August 2004 Archives

I was the only one at the wedding wearing brown boots. Every other guy there wore shiny black shoes. My own pair sat contently at home in the darkness of a closet. It wasn't until I scrounged through my bag and came up with nothing resembling my shoes that I realized they were missing.

"No one will be looking at feet," I told myself as I tied the bootlaces.

"Except me, of course," I replied.

I've never been aware of so many people's feet before in my life. It was truly an unhealthy preoccupation. I was looking for some sort of reassurance that I wasn't the only guy with non-black footwear. Yet, through the miracle of complete conformity, every single boy and man wore black shoes.

It shouldn't have bothered me, really, but I was so afraid of standing out that whenever I caught a glimpse of my boots, a wave of anxiety would wash over me. What would people think? I must not own a nice pair of shoes. Or I must not know how to dress. Or I must be the bane of human existence. It's frustrating how negative my thoughts can turn when overcome with insecurity.

At some point, just before the ceremony, having confirmed that my brown boots were indeed unique to the gathering, I told myself to stop the madness. "There's nothing you can do about it now. Get over the boots and pay attention to more important things like, say, the bride and groom." And that was that. From then on, I was able to enjoy the ceremony and the reception that followed.

I'm writing this as a reminder of how silly I am sometimes. It's not cool or desirable to get worked up over such petty matters. Yet, it's so easy to do, especially when anxieties are allowed to run out of control. Will I feel self-conscious if I'm ever caught in a similar situation? Most likely, but I hope I'm able to quell the fears more quickly next time.

Or at least find one other guy wearing brown boots.

1. On Friday, I had breakfast for lunch.
2. I have to believe IHOP is one of the greatest restaurants on the planet.
3. I had dinner at Amici's in Mountain View.
4. And ordered a pizza called the Greek Isle (feta, mozzarella, artichoke hearts, sun-dried tomatoes).
5. Partly because it sounded tasty. Partly as a feeble tribute to the Olympics.
6. Vanderlei De Lima, the Brazilian runner who was leading the marathon until he was attacked three miles from the finish line, is my hero. He won the bronze medal.
7. This is supposed to be a list of thirty things about me.
8. I apparently have a short attention span.
9. And can be easily sidetracked by the simplest...
10. I'm wearing a shirt and tie today at work.
11. I'm not "surrendering to the system", just pretending to act my age.
12. This is my first day as a thirtysomething.
13. I never saw the television show. Maybe it could give me pointers how to act my age.
14. To honor me a day early, Athens blew out a giant candle.
15. Technically, they "extinguished the Olympic torch", but let's not quibble over semantics.
16. To help me celebrate, the GOP is throwing a four-day long party in New York City.
17. The Dems jumped the gun and partied a month ago in Boston.
18. Items 14-17 display a shamefully egocentric view of world events.
19. Now I feel guilty and bad for writing them.
20. Yet not remorseful (or creative) enough to delete them and come up with something more modest.
21. On Saturday, I attended a wedding in Portola Valley.
22. One wall of the church was all glass and looked out upon a beautiful green forest.
23. I was the only guy in attendance wearing brown boots.
24. If I said I didn't imagine how I would like my own wedding to be one day, I'd be lying.
25. If I were ever to be married, I wonder how much say I would have in the whole process.
26. Besides the qualities listed in Item 8 and 9, I have a tendency of getting ahead of myself.
27. On Sunday, I was lucky enough to see Movin' Out in San Francisco.
28. It was an amazing show that reminded me why I love Billy Joel's music.
29. I wanted to say something incredibly cheesy here, but that's just not me.
30. Okay, who am I kidding? I'm extremely cheesy, but thankfully, this list only goes up to thirty.

Oy! This is a late entry for a Friday. I really shouldn't be anywhere near a computer with internet access, but I'm in limbo. Typically, I would be on my way home, but I'm heading up to Mountain View for dinner later tonight. It seemed stupid to drive 24 miles south, hang out for an hour at home and then drive 37 miles north. Since I recently decided to start reducing my stupidity, that idea was tossed.

I contemplated seeing a movie, but realized that anything I wanted to see would cause me to be late. The only movie that worked within the given timeframe was Superbabies: Baby Geniuses 2. Luckily, I had my stupidity-reduction decision to save me from it. I then nixed a slew (or slue) of other bad ideas and that's why I'm sitting here typing what you're reading (or skimming or possibly pretending to read to impress your friends).

Since we're both here and one of us has nothing better to do, let's try to be productive and come up with a Top 5 list. Here are the Top 5 movies I'd like to see on the big screen...

1. Hero
2. The Motorcycle Diaries
3. Napoleon Dynamite
4. De-lovely
5. Before Sunset

I watched Hero on DVD and it was a feast for the eyes on the small screen. I can only imagine how beautiful it will look in the theater. I caught the trailer of The Motorcycle Diaries when I saw Garden State. It's based on the journals kept by Che Guevara and Alberto Granado as they crossed South America by motorcycle.

Over the last few weeks, I've been growing more fascinated with how people chronicle their travels. I think it began after I listened to A Walk in the Woods, which recounts Bill Bryson's attempt to hike the entire Appalachian Trail, "a 2,174-mile footpath" according to the National Park Service.

Shortly after finishing that audio book, I stumbled upon The Great Sitting, a site created by two guys who planned to cycle from California to Maine and blog their thoughts and progress as they crossed the nation. Jeff and Mike completed their two-month trek this week.

The Adventure Journalist is currently blogging about her family's 40-day, 12,000-mile road trip around the United States. This is Day 6 of their journey. I like her writing style and photos. It's exciting (to me, at least) to follow along. Each day reveals another part of their story on the road.

I'm out of time. Have a great weekend everybody. If this is Saturday or Sunday and you're still reading this, stop now, go outside and play! I mean it. Go!

Each day I live
I want to be
A day to give
The best of me
I'm only one
But not alone
My finest day
Is yet unknown

I want one moment in time
When I'm more than I thought I could be
When all of my dreams are a heartbeat away

In 1988, during the Summer Olympics in Seoul, it was Whitney Houston's "One Moment in Time" that choked me up. The first time I heard it was on the television over an emotionally charged montage showing athletes in their moments of glory and agony. The lyrics captured the spirit of the games and expressed the innermost desire of every athlete there. I was fourteen and so inspired that I even bought the album on tape. To this day, whenever the Olympics come around, I rediscover the song's power. Like a Christmas carol that is most potent during the holiday season, the games add resonance to her song.

For Olympic athletes, these two weeks are the culmination of years of hard work, drive and struggle. This is their decisive moment and the possible realization of dreams, which is why the games are so special. It's where potential comes to be transformed into something tangible, like a chance to stand upon a podium, receive a medal and watch the flag rise as the anthem is played.

What would it feel like? I ask that every time I see a medal ceremony. Last week, I was at the gym, running and watching the television directly in front of me. I've tried to watch the set off to the side, but that requires turning my head, which is just asking for trouble. My head and a steering wheel have too much in common and turning is generally not recommended on a treadmill.

The noise of the various cardio machines drowned out the announcers, but the closed captioning informed anyone paying attention that the broadcasters were discussing the drama surrounding Aaron Peirsol's second gold medal. They then cut to his ceremony.

Perhaps it was adrenaline or the effects of running, but watching that particular ceremony at that particular moment was a bigger rush than usual. For a second, it raised my own Olympic hopes (mainly of the delusional sort) and an inside voice shouted, "Beijing in 2008, baby!!" Without the link, of course. My senses returned shortly afterwards.

My other uplifting favorite is John Williams' "Olympic Fanfare", which is played at the beginning of each prime time broadcast. I love how the trumpets make the melody soar. I could listen to it all day, but that would likely drive my coworkers insane, so I try to limit myself to once an hour (or whenever they step away from their desks). It's only a temporary addiction. I hope.

Anyway, this entry was inspired by an entirely different song. As I was getting ready for work this morning, I was listening to Switchfoot's "This is Your Life", which has now become my favorite track from their latest album. Switchfoot may not be as gung ho as Houston, but they express the same sentiment of seizing the present and making the most of it. I wouldn't mind it at all if NBC assembled an Athens montage displaying highlights set to their song.

Yesterday is a wrinkle on your forehead
Yesterday is a promise that you've broken
Don't close your eyes
This is your life
And today is all you've got now
And today is all you'll ever have
Don't close your eyes

This is your life
Are you who you want to be?
This is your life
Is it everything that you dreamed that it would be
When the world was younger
And you had everything to lose?

I've been wearing glasses for most of my life, ever since the fourth grade. When I got my first pair, I experienced one of those Clark Kent/Superman moments where others mistakenly think you're two different people simply because of the glasses. My dual identity lasted for about a day, which was too little time to take full advantage of the opportunity.

Anyway, most of the glasses I've worn have had a few common traits. The frames have mainly been brown, round and made of flexible metal. The lenses have all been made of glass that darkened in direct sunlight. There may have been a brief period in my life when I had aviator glasses, but we don't talk about it.

With another age milestone quickly approaching and many different things happening in my life, I thought it was time for a pair unlike any I had previously worn. I picked them up yesterday after work. The frames are smaller and rectangular. I still have glass transition lenses, but they are much thinner this time. I like the look, but it's still a little strange when I see them in the mirror.

I took photos of the new and old pairs last night, but to prevent spoiling the surprise for anybody wanting a first glimpse in person, I have included only text links. For the webloggers I'm seeing tonight for coffee, consider this a sneak peek. For others, consider it a web exclusive. And just so you know, screaming, shuddering and laughing are all perfectly acceptable reactions to the pictures on the other side of the click.

Round and espresso brown

New and steel blue

I meant to post more than just lyrics yesterday, but that didn't happen. Obviously. Of the songs playing on Channel 104.9 these days in my car, "Just Like You" is one of the most refreshing. I like its cut-through-the-nonsense and cut-you-down-to-size attitude. I suppose it expresses my past frustrations with fake people who offered a helping hand with the intent of only doing harm. That sentence deserves elaboration, but to stay true to the entry's title, it will remain annoyingly vague. I should probably add that despite its negative tone, the song doesn't express my current mood.

It raises the possible question, "Then what is my current mood?" I'd say it's restrained exuberance. I wish I could jump up and down, yell at the top of my lungs and maybe run a victory lap with a flag draped around me. The only problem is that I haven't won the race yet. The gold seems certain, but I'd rather not be overconfident and foolishly falter or fall short. I'm trying to keep a cool head and not get ahead of myself.

How do I explain this feeling without exaggerating? This has been one of the most amazing summers of my life. It's been unlike any other I've experienced. The upcoming weeks and months offer such hope and promise of continuing adventures. The world seems so full of possibilities.

Okay, the previous paragraph sounds ridiculously naive and optimistic, but it's how I feel when my feelings go unfiltered. Scary, but true. And annoyingly vague.

Song on my mind... "Just Like You" by Three Days Grace

I could be mean, I could be angry
You know I could be just like you

I could be fake, I could be stupid
You know I could be just like you

You thought you were standing beside me
You were only in my way
You're wrong if you think that I'll be just like you

You thought you were there to guide me
You were only in my way
You're wrong if you think that I'll be just like you

I'm a little grumpy. Traffic was horrendous this morning. At around 4:20 AM, a big rig carrying a full load of cardboard boxes caught fire between San Jose and Morgan Hill and shut down northbound 101. Thankfully, no one was hurt and soon the highway patrol reopened two of the four lanes to let through some cars. By the time I got out of the house, the traffic girl said everything was backed up ten miles and warned everybody to expect two-hour delays. She recommended taking an alternate route. Because I always do what she tells me, I took Santa Teresa Boulevard, a two-lane back road. Instead of a 2.5-hour drive, I sat in traffic for an hour and a half, only three times longer than my normal commute. If I were to put things into perspective, this morning was a minor inconvenience. I can only imagine how grumpy the truck driver feels.

Good morning. This is your friendly blogger/online journalist trying something different because, well, I feel like it. This is a wrist shaking exercise. It's a little hard to explain. When I sit down at the piano to play something, I let my hands go limp and shake my wrists in the belief that it loosens everything up. There's never been a study to prove that this does in fact loosen up anything. More accurately, I haven't taken the time to google (or yahoo) any such study, but that isn't the point. The point is that I allow myself to believe in its loosening effect, real or imagined, so then I can play a little more playfully. That and the shaking itself feels good.

That was the improvised, wrist shaking portion of my entry. On to the canned part of my writing routine.

Last night, my family took my mom out to dinner to celebrate her Nth birthday, where N equals a number that's more dependent on my mom's mood than on any given calendar. As we drove to the restaurant, my mom told me they had installed a new garage door opener earlier in the day. She got out of the car and, with the door still open, told me the combination.

[Pause]

Have you ever had a conversation where somebody asks you to guess the answer? I don't mean your everyday I'm-thinking-of-a-number-between-one-and-a-million or the usual guess-what's-in-my-pants, but the I-was-at-the-market-this-morning-and-guess-who-I-saw game. My mom used to play that one all of the time, but we were an impatient lot, so the response would end up being, "Tell us already!"

She eventually gave up on "Guess" and now plays "Ask Me a Question". She builds up the story to a point and then asks us to prompt her for the big payoff. Unfortunately, she hasn't quite worked out the bugs yet.

[Unpause]

Mom: So, ask me why we chose those numbers for the combination.
Sis: Yeah, ask her. She wouldn't tell me earlier.
Mom: Go ahead. Ask me why.
Me: Okay.
Mom: Ask!
Me: Okay! Why?
Mom: Why.

She then shut the door. My sister fell over in her seat, laughing hysterically. I sat there for a second, unsure of what just happened and exclaimed, "But wait. That's not an answer!" She finally told us the reason after we followed her into the restaurant and convinced her that she hadn't answered the question properly.

It's for that idiosyncrasy and a whole laundry list of reasons and qualities that I love her. After dinner, we returned to my parents' place, had my mom open her presents and cards, enjoyed some of her tasty cake and concluded the celebration by watching the Olympics. Not bad for an Nth birthday.

This was a good morning to feel uneducated. I walked into the cafe and saw they had a blend called Vaudoux available. I never had it before, so I decided to try a cup. Everything seemed fine until the coffee girl was ready to take my order and I blanked on the word's pronunciation.

Coffee Girl: Good morning!
Me: Good morning. Hi. Let's see, may I get a large, uh, vawdoh?
CG: ?
Me: I mean, um, vohdoh? Vowduh? Vuhdoo?
CG: ???
Me: (pointing emphatically) Dahh! That one!
CG: Ohhh, you mean voodoo.
Me: (flustered) Well, yeah, sure. I kinda said that. Approximately.

Thank goodness for my rapid recovery skills. I quickly paid the $1.60 in exact change, avoided eye contact with the all-knowledgeable coffee girl and slunk over to the cream and sugar cart.

vaudoux = voodoo

I'll definitely remember how to say that word the next time I visit. In a year or two.

My family has always been an Olympics family. When it's on, everything else on television becomes irrelevant. Every four years, we take the time to enjoy the two-week celebration of international sport (not involving ice or snow) and the human spirit. Swimming, track and field, gymnastics and many other sports that rarely receive mainstream media attention get a brief second in the spotlight and we take notice.

I'm an unabashed idealist when it comes to the Summer Games. I grew up that way. My folks, sister and I would sit down every evening and watch the continuous and commercial-loaded coverage for hours. This weekend, for the first two full days of competition in Athens, we continued the tradition of rooting on the athletes in various sports, from various countries.

There is my family's natural U.S. bias, of course. This is followed closely by its Australian and Canadian bias. They arbitrarily decided years ago that these two countries were cool. That's logically followed by the hey-they-have-a-cool-name bias. So, when Ian Thorpe (an Australian), Pieter van den Hoogenband (a cool-named Dutchman) and Michael Phelps (an American) compete in the 200-meter free tonight, there won't be a problem cheering for any of them.

Some things I want to remember from Days 1 and 2:

• Phelps demolishing the field by body lengths in the 400-meter individual medley and Erik Vendt slipping in for the silver.
• Both American relay teams losing in the 4×100-meter free. The women to Australia. The men to South Africa.
• The Dream Team losing to Puerto Rico. I got a good laugh out of that.
• China smacking the U.S. in women's volleyball and thinking Logan Tom looked short when she's actually 6'1".
• The hype over Michael Phelps (who obviously has his own site).
• The Thorpedo swimming to his fourth gold medal in the 400-meter free. Not to be outdone, he has his own site, too.
• Cringing every time Tim Daggett and Elfi Schlegel (NBC commentators) jinxed Team USA during the qualifying rounds of gymnastics.
• The 24-year-old Portuguese cyclist, Sergio Paulinho, who surprised everyone and took silver in the men's road race.
• The over-hype of Phelps.
• The crazy synchrony of Chinese divers in synchronized diving.
• Brendan Hansen losing to Kosuke Kitajima by .16 seconds in the 100-meter breaststroke and Kitajima's alleged and illegal dolphin kick.

If I can think of anything else, I'll add it later. The day has begun and tonight will bring a whole new set of heroes, underdogs and memorable moments.

I awoke peacefully. Daylight peeked into the room from around the edges of the curtain. I felt fully rested, which was wonderful, but strange. I then wondered why the alarm wasn't going off. Had I forgotten to set it? Puzzled, I looked at the clock and realized it wasn't displaying the time. I also noticed the TV wasn't showing the traffic girl. Something was wrong. The power must have gone out during the night.

Worried that I had overslept, I went looking for my watch. It wasn't on the kitchen counter as usual. After some searching, I found it on the den floor. I had apparently been practicing the art of never-putting-anything-back-where-it-belongs the day before. The watch, in its super sized font, confirmed my fears. I was going to be late for work.

Crap, I thought and rushed to the bathroom to shave. I unconsciously flipped on the light switch and then mentally kicked myself for already forgetting about the power. It's amazing how much shorter one's morning routine becomes without electricity. An electric shaver doesn't work so well and neither does a hair dryer. Unshaven and sporting damp hair, I packed my breakfast and lunch and tossed everything into the car.

One other thing that insists on using electricity is the garage door. I walked behind the car, which was parked in the middle of the garage, and pulled down on the red rope to open the door manually. I took a step back, lifted the door four inches off the ground and bumped into the car. I had run out of room.

I lowered the door and contemplated the situation. My dad had always opened the door this way, so I gave it another try, gripping the rope and arching my body around the car. Lift, lower, lift, lower. Each attempt failed pathetically. I wasn't getting enough leverage and couldn't make any progress because of the confounded vehicle.

I stood there, balanced on one foot, both arms extended above my head, holding onto the rope and thinking what a fine mess I was in, but happy no one could witness my ridiculousness. A stray scrap of common sense entered my head and I let go of the rope. A sudden feeling of stupidity came over me. One's intelligence can often be measured by the number of seconds between an act of stupidity and the feeling of stupidity. It's like thunder and lightning, except the more seconds that pass, the dumber you are.

I knelt down, grabbed the bottom of the door with both hands and lifted it slowly. The gray overcast of morning greeted me, as did two landscapers who had been watching the entire time. They were leaning against their truck parked across the street, sipping coffee and likely wondering what was up with my garage. I nodded sheepishly and they nodded good morning before setting down their cups and returning to their watering and raking.

I don't believe Friday the 13th had anything to do with this morning's run of bad luck. I'm not superstitious about anything except, maybe, baseball. I may have to eat a tofu burger to help the home team win every baseball game I attend. I just hope the electricity returns before I get home this evening. The Olympics begin tonight and it would be disappointing to miss the Opening Ceremony. Plus, a second round with the garage door isn't exactly my idea of wholesome Friday night fun.

When seated out in the right field bleachers, I wind up looking at the scoreboard more often than at home plate. I'm not complaining, just making an observation. The diehard bleacher fans now wave giant green or yellow Oakland Athletics flags every time a home team batter comes to the plate. It's a sad substitute for the old left field drum corps with their beats and chants. It seems they went away when Miguel Tejada left for Baltimore.

On Tuesday, I attended my sixth baseball game of the 2004 season. Thanks to Barry Zito and Eric Chavez, the Athletics held on to beat the Tigers by a score of 5-4. I had a personal five-game losing streak going in and it took a close contest to snap it.

This year, I've alternated between eating standard stadium food (read: hot dogs) and less traditional items. At SBC Park, I haven't tried the sushi or edamame, but have enjoyed their clam chowder in a bread bowl and rice and beans with salsa. At the Coliseum, I tried their tofu burger and thought it was so-so. The downside of baseball gourmet is the price. $7.50 for clam chowder and $3.00 for coffee tends to diminish one's appetite. Since the ballparks allow it, I might bring my own food next time. I don't know why, but I think it would be hilarious (and cheaper) to break out some dim sum, tea and chopsticks while sitting in the stands.

We like beer flat as can be
We like our dogs with mustard and relish
We got a great pitcher what's his name
Well we can't even spell it
We don't worry about the pennant much
We just like to see the boys hit it deep
There's nothing like the view from the cheap seats

- "The Cheap Seats" by Alabama

I was waiting in the Fremont BART station for a few friends to arrive before heading to the A's game. During my fifteen minutes of standing around and looking suspicious to the patrolling security guard, I had some time to observe my surroundings.

I noticed how the faster somebody attempted to obtain a ticket from the vending machine, the longer it took to obtain. I noticed how the entire station rumbled whenever a train arrived. There would be a slight pause after the rumbling and then a mass of people would flow down the stairs, through the fare gates and out to the parking lots. This was the "calmly crowded" phase of a distinct three-phase cycle.

There would be a slight pause and then the "mad rush" phase would begin. Experienced commuters, who were obviously aware of the timetable, but still late, would come racing in and scramble up the escalator to the platform. This was the most deadly time to be standing in the lobby and I stood aside to avoid becoming road kill.

After the departing train rumbled away, the station would enter the "utterly desolate" phase where no one was around, except for the wary security guard and me. My friends finally arrived during this quiet period.

While they were purchasing their tickets, a guy came through the gates towards me. He was a cut figure of a man, about my height, with tan skin, black hair and green eyes. He wore a white t-shirt, brown slacks and backpack and carried a folded scooter in his left hand. It took us a second to recognize each other, but once we did, we smiled and greeted one another warmly. He was an old college classmate who had graduated a year after me (so many years ago).

On the train, we had a chance to catch up a little. I learned that he'd been working in Fremont for the last five years and had bought a house in San Leandro three years ago. We talked some shop and reminisced about the "good old days". It seemed strange that a guy from Hawaii could be content living in the East Bay, but from our brief conversation, I sensed he was genuinely happy. I'm glad. It's always good to see the people you grew up with do well for themselves. It made my day.

I don't know what it is about the VTA's Light Rail, but it's a sleep-inducing vehicle. One minute I'm typing away on my Palm V and the next minute I'm conked out (and typing considerably less). Minutes later, I'm awake, groggy and massaging my neck from dosing off in a highly uncomfortable seat. This proclivity for mass transit slumbering worries me for three reasons.

1. Safety. I'm sure everybody who rides the VTA is a nice and decent person who would never think of robbing, hurting or applying make up to a sleeping stranger, but do I really want to find out? I'd like to believe that those around me are mostly hard-working, law-abiding and environmentally-conscious citizens, but overhearing a few guys discussing parole or their latest stint in jail causes doubt to creep into my mind.

2. Comfort. The seats are very uncomfortable, but apparently, not enough to cause sleep deprivation. They are metal buckets with blue cloth coverings that provide little cushioning. The backs are low and to rest your neck, you must slide down until your butt is off the chair and your knees are pressed against the seat in front of you. If you choose not to slide, your head will fall forward and you'll be perfectly positioned to drool onto your own lap. It's not a pretty picture in either case.

3. Productivity. I like reading and writing during my commute. It is two hours out of the day set aside for relaxation and creativity, so it's disturbing to see sleep encroaching on it. While I have nothing against sleep, I prefer it to happen in a bed or on a couch where the likelihood of muscle cramps and lipstick applications are greatly reduced. How frustrating it is that the same rhythm and motion that invigorates the imagination also causes drowsiness.

As far as I can remember, the sleep effect has only ever struck on the ride home, but never on my way to work. It must have been the lack of coffee in my system or the down I was feeling after a three-day weekend high that caused my eyes to close this morning. I need to figure out how to fight the fatigue so that sleeping on the go becomes a habit of the past.

Successful humor, I think, requires a delicate touch. That's not true. Humor can be done crassly and with broad strokes. It can be absurd and over the top. It can be pointed and mean-spirited. Humor comes in a variety of blends. As a writer (and I use that term very loosely), I know that I attempt to add humor to almost everything I write. It's a seasoning. Writing something funny for the sake of being funny comes across as forced and unnatural. It's like watching a comedy and knowing the situation presented was ridiculously manufactured or wrought for a specific punch line.

Humor, on a continuous basis, is difficult to achieve. As with any type of writing, levels of success and effectiveness are dependent on subject matter and the author's creativity. It requires making connections between disparate ideas and concepts. It requires astute observation and the ability to articulate nimbly. Finding the humor in a situation requires having a slightly different perspective than everybody else. This is true, at least, if one wants to be seen as bringing freshness to a topic or event.

I think it's funny that a post about humor can be so dry and unfunny.

I don't dread visiting the dentist every six months. It's another excuse to hang out in Santa Cruz. Admittedly, I have to hang out in a sky blue dentist's chair and endure a thorough cleaning for thirty minutes, but it's a small price to pay. Plus, a free lollipop toothbrush sweetens the deal.

Yesterday's coastal weather was excellent and I wish I could've stayed longer. Weather like that should never be wasted or taken for granted. One of these weekends, I'll get back there and show it the appreciation it deserves.

I spent this past weekend in San Francisco. The two-day, two-night adventure began with a BART ride to the Powell Station on Friday evening. I've only stayed in the city once in my life and that was for a conference in college many years ago. I met M at the station and dropped my luggage off at the hotel. We then wandered through the shopping district surrounding Union Square.

Afterwards, we had dinner at Puccini and Pinetti. The food was ordinary (farfalle with chicken and rapini), but the drink was quite good (The Nutty Italian: a combination of amaretto, irish cream and coffee).

Saturday morning found me walking down Market Street towards the Embarcadero Center. I was in search of any local cafe that served coffee and a hot breakfast. Starbucks was off limits. After a solid fifteen minutes of passing nothing but Starbucks, I caved, bought an overpriced cup of coffee and looped back towards the hotel. That's when I found Franciscan Croissants. I ate a hot ham, egg and cheese croissant while sitting by the window and writing. It was a great way to start the day.

I then ventured over to SBC Park to see what McCovey Cove was like without the usual throng of baseball fans. It was relatively peaceful and would have been a great place to hang out and read if it weren't for the flock of scalpers, perched at various street corners, looking to buy tickets to resell at game time.

In the afternoon, we walked over to Justin Herman Plaza for the Expo. Vendors were selling running shoes and apparel, health foods and power drinks. There were also organizers from other marathons and race events trying to recruit participants even before one mile had been run in San Francisco. Interesting, but way too crowded.

We escaped to Japantown and had dinner at Kushi Tsuru, one of many sushi options in the area. The meal was quite good, but I want to try some of the other restaurants next time.

Sunday was race day and it started early, earlier than any Sunday should legally be allowed to start. After the run, we saw Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle at the Metreon, which kindly shows twenty-five minutes of commercials and previews before every film. I won't watch another one there unless I have a book and reading light handy. The movie itself was hilarious. There were gross out moments, but many more laugh-out-loud moments. Both leads were likable, especially John Cho, who played Harold. It'll be fun to see again when it comes to the cheap theater.

To finish off a great weekend in San Francisco, we went to a Giants game. Last time, the Padres pounded them. This time, the Cardinals clobbered them 6-1. St. Louis proved why they're leading their division by 10.5 games. Although the home team lost (again), being at the ballpark is still the best way to enjoy the sport. Of course, I wouldn't mind if Bonds hit a homer and Schmidt actually won while I was in attendance. I'm just saying.

My legs are sore from running over the weekend. I usually walk funny, but today, I'm walking funnier than usual. The wincing and sporadic yelps work nicely with my slow, ginger footsteps. Sitting doesn't help the situation, but stretching in my cubicle does. I'll take strange looks from coworkers over increasingly stiff muscles any day.

Yesterday, for the second year in a row, I ran the 5K event of the Chronicle Marathon. It was my first race of 2004 and the first one in eight months. For those keeping track at home, my last race was Run to the Far Side. Based on a doctor's recommendation, I had been giving my foot a rest from running... for the most part. Every now and then, I would sneak in a couple of miles on the treadmill or track. It's hard to sit still or take a break from an activity you love.

Of course, running "every now and then" doesn't improve one's time, which is my excuse for logging a dismal 26:31, a minute longer than last year. If I look at the time with a clear head and healthy attitude, it's decent, but from a personal perspective, it sucks. I've been faster in the past and will be faster again. I have to take this dissatisfaction and transform it into sustained motivation. Fifty-five days remain until the next race. Achy legs mean I haven't been running enough. It's time to rest less, run more and run faster.