July 2004 Archives

This has been a week of good-byes. Some left the department. Some are leaving the state. Some simply went to a better place. It's funny how deeply a departure affects you. It doesn't matter if it was expected or not. The impact can still be profound.

One we took to lunch yesterday, a small gesture of thank you and farewell. It had been expected for months. Prior knowledge should have given me time to prepare and I was unfazed until the hug. That was when it hit. Everything before that was never really good-bye. The finality, the letting go, was in the embrace.

One I learned about over the phone. A distant relation, my grandfather's cousin, had passed away. According to the local obituary, he had been "a patriarch of the Chinese-American community" and one of the "most influential businessmen and philanthropists" in the Santa Cruz and Monterey regions. I never met the man. He was always more of a legend than a real person. Even so, I'm sure he had an impact on my life, but I'm uncertain of what his passing means to me yet.

One said good-bye today. There was no fanfare or recognition of service. There should have been. Boxes were packed and a cubicle was cleared out. A quick, unceremonious farewell concluded with one hand holding a lamp and the other turning a doorknob to leave. That was thirty minutes ago. I'll be feeling that good-bye for some time to come.

She was bored. You could tell she was bored. It wasn't the glazed over look in her eyes, for they were hard to see in the dim glow of the big screen, as much as her deep sighs that gave away her mood. Deep repeated sighs.

She was a short, Hispanic girl, in her early twenties, who wore a bright pink tank top and black jeans. From the way she constantly shifted in her seat, I would have guessed that she was a restless five-year-old in need of a bathroom. Bored Girl was there with her boyfriend, a guy who seemed keen on ignoring her and watching the Vin Diesel flick.

This isn't to say her disinterest was completely unjustified. The movie made little sense and some characters seemed unnecessary. I like Judi Dench, but her purpose in the story remains a mystery to me. Although the movie crawled, the special effects were fun and the camera adored the glowing-eyed Vin. He had this energy about him and his gravelly voice worked well when he growled out lines like, "I'll kill you with my teacup."

While I was enamored with Mr. Diesel, Bored Girl wasn't as impressed. Like a schoolgirl anticipating the end of class, she had her things packed early. When the film finally finished, she let out the longest sigh, as though someone had deflated her head and then sat on it for good measure. As the crowd fled the theater, she complained one last time, "That was so stupid. I'm glad I didn't waste my buck fifty to see it. I'm never seeing this movie again! It was so stupid!"

Riddick may not have been worth the money, but the amusement derived from sitting next to Bored Girl was definitely worth my buck fifty.

I had dinner with the family on Saturday night. It's a regular occurrence, but this one was a little more special. "You need to come," my mom said. "Your sister is leaving on Sunday and we thought she should enjoy some Chinese food before she left."

She said it as though my sister, D, would be gone for an extended period on some remote island that wouldn't serve decent ong choy. Then again, in my mom's eyes, a week is an extended period and Idaho is a very remote island. It's probably a view many parents would hold if it were their own child.

Knowing how my mom worries, she will likely get little sleep this week. Knowing how D sounded on the telephone yesterday, I doubt she will get much sleep either. It will be the longest and farthest she has ever been away from home. She had such an aura of confidence and certainty on Saturday, but it was all gone when she called from her hotel room Sunday afternoon. Being alone in a strange place, even for a short time, can be extremely difficult for someone who is accustomed to being closely surrounded by family and friends.

I spent most of my time on the phone asking her general questions and then trying to explain how to get plain hot water from the in-room coffee maker for a nice, relaxing cup of hot chocolate. It's a surprisingly complicated and stressful process for somebody who abhors coffee and has never operated such a machine before.

She'll be spending the next few days on the Nez Perce Reservation conducting interviews and research for her master's thesis. It's exciting and busy work that will hopefully keep her from thinking about home while she's there.

The remedy isn't as easy for my mom. The only way to ease her mind would be to fly her directly to Idaho. I'm sure she and my dad will manage somehow, most likely by calling my sister every few hours to see if she's okay and then calling me to relay that she's okay. It's just how my parents are and how they cope, so I'm fine with it.

According to the local news, the temperature is supposed to reach a high of 89 degrees in the town I live in (a.k.a. Smallville). When I left the house this morning, it was foggy and only 60. Unless the sun was planning some last minute heroics, I doubt the valley will even make it into the low 80s by midday.

For people who like to bake and burn outdoors, this weekend's Gilroy Garlic Festival is the perfect opportunity. Everybody there will come out smelling like roses garlic when it's over, especially if it reaches the low 90s as forecasters predict.

Since last year was my first time at the festival, I learned three valuable lessons that potential visitors might find handy. Consider them "helpful hints" to make the experience more enjoyable (and odoriferous):

1. There won't be much shade, so remember to apply plenty of garlic sunscreen SPF 50, especially to the neck and shoulders.
2. Due to the heat, dehydration is a real risk, so drink plenty of garlic water.
3. Before kissing the Gilroy Garlic Queen, don't forget to pop in a few garlic breath mints. This goes for both guys and gals.

Organizers are expecting huge crowds over the weekend, so I'll likely avoid the craziness this year. With any luck, I won't miss out entirely. There's always the chance (with the right wind direction) that the stink scent of garlic will begin wafting through Smallville this evening and hang in the air for days to come. That should be fun.

Thursday morning. I'm at work. The phone rings twice. I answer it.

Me: Hello?
Mystery Caller: How spontaneous can you be?
Me: Uh, pretty spontaneous, I guess. Who is this?
MC: You already know. Go ask your boss for the day off.
Me: What? The whole day?
MC: Do it.
Me: Okay. Just a second.

I set down the phone and hold an internal debate. Time passes. I ask my boss. Clouds roll by. He says okay. A copying machine collates and staples. I return to my cubicle and find two baseball tickets on my desk. San Diego vs. San Francisco. I pick up the phone again.

Me: My boss approved.
MC: Good. Now find somebody to go with you.
Me: But wait, how am I supposed to repay you?
MC: Just have a great time.
Me: Are you sure?
MC: Hurry or you'll miss the game.

The mystery caller hangs up. I'm left with a dial tone.

That is how (more or less) my sister and I were able to watch the Padres demolish Jason Schmidt by a score of 9-4. On the bright side, we saw it from the AAA club level where one can order food and drinks right from one's seat. The restrooms and vendor areas were nicer than any I had ever seen at a ballpark. Carpeting, artwork, modest tables and cushioned chairs for eating and full service bars. It was a completely different baseball experience, one I'll likely never have again unless I: a) win the lotto b) go into debt or c) get more mystery calls.

The highlight of the game was seeing Rod Beck pitch in the eighth inning. The former Giants closer was and remains one of my favorite pitchers. His distinctive mustache, signature swinging right arm and number 47 were still there, but thankfully, his mullet was gone. San Francisco lost, but I had a great time. Thank you, Mystery Caller.

A girl who surprises a boy with a King Size bag of Skittles is something special.

It's always strange to return here and see everything with older eyes. If I look around long enough, I can almost trick myself into believing I'm still an enrolled student and not some nostalgic alumnus. I pass by familiar buildings whose names I still remember because they were central to my college experience: Shapell, Bannan, Orradre, Graham and Benson. Especially Benson, the student center. It's where I spent most of my time on campus, when not in class.

For three of my four years, I was part of the Activities Programming Board's staff. The APB programmed weekly events (on and off campus) and booked speakers, comedians and bands. The organization's office was located in Benson's basement and it became my home away from home.

Earlier, as I descended the stairs to check out the old office, I saw a sign hanging near one of the doors at the end of the hallway. The office was still there. On the sign, below the name, were the words, "Est. 1994". It had been over ten years since the APB's creation. At that time, the university had taken two independent organizations and consolidated them for budgetary reasons. The administration asked the two boards to create a new identity and mission for the newly combined group. Through our collective efforts, the APB was born.

Near the end of the 1993-94 school year, APB's inaugural year, our group performed at some function in the quad of Swig Hall, the school's largest dormitory. Somebody on our staff wrote lyrics set to the Brady Bunch theme to commemorate how two different and distinct "families" had come together. Singing that song was one of my happiest, most embarrassing and most vivid college memories.

Benson has two staircases leading to its basement. Five frames hang on the walls of each stairwell. As I came up the stairs, I spotted APB's frame, which had the pictures of the past year's staff. Their heads were set against blue squares; their smiling faces looking up, down and to the side in the style of Brady Bunch, a tribute to APB's roots. As I stared at the photos, the faces transformed into faces from the past. We were them many years ago. I sighed. It was happiness and sadness all rolled into one big exhale. Simple things move me and I treasure the memories.

Bad: A gnat flying around my desk.
Worse: A gnat flying around my coffee.
Worst: A gnat swimming (and subsequently drowning) in my coffee.

When it first happened early yesterday morning, I wigged out and promptly disposed of the tainted drink with the cry, "Everybody out of the coffee!" I then sterilized the cup with boiling hot water. One can never be too careful in these situations.

I refilled the cup and this time put a sheet of scratch paper on top to prevent further gnat contamination another meaningless gnat death. Minutes later, I removed the improvised lid to take a sip and found another floater. Freak out. Dispose. Rinse.

Things were becoming serious. I had plastic cup covers at home, but that didn't solve the immediate problem. Someone is probably thinking, "What's the big deal about having a gnat in your coffee? Drink it already!" While that seems logical for lesser liquids like soda, water or possibly beer, we're talking about coffee here. I've never had a barista ask me, "Room for cream? Room for gnats?"

Doing my best Wile E. Coyote impression, I devised a plan. I poured my cup of coffee and then filled an ACME decoy cup. The gnats would obviously fall for the decoy and leave mine alone. The plan was idiotic foolproof.

Before leaving for lunch, I covered both cups, just in case the gnats caught wind of my devious ploy. I thought I was being clever until I returned and discovered the decoy was gnat-free. "Curious," I thought. Then I checked my cup. "D'oh!" Two gnats had met their untimely end... in the wrong cup! Sigh. Dispose. Rinse. Drink decoy coffee.

Today I'm using a plastic lid and it seems to be working... so far. I wouldn't be surprised if the gnats are formulating a counter-strategy right now. Darn bugs!

Song on my mind... "Only One" by Yellowcard

Here I go
Scream my lungs out and try to get to you
You are my only one
I let go
There's just no one that gets me like you do
You are my only
My only one

The song's video shows the band members leading a group of anti-war protesters and has an ending sequence that reminds me of the lone protester who stood in front of the tank column near Tiananmen Square. If you were to watch it without the sound, you would never guess the song was about breaking up with a girlfriend. Interesting, but confusing.

With unwavering patience, surfers wait in the Pacific for the next big wave. Ocean is this week's Photo Friday challenge. The picture was taken last year at Opal Cliffs, a little coastal town nestled south of Capitola and east of Santa Cruz. According to Wikipedia, 61.5% of the town's two square miles is covered by water.

Ah, the beauty of simply rambling. I wanted to set goals for this entry. Be original. Be funny. Be well thought out. Be articulate. I was about to lay down the law, but had the sudden realization that journal entries, like children, see rules as a challenge, something to defy. They would rebel against everything I told them. I'd set a four-hundred-word curfew and they would break it and try to sneak in a few extra sentences. They would grow up to be multi-paragraphed scribblings that resented their author. So now, I'm just sitting here, letting the entry write itself. The only way it's going to learn is if I allow it to make its own mistakes. The best I can do is to be here to support it. It's called the laissez-faire approach to writing.

Yesterday was my parents' 31st anniversary. To celebrate, they saw a performance of The Producers at the Center for Performing Arts. My sister and I saw it last week (she snagged comp tickets) and we liked it so much, we decided to buy them a pair of tickets. It's Mel Brooks. It has dancing Nazis, a Swedish bombshell, a gay singing Hitler and a chorus line of old ladies with walkers. My parents are conservatives, but they got a kick out of it. It's the best musical I've seen since Les Misérables came to San Jose last year.

I heard part of the All-Star Game broadcast on the radio Tuesday night. I listened as Roger Clemens was shelled by the American Leaguers. He gave up two three-run homers and faced nine batters including Oakland's Mark Mulder, the winning pitcher. The A.L. will again have home field advantage during the World Series. I guess that means San Francisco will have to take the first two from Boston to minimize that advantage. Thursdays are good for making brash predictions.

Last night, we had dinner at Cafe Gibraltar, a Mediterranean restaurant in El Granada, a town just a few miles north of Half Moon Bay. Depending on where one sits, there's an amazing view of the ocean, which probably looks phenomenal at sunset. If you were me, there was an amazing view of the slightly disturbing paintings on the wall. The bread and soup were tasty. For the main course, I had the Gnocchi con Funghi, potato dumplings with mixed mushrooms, which sounded enticing, but was disappointingly bland.

Tonight will conclude my three-day whirlwind peninsula dining tour. Tuesday was Chevys in South San Francisco, yesterday was Cafe Gibraltar and tonight will be sushi at Fuji in the city. To provide balance, next week will probably be a five-day dine-in affair, a home stand if you will, filled with leftovers, Happy Meals, reality television and Netflix.

That last paragraph was noticeably brief, which must mean this entry is nearly tuckered out and ready for bed. After it brushes its teeth (and flosses), I'll attempt to sing it a little Gavin DeGraw, a few lines of lyric expressing how I feel, and then wish it a good night and sweet dreams.

I don't mean to be so strange
But my life just took a change
'Cause I just found someone special
And that's really something special
If you knew me

I walked into the independent bookstore with its used inventory screaming out savings with markdowns boldly displayed. My first mistake was picking up the book and leafing through it. A thought scampered across my mind, "What if this title is cheaper at the big chain bookstore next door?" I was about to put the book down and check it out, when I happened to glance at the elderly lady sitting behind the counter. She was watching me. I quickly scanned the store and noticed that I was the only customer browsing her shelves. Then I made my second mistake: making eye contact and smiling.

Guilt suddenly swooped in through the open door, perched itself on my shoulder and intently stared at me with unblinking, black eyes. I tried to shrug it off and shoo it away, but it refused to budge. How could I possibly leave without buying something? How many sales would this Ma and Pa bookseller make compared to the corporate giant? Would one purchase make a difference? With a surrendering sigh, I bought the book.

I left the store and planned to head straight to Starbucks for a comforting venti caramel macchiato (oh, the hypocrisy!), but was abruptly attacked by a buzzing swarm of Doubt. I swatted at it wildly while waiting for the light to change, but only succeeded in being stung repeatedly. The venom caused my curiosity to swell. I looked to the sky, gave another sigh, pivoted on my heels and walked into the book chain, with its patio, cafe and enormous collection of magazines, books, CDs and DVDs. I quickly found the title and my heart sank. "30% Off!" shouted the red, triangular sticker in the cover's corner. I did some rapid calculations. It was $3.75 less than I paid, including tax.

I contemplated returning the book and buying the cheaper copy, but Guilt was circling by the entrance, right above the table marked "New in Hardcover". So I glumly left the bookstore and walked directly to my car, forgoing the macchiato, a casualty of my shoddy shopping skills.

Moral of the Story: If one wants a book and their espresso, one should not allow Guilt and Doubt to prevent him or her from comparison-shopping.

Alternate Moral: Don't make eye contact with and smile at elderly ladies.

Coffee takes longer to kick in on Mondays. You might think I'm making this up, but it's true. That is why it's wise to drink an exceptionally strong brew to begin the workweek or simply exercise patience and slowly type a journal entry while waiting for the caffeine to work its magic.

San Jose's Obon Festival was this weekend. Along with the typical food and game booths, there was a flower booth and temporary bookstore, whose proceeds benefited the San Jose Buddhist Church Betsuin. I purchased a copy of Obata's Yosemite, a collection of letters and paintings that Chiura Obata, the Japanese artist, produced during his trip to the park in 1927. Later, we listened to the rhythm and beats of San Jose Taiko. Their site has some interesting information and article links about Obon.

The rest of Saturday was an extremely pleasant blur (at least in the eyes of this journal).

On Sunday, I went out for brunch and saw Spider-Man 2 with the family. Peter Parker has always been one of my favorite Marvel characters and I say that not just because I used to have a Spidey sleeping bag growing up. He leads a tangled life where conflict and complications exist everywhere and in every relationship, primarily because of his alter ego. This constant interpersonal and internal struggle was one reason why I liked the movie sequel. Danny Elfman's score and Tobey Maguire were two other reasons. One of my favorite scenes had a confused man and an embarrassed Spider-Man taking a long, uncomfortable elevator ride after the superhero temporarily loses his powers. It had awkward exchanges, glances and silences that I thought were so funny, I was busting up like an idiot.

Afterwards, my dad and I finished assembling the three-person swing for the backyard. Now there is a shaded seat, with a somewhat scenic view (beyond the fence line), to read, write, talk and most importantly... swing.

And I am flawed
But I am cleaning up so well
I am seeing in me now
The things you swore you saw yourself

a.k.a. "In the Last Five Minutes I Heard..."

• the stairway door slam
• footsteps across pavement
• leaves rustling
• mumbled voices coming from a parked car
• a car engine start
• the store door chime twice
• "Hello."
• a microwave beep
• the wrapper crinkle
• the cash register ring
• the receipt print out
• the cash drawer open
• "A dollar ten, please. Ten cents."
• coins and keys jingle
• "Thank you."
• the store door chime twice more
• birds chirping
• a rock skitter across the sidewalk
• a train horn in the distance
• a van door slide shut
• a car trunk slam
• a paper bag crinkle
• car brakes squeak
• a banging hammer
• footsteps on brick
• the walk tone of a crosswalk signal
• the ding of the elevator
• the elevator doors open
• the wrapper tear open
• Skittles pour into my palm, then into my mouth
• "Mmm... good!"

This week's Photo Friday challenge is Cool. After three days of hiking, it was time to dip the feet in cold, clear water and relax.

Song on my mind... "Somewhere Only We Know" by Keane

I came across a fallen tree
I felt the branches of it looking at me
Is this the place we used to love?
Is this the place that I've been dreaming of?

Oh simple thing where have you gone
I'm getting old and I need something to rely on
So tell me when you're gonna let me in
I'm getting tired and I need somewhere to begin

And if you have a minute why don't we go
Talk about it somewhere only we know
This could be the end of everything
So why don't we go
Somewhere only we know

Just as songs can bring us back to happy moments in our lives, moments shared with someone, perhaps someone special, so too can places. And when we hear that melody again or return to that spot, we experience echoes of what was and from them draw hope and strength.

Over the Fourth of July weekend, I went camping and hiking in the Cedar Grove area of Kings Canyon. Last year, I recounted the trip by numbers and had so much fun, I thought it would be amusing to do again. Because I'm a statistics freak, the previous trip's tally is given in parentheses for comparison purposes.

Price for a gallon of gas: $2.19 ($2.09)
Hours spent in the park: 69 (45)
Miles hiked: 41 (18)
Hiking companions: 2 (2)
Number of times lost: 2 (3)
Waterfalls seen: 3 (5)
Bears seen: 0 (0)
Deer seen: 2 (2)
Liters of water consumed on the trail: 6.5 (7)
Liters of Gatorade consumed: 3.5 (2.5)
Number of pictures taken: 176 (198)
Number of times hearing Kylie Minogue's "Can't Get You Out of My Head" : 3 (5)
Rattlesnakes seen: 1
Cost of a ten-minute shower: $2.50
Number of showers: 3
Number of Clif Bars eaten: 8.5
Cumulative elevation gained during hikes (in feet): 10,800
Number of lovely mosquito bites received: 12
Number of shooting stars seen: 2
Price of a cup of hot coffee: $1.75
Minutes needed to become cold coffee: 5

This visit was better than the last one, even with the bug bites and a brief thunderstorm. Admittedly, there were a few moments when I felt less than patriotic for missing the weekend's typical barbecue and firework fanfare. However, as I walked through our campground and spotted sites decked out in the red, white and blue, I took a little time to give thanks and remember those who fought and sacrificed for the freedoms I enjoy today.

According to the calendar pinned on the cubicle wall, the year is half over. I would say it's hard to believe, but I've had six months to accept the fact. There is something exciting about turning the page to the next month. There's a fresh photo to stare at while you"re at work, one likely showing cute animals, shiny automobiles or scantly-clad supermodels beautiful landscapes. There are new holidays to look forward to or question like, "Why don't we get Canada Day off?" or "How come we never celebrate the First Manned Moon Landing?" It means another batch of bills, but hopefully a paycheck or two to pay for them. It also means another set of cell phone minutes, if you buy into such plans. A brand new month offers us 30 or 31 clean, unused days (except for stingy February) for new opportunities and adventures in one shrink-wrapped, easy-to-carry package.

Today is Thursday, but it's a Friday to me. With a vacation day and holiday, this will be a four-day weekend. I'm stoked. It's an excellent way to start July.