June 2005 Archives

Last week, during my apparent and unintentional journal drought, a l tagged me with two questions. It would be in bad form to leave them unanswered, so here I go. Feel free to imagine the sound of knuckles cracking. I've never understood the need to crack one's knuckles, but it always seems to be the Thing To Do when one is about to attempt a massive undertaking like retrofitting the Bay Bridge, watching back-to-back episodes of Dancing With the Stars or mopping.

So, what is the one spark in the midst of darkness? What is the one thing that made you smile today?

I would say the brightest spark in the darkness would be my company's recent office move. It's exciting to be in a new building. The elevators are new. The doors are new. Even the toilets are new. Everything is brand spanking new with the exception of the computers, chairs, coworkers and other items that happened to survive shipment in cardboard boxes.

I know it isn't "normal" to be ecstatic about relocating to a new cubicle farm, but I'm stoked to be the first occupant of a particular seventy square-foot area. It has gray work surfaces, two task lights, a lateral filing cabinet and its very own peach cloth-covered corkboard. It isn't much, but at least it's not fuchsia.

The day has barely begun, but I've already smiled a few times. One of the things that made me smile was thinking about a quote I had written down a long time ago, lost and then found again yesterday. It's a quote by W.C. Fields about smiling. With any luck, it will make you smile, too.

Start every day with a smile and get it over with.

Ah, words to live by.

The last few days have found me focusing on my lower back. I initially injured it a couple weeks ago while working on the bricks, but the seriousness of the injury didn't become apparent until some time last week, when an unrelated viral infection struck. After visiting the doctor on Monday, it has been all about ibuprofen, heat and rest. The doctor described recovery time in terms of weeks, not hours or days as I had hoped. He said, "You're going to have to slow down, ease up and do nothing." Probably noticing the perplexed look on my face, he elaborated a little bit about what that entailed exactly and it seems to cover everything except breathing, blinking, eating and going to work. On the bright side, the viral infection seems to be on its way out.

I figure I'll use this "downtime" to build some new good habits, lose some old bad ones, but most importantly, catch up on a stack of books and magazines I've been meaning to read.

Last week, I finally finished and started Terry Pratchett's hilarious Going Postal, his latest Discworld novel. I put "finished" ahead of "started" because that always seems to be the harder (and more impressive) of the two minor accomplishments. I bought the book last year at London's Heathrow Airport on my way to Austria and had been saving it for the right time to read.

A quick aside: It's difficult to say when it's the "right time" to read a particular book. It isn't something you plan. It just sort of happens and only when you least expect it. It's different for everybody, but for me, it's usually when I'm perusing the bookshelf and my eyes happen upon a book that begins to glow so brightly that all the other books seem to disappear and there's a swell of violin music and visions of reading it on a sunny day somewhere in a meadow far away. Or something like that. When it's the right time, you just know.

Anyway, I still maintain that the British covers of his books are superior to the American versions. Going Postal centers around the revival of Ankh-Morpork's postal service, which may seem like a bland topic, but Pratchett gives it his typical clever and comic spin. Besides being a book about mail, it's one about hope, redemption, trust, corporate greed and golems. Throw in characters with names like Havelock Vetinari, Moist von Lipwig, Mr. Pump and Adora Belle Dearheart and you have a novel I can actually complete.

I still have a short stack of other Pratchett novels on my shelf to read (or re-read in one case), including Jingo and Good Omens (written with Neil Gaiman). As long as tickling the funny bone isn't prohibited during recuperation, then I might start with those books.

By the way, for any other Discworld fans out there, Thud!, his thirtieth novel in the series, is scheduled for release in October. Now, if I could find a way to get my hands on a British copy. That would be sweet.

On Tuesday, I awoke with a throbbing headache. My first thought was to drink a glass of water. Okay, that's not true. My very first thought was, "Urgh!!" Then I thought about drinking a glass of water.

Water has become my default answer for any ailment. Have a headache? Drink some water. Feeling sluggish? Drink some water. Forgot the definition of "susurrus"? Drink some water! Water makes everything better (or, at the very least, wetter).

I dragged my throbbing head (and the rest me) out of bed and to the kitchen. I fumbled through the dishwasher for a glass and pulled a gallon of water (conveniently packaged in a bottle) from the cupboard under the stove. Knowing my propensity to pour water everywhere but into the glass, I tried to be careful, which is difficult to do when one's head feels like it's being squeezed slowly and repeatedly like a rubber stress ball.

I placed the bottle on the counter, picked up the glass and drank the water. Actually, "drank" isn't the right verb. Chugged is more like it. I chugged the water. After I finished the glass, per proper chugging protocol, I slammed it down on the counter, wiped my mouth with my arm and let out a big satisfying "Ahhhh!" Everything in that previous sentence is true except for the part where I slammed the glass down and used my arm as a napkin.

I let the water work its watery magic. The throbbing lessened to a general pulsing and I was able to get on with the rest of my morning routine.

And just in case my future self forgets again and a glass of water isn't handy, "susurrus" is defined as "a soft, whispering or rustling sound; murmur".

Instead of ending the week with a blah block of text, I thought it would be better to finish with colorful photographs. I took these shots of Point Montara Fog Signal and Light Station about a month ago, right after a round of rain. Storms may bring more wind and water than one prefers, but they also bring the most photogenic clouds with them. Montara is about seven miles south of Pacifica and is reachable from Highway 1. The lighthouse is actually part of a coastal hostel.

They were testing the crossing arms at the intersection of San Salvador and Delmas yesterday. It's all part of the Vasona Light Rail project, which is scheduled to open in August. Unfortunately, whoever turned on the bells and flashing lights forgot to turn them off. All of the arms were lowered and the stoplights at the intersection were red. Traffic was at a standstill. Impatient drivers started making illegal U-turns over median islands and driving on the sidewalk to get by the gridlock. As a pedestrian, I fared better and was able to walk through without trouble. Of course, to make sure a rogue train didn't mow me over at five miles per hour, I looked both ways before crossing.

I had just gotten past the jam when I came across the Poor House Bistro, a New Orleans style restaurant that opened last week. Residing in a converted historical house at the corner of Autumn and San Salvador, its patio dining is literally on what was once the patio. There is also outdoor seating on the front lawn. With the newly painted exterior, it looked inviting and I was curious to check out the menu.

Since I had a few minutes to spare before the train arrived, I peeked inside. Like Lowry's Irish Coffee House, it was small and cozy. It still felt like a home, which was pretty cool. I especially liked that they kept the original fireplace.

It wasn't very busy, which I expected since it was in between lunch and dinnertime. Some of the employees were catching a quick bite before the crowd arrived. As I walked up to the counter in search of a menu, a man, who was sitting at one of the tables, introduced himself. His name was Jay and he was the proprietor of the bistro. We chatted for a bit.

He had originally moved into the house seven years ago and had lived there only a year or two when he had the idea to make it into a restaurant. He thought its location had potential considering how close it was to the Diridon Station, Adobe and the HP Pavillion. For the last five years, he's been working to realize his dream.

I asked him if he was from New Orleans. It turns out he's a Bay Area native who happens to love the town. Since 1989, he and his wife have made annual trips to Louisiana. He wanted to bring the feeling and the food to his small establishment.

"I wanted to stay away from the whole Mardi Gras/party image though. The city is so much more than that."

He plans to fill the barren walls with old photographs of New Orleans. He also pointed out the music filling the air and said it was a web broadcast of a New Orleans radio station.

"If you hear the deejay give the time, just remember to subtract two hours. And we're going to have live music on Friday nights. There'll be blues and jazz bands playing out on the patio."

That's when I checked my watch and saw that I had only a couple minutes to make my train. He handed me a take out menu and said to come by soon for lunch. I said I would and raced out the door. I am curious to try the food. I've never had a po boy before. If nothing else, I ought to try their chicory coffee.

I don't have my Palm with me this morning. It's sitting on my desk at work, which is fine, but it slows the whole writing process down a notch or two. This assumes, of course, that my brain typically comes up with thoughts faster than my pen puts ink down on paper. Whether or not this is true, I can't say for sure, but for the time being, let's pretend I own a very slow pen.

While we're at it, let's also pretend that it's a beautiful day outside. It seems the weather around here has been suffering from severe mood swings lately. It's sunny and hot one day, windy and cool the next and downright rainy the day following. With any luck, tomorrow will bring snow. What month is this again?

On a positive note, the wet weather doesn't seem to be negatively affecting San Francisco's losing streak. It's still going strong. They've dropped three in a row and nine of the last ten games. Of course, they aren't the only ones on a slide. The entire National League West seems to be struggling as interleague play gets underway. Only the Dodgers won yesterday (3-1 over the Tigers).

Today, there's a potluck at lunch to kick off the office's clean up effort as we prepare to move in a few weeks. The event is what some in the business world call a morale booster. For the potluck, people have a choice of cooking a dish or contributing five dollars. I think my morale might be better boosted if I didn't have to spend potential Skittle/coffee money for a gathering held during the time that I usually attempt to escape from the confines of my cube. I'm not complaining. I'm just saying. I'm sure I'll feel better once I have five dollars worth of potato salad and soda in me.

To think, I could have written twice as much nonsense if only I had my Palm.

On Tuesday, before heading out for the meetup, I was placing bricks for the third and fourth layers of the planter in the backyard. It's close to completion, requiring one more trip to Home Depot and thirty minutes to set in the last remaining stones. After that, it's just a matter of pouring some gravel behind the wall for drainage and filling in the rest with the soil accumulated from digging the trench.

What are the next steps? General grading, weed cover for the rock garden, rock planting, laying out the drip irrigation system (not for the rocks) and then plant, flower and tree selection (a.k.a. the fun part).

After a long absence, I finally made it to a South Bay Blogger Meetup. Twelve of us crowded around three tables and a couch at Barefoot Coffee Roasters. The place was so packed that getting up to order a drink or dessert was the quickest way to lose one's seat. Speaking of a drink, I ordered an espresso shooter known as the Nutty Irishman, which is a shot of espresso, irish cream and hazelnut syrup, and a dab of whipped cream.

For fun, I took notes. Okay, not really notes as much as names and random phrases. In attendance and in no particular order, other than the one I wrote them in, were Rich, Guy, Eric (a newcomer), Silvia, Elke, Mark, Jon, Hank, Fling, me, Antwon and Dahlia. As usual, discussion was lively and the topics were all over the map. I jotted some of them down and they're listed, exactly as written, with brief explanations:

• Natalie Portman - Her hotness, her hair and their correlation. Someone circled her name and drew multiple arrows to emphasize the topic, but I can't imagine who that would be.
• Farscape pins - Hank shared some of his custom-made pins related to the show.
• Intel Apple - Talk about how Apple computers will soon have Intel inside.
• Instant polka reception - Rich told a story of a wedding where the kegs came out and the polka band set up as soon as the ceremony was over, allowing for a seamless transition into the reception.
• KRON Meetup - A local television station is hosting a Bay Area Meetup this Saturday. By all accounts, it will be huge.
• Blogger pick-up lines - Rich came up with a couple lines to pick up bloggers at this weekend's meetup. They were classic, but sadly, I didn't write them down for posterity.
• Baseball cards - Long ago, they were originally included as a promotional item with cigarettes. To market to kids, they were included in packs of gum. Eventually, their popularity grew, so things switched and gum was soon included in packs of baseball cards.
• Enviro engr / terrorists - This stemmed from a joke/question asking if somebody with a background in water resources would likely receive a job offer from terrorist groups. The discussion quickly strayed away from harmful acts to environmental protection, the Colorado River, the existence of Las Vegas, artificial wetlands, the preservation of Venice and the complexities of trying to protect two competing endangered species.
• Cities / trans. - This was about big city infrastructures, like those found in New York, Boston, Philadelphia and Atlanta, and they're differences.

The next meetup happens in a couple weeks. I'll be missing that one, but will hopefully be there for more good times in July.

The first weekend of June zipped by and I find myself on another Tuesday morning train. It's hard to believe that a new guest will soon be residing at the Four Seasons Resort and Karaoke Bar. Spring's visit is almost over. Summer's stay is less than three weeks away.

I've been remiss about recapping my weekends lately. I haven't been much in the sharing mood, feeling as though the things I do aren't worth writing about, which is both true and false and also irrelevant considering how I recently spent two hundred words rambling about a bench. Therefore, just in case somebody asks and my memory fails, this is what I think happened over the last few weeks or so. I:

• Enjoyed a San Francisco Symphony performance of Handel's Water Music (along with Bach's Orchestral Suite No. 4 in D major).
• Saw Keane in concert in Berkeley and had a blast, but also felt somewhat dizzy after watching the most hyperactive keyboardist in the world dance and bounce around for an hour.
• Saw Star Wars: Episode III and liked it well enough. I believe Chewbacca deserved more lines and had better hair than Anakin.
• Read Explorers House, a great book about the National Geographic Society, which flourished under the leadership of Alexander Graham Bell, Gilbert H. Grovesnor and Melville Grovesnor.
• Visited Point Montara Fog Signal and Light Station. Note to self: Post photos.
• Attended my sister's graduation, had thoughts about returning to graduate school, but then the sugar rush from the Skittles wore off.
• Got a few bricks closer to finishing the backyard. The end is in sight (at least for the bricks).
• Spent a May weekend in Yosemite, a few days after the valley flooded. The tremendous runoff produced the most spectacular waterfalls I've ever seen. Note to self: Post these photos as well.
• "Hi. I'm Eddie. How do you like me so far?" Started watching the first and only season of Keen Eddie, a police comedy about an American cop in London, on DVD. Like Firefly, Due South and Brisco County Jr., it's one of those offbeat shows that died too soon.
• Attended a wedding shower in the city on one of the windiest days I've ever experienced. Luckily, I wore heavy boots.

On certain days, my walk to work takes me past a bench that has the following words engraved on it, "O commemorate me with no hero-courageous Tomb - just a canal-bank seat for the passer-by". The wooden bench doesn't give credit to who wrote those words, but thanks to Google, a simple search reveals them to be from a poem by Patrick Kavanagh.

It's one of my favorite benches in the downtown area. It sits next to Discovery Meadow, under the tree, near the bank of the Guadalupe River, which isn't really a canal-bank, but was the best that San Jose could muster. The bench was actually part of a gift from Dublin, Ireland, one of its sister cities.

It isn't the most comfortable bench in the world, but it's the words, not the ergonomics, that get me every time. They seem to imbue the bench with a humble spirit, one whose final wish was to offer a place to rest to anyone walking by. That spirit also gives the bench a welcoming feeling. On certain days, before work or at lunch, I accept its invitation and enjoy its hospitality for a respite.

It's funny how one can function alone, with some semblance of normalcy, for x number of days when somebody else is, say, sixty miles away. Yes, there's distance, but it's only an hour's worth of distance, a CD-length drive. Knowing that he or she is reachable by more than just a telephone call or email somehow makes the temporary separation bearable.

Multiply that distance by fifty and x days seem like an eternity. Everything gets thrown out of whack. Sleep comes slower, appetite diminishes and coffee consumption falls below acceptable levels.

Coping mechanisms kick in. At night, you watch television into the wee hours and read page after page past your bedtime. During the day, you bury yourself in work, slaving away in a cubicle of denial.

You suddenly appreciate your cell phone that much more. You make sure that it's constantly charged. You set your watch three hours ahead so you know when he or she will be awake or asleep. A voice over the telephone soothes the soul some, but once you hang up, you realize you can't hop in a car and reach that someone in an hour or even a day. You replay the fantasy of dropping everything and grabbing the first flight out.

At some point, you confront your emotions, sit and dwell upon them. You wonder why distance makes a difference. You wonder if missing someone is sign of weakness, but attribute that view to cynicism. You lean towards believing that missing someone is simply a sign that you're human.

You let the thoughts swirl about until they spill out onto paper. Eventually, you decide to stop wallowing, face the future and think about what to do when he or she returns. You set about doing small things, tiny gestures, something more than words. Time for missing becomes time for planning and doing.

It's another day and the first of June. Only twenty-four hours until things get thrown back into whack.