101 as we sped past in the carpool lane (at least as far as San Carlos, where it mystifyingly ends).
But even then, the commute still sucked. I can't imagine it'll be any better now.
*******
Wallace's departure--the sort of bittersweet icing on the unpalatable cake--has set my mind reeling. More and more, I can't stop thinking that worsening commute or no, it's time to leave. Inertia kept me where I was, work-wise, for so long, at least until my job improved enough that I actually came to like it. But I'm not really willing to sit tight for many months (like I did last time) on the off chance that things will get better. I have a sinking feeling we're beyond that point now.
Besides, isn't there so much more out there? I don't mean jobs in the tech sector (as we all know they're rarer than an 80-degree August day in San Francisco), but rather more of everything: more cities, more companies, more experiences that have zip to do with work, more options and opportunities, provided you know where and how to look.
Wall's move is in some ways a big gamble (what will his co-workers be like? what is Dell culture like? is Austin as liveable as it seems?), but in others it will immediately pay off: he'll no longer have a two-hour commute each day, will be able to afford a larger house, will be more likely to be able to adopt a child, as he and Connie have wanted to do for a while now. It seems to me (from an admittedly removed perspective) that those sure things alone are enough to make the other crap shoots worth it. He's confident, at least, that things won't be any worse than they have been.
I once read a transcribed goodbye note somewhere that said simply, 'I'm leaving because I just can't stay.' Suddenly, irreversably, I'm starting to understand what that feels like.
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