September 2006 Archives

Well, I've been having all sorts of fun tonight trying to upgrade the black box that produces this journal. After a series of errors and botched efforts, I think the new Movable Type 3.33 is finally running smoothly. The latest installment has fancy new features like tags and widgets, but I haven't had much time to sit and fiddle with them. So, if anything breaks in the next few days, you'll know why.

On an unrelated note, Sunday was National Punctuation Day. I would've never known if the Language Log hadn't mentioned it.

1. Lynne Truss. She wrote Eats, Shoots & Leaves, a book that champions proper punctuation.
2. Victor Borge and his phonetic punctuation. He would assign unique sounds to common punctuation marks and then read a brief passage from a story to show the audience how his system worked. The excerpt, no matter how serious, always turned out sounding comical. It's a lot funnier if you see it for yourself (it's a subdued version, but still illustrative). When I saw him perform it live at the Flint Center in Cupertino many years ago, I thought it was one of the funniest (and most memorable) parts of the show. His inflationary language sketch was also hilarious.
3. Allan Sherman. I remember listening to my grandfather's old comedy albums. On one of them, Sherman (the Weird Al of the 1960s) sang "Night and Day (with Punctuation Marks)", a parody of the Cole Porter classic. It wasn't as funny as "Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah (A Letter from Camp)", but it was mildly amusing.

Song on my mind... "Dead Man's Will" by Iron and Wine / Calexico from the In The Reins EP.

Give this ring to my lover
I was scared and stupid not to ask
For her hand long before

May my love reach you all
I lost it in myself and buried it too long
Now that I come to fall
Please say it's not too late
Now that I'm dead and gone

I took this photo while ascending the Panorama Trail to Glacier Point in Yosemite. It's the same shot that anybody could take by simply driving to Glacier Point, but this one is special (to me) because it took eight miles of hiking to reach this spot to snap it. I took the long way around to get there, but it was worth it.

I'm a chain book reader. It's true. I barely finish a book and I'm already starting the next. Sometimes, I don't even bother to use a new bookmark. It probably isn't a safe practice. Luckily, one can't catch a textually transmitted disease¹ from reused bookmarks... as far as we know. If that were the case, there would already be SaniRead dispensers installed in schools, libraries and bookstores across the country providing the public with hermetically sealed, hygienic bookmarks.

As other chain book readers know, the cheapest way to feed the book habit is to bum them off friends visit the public library. For most folks, having one library account is enough, but in a few extreme cases, belonging to only one library system isn't sufficient. Like shopaholics with credit cards from every major store they frequent (and one or two they don't), chain readers can't resist applying for library cards. If there is a public collection available to read, they want access to it.

Of course, it's more appealing to some chain book readers to actually possess their own private stash, which is why outfits like Amazon and Barnes & Noble are so dangerous. The only way they would be more dangerous is if they sold books in six or twelve-packs ("May I have one Twain twelve-pack, please?"). Or perhaps if they sold their wares in book machines strategically located at gas stations or in coffee shops. You just insert your credit card, pull the appropriate knob and a Mitch Albom novel would drop into the tray, ready for quick consumption.

The realization I'm a chain book reader came only this morning as I was getting my backpack ready for work. After I packed my lunch, I grabbed a book to read on the train. I was just about to toss it in when I noticed that I had but a few pages left to read. A shudder ran through me as the horrible image of finishing the book and having nothing else to read flashed across my mind. I quickly snatched a fresh book from my unread stack and dumped both in the backpack.

Chain book reading. It probably isn't the healthiest habit to have, but I hope it isn't one I kick anytime soon.

By the way, Terry Pratchett's newest book, Wintersmith, is due on shelves today. It's the third book in his Tiffany Aching series, an offshoot of his Discworld series aimed at younger folks. I'm not the book's target audience, but I'm still looking forward to reading it.

¹ If you coin a phrase and discover 220 other people have coined it before you, is it still clever? Darn, I didn't think so.

On Saturday night, we went to Rooster T. Feathers in Sunnyvale for a comedy show. The featured comedian was Mark G. and the headliner was Kira Soltanovich. She is a regular on a cable show called Girls Behaving Badly. Both comedians made me laugh, but I must admit that neither knocked my socks off.

Each had a different comedic style. Mark G. had a prepared set of material. He knew what jokes he wanted to tell and how he was going to tell them. He related well with the crowd and would wing it with them, but it wasn't the bulk of his routine.

Ad lib comedy was the cornerstone of Kira Soltanovich's set. Her routine was almost entirely improvised (or at least felt that way) and seemed more organic, as though its development depended on the composition of the crowd. It was like watching a cook preparing a meal based on whatever ingredients he or she happened to find in the pantry. As she went along, she would label tables based on her first impression of them. There were the Swingers, Last Supper, Dawson's Creek and the Bachelorette Party. She would also give people nicknames as she learned a bit about them, like Scales, Sweet Nuts and Denver. Taking the time to develop this cast of characters gave the jokes she planned a certain richness and sense of spontaneity.

Sigh. I just reread the previous two paragraphs and instead of sounding like lighthearted summaries of funny comedy acts, they sound more like comedy autopsy reports. "Subject was performed by an adult male in his mid-thirties. Curvature and density of the funny bone indicates repetitive jokes dealing with sexual orientation, obesity and London. Subject exhibits an elongated vulgarity gland discolored by a predilection for political incorrectness. Cause of death likely due to a lack of laughter brought about by a clogged punch line artery."

I'm bringing sexy back

It's Monday again, but on the upside, it's the first Monday of autumn. Soon, there will come cooler weather, fall colors and soft rains.

On Friday, I watched Eight Below and survived. Of course, some of the less trusting folks out there might be thinking, "Oh, sure, you quote unquote watched it, but what does that really mean? For all we know, you could have had it playing on the television while you stared at the ceiling and hummed "SexyBack" over and over again."

While I have no witnesses to vouch to the contrary, I can only give you my word that I didn't zone out and sing a Justin Timberlake tune while the film was on. And no, I didn't watch it while napping, reading or surfing the web. I sat on the couch with my eyes open and focused on the movie, which wasn't half as bad as I thought it would be.

Take 'em to the chorus

The snow-covered vistas captured on film were incredible and the sled dogs did a fine job of acting. Anyone who has a soft spot for dogs (or pets in general, like cats or kinkajous) will likely find himself or herself drawn to the dogs' plight and the protagonist's quest to rescue them.

The human acting left something to be desired, but I thought the one bright spot in the cast was Bruce Greenwood. He's been in numerous television shows and movies, but I'll always remember him as Thomas Veil from a short-lived show that aired a decade ago called Nowhere Man. The show's first (and only) season is available on DVD and is now at the top of my queue.

With the excitement of Eight Below out of the way, I can now return my regular television viewing.

Go ahead, be gone with it

Last night, I watched the premiere of Grey's Anatomy, giving it just the nudge it needed to beat CSI in the ratings. To ensure it stays on top, I guess I'll just have to keep watching it for the rest of the season.

Right now, I'm about to sit down to watch Eight Below, a "subzero survival story" (according to the Netflix blurb) that is certain to warm my heart. It's a movie my mom requested, but since I won't be seeing her for another day or so to pass along the disc, I thought I'd check it out.

It's a Disney movie, so my gut instinct tells me it's going to be dorky. I know it's wrong to pass judgment on something I haven't seen, but my gut can't help it when it comes to the company that actually spent money to make Herbie Fully Loaded and remake The Shaggy Dog.

To satisfy my curiosity, I just visited Rotten Tomatoes to see what it scored on the Tomatometer. It rated a 70%, which is pretty good, but I thought the Consensus was amusing and more revealing...

"Featuring a stellar cast of marooned mutts, who deftly display emotion, tenderness, loyalty and resolve, Eight Below is a heartwarming and exhilarating adventure film."

I like how they compliment the animals, but fail to mention the actors. Apparently the sled dogs display emotion and tenderness more skillfully than their human counterparts - the blond guy from The Fast and the Furious (Paul Walker) and the pie guy from American Pie (Jason Biggs).

Walker and Biggs are supposed to be Antarctic scientists. For some reason, I'm having trouble picturing that in my head, so I should probably wrap this up and actually watch the movie.

If you're in need of something to make you laugh, Weird Al can help. Two days ago, he released a hilarious music video on YouTube. The song is "White and Nerdy" and is a parody of Chamillionaire's "Ridin'". The cameos are classic and I especially like the scene where he pays for a "special" video tape (watch for yourself).

Shopping online for deals on some writable media
I edit Wikipedia
I memorized Holy Grail really well
I can recite it right now and have you ROTFLOL

I got a business doing websites
When my friends need some code, who do they call?
I do HTML for 'em all
Even made a homepage for my dog

Last night, I began moving files from my old Compaq to my new iMac. Like "real" moving, the first step was going through everything I had saved over the years (more than ten gigabytes worth of stuff) and seeing what to take and what to toss - a process easier said than done.

Instead of zipping through the contents of the hard drive, I got bogged down opening illogically labeled folders (like "whatev" and "paste") and listening to music files with mysterious names like 1317930941.mp3 and XtQ9_(Remix).mp3. Occasionally, I was pleasantly surprised by what I heard, like when 1317930941.mp3 turned out to be "The World I Know" by Collective Soul, but most of the time, it was a rather tedious process.

Once I finished sorting, I borrowed M's one-gigabyte USB flash drive to move everything. I quickly discovered that using a flash drive to transfer ten gigs of data is the electronic equivalent of using a Geo Metro Toyota Yaris to move several rooms of furniture. In both cases, they're a pain to load and require many trips.

Because my Compaq is equipped with a slow USB port, it took a lot longer than a flash to fill the flash drive - roughly thirty minutes each time. Luckily, the iMac's ports are faster and unloading the drive took less than five minutes.

I moved two gigabytes last night, which means I have about (doing some quick hasty math) 4.5 hours of flash drive fun in store for me. If I had my choice druthers, I would much rather hang out with the South Bay Blogger folks at Coffee Society tonight, but I know my own bad procrastination habit and if I don't tackle it now, the task of transferring files will drag on indefinitely.

Strike-through Text and Edits brought to you by The Fresh Pop Culture Reference Fund and The Society of Scarcely Used Synonyms.

Before:

After:

As you can see, I crossed over from the dark side. Literally.

p.s. I know. They aren't very good pictures. Apparently, owning a Mac doesn't make you a better photographer. Who knew?

I saw this over at Elkit's blog and thought I'd make one of my own. It's simple to do and you can get yours here.

By the way, this is my first journal entry using my brand smacking new iMac. Photo coming soon.

On Saturday, after nearly a month of sporadic reading, I finished Team of Rivals by Doris Kearns Goodwin, a group biography about Abraham Lincoln, William H. Seward, Salmon P. Chase and Edward Bates.

Goodwin does an excellent job of weaving together the lives of her subjects. I also found her narrative style engaging and it was easy to follow the parallel timelines of the main "characters".

Of the four men, Chase was shown in the most negative light. He shined brightly in the beginning, but lost wattage as events unfolded. Eventually, the power games he played while Secretary of the Treasury (e.g. submitting resignation letters on multiple occasions) and his relentless quest for the presidency in 1864 would overshadow his good qualities. Perhaps, the only other man portrayed more negatively was General George McClellan, who led the Army of the Potomac early in the war and ran against Lincoln in 1864 as the Democratic nominee.

Bates and Seward received more even depictions. Goodwin made sure to balance their moments of weakness with their moments of greatness. By the end of the book, both came out favorably.

Obviously, Goodwin was most sympathetic to Lincoln. Considering the complete title of her book is Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln, that didn't come as a surprise.

The book painted Lincoln as a man of immense patience and magnanimity, a man of great humor and an endless supply of anecdotes, a man who was slow to decide, but steadfast in his decisions and a man who had a remarkable sense of timing in matters where public sentiment was most critical. One wonders if he was truly this way, or if he only appears this way due to some historical "airbrushing".

With today's cynical attitude towards everything (especially heroes), it seem extremely easy to dismiss Goodwin's characterizations of Lincoln as exaggerations and to believe Lincoln was somehow less than she depicts him to be, but wouldn't it be nice if that cynicism was unfounded for a change and Lincoln turned out to be "all that" and maybe more?

It would be wonderful if somebody we esteemed as patient, magnanimous and wise were truly so. It would also be heartening if the people we seem to look up to (like actors, athletes and models) and the people we're expected to look up to (like historical figures and current world and religious leaders) were what they claimed or what they seemed. In other words, it would be nice if our heroes were real.

Okay, well, that was a bit of a birdwalk. Anyway, finishing this book puts my year-to-date total of completed reads at 33, five books shy of my book-a-week pace. The next four books are stacked and ready to go. They're also significantly shorter, so there's still hope I'll catch up.

Song on my mind... "Hate Me" by Blue October

Hate me today
Hate me tomorrow
Hate me for all the things I didn't do for you
Hate me in ways
Yeah, ways hard to swallow
Hate me so you can finally see what's good for you

Those who've been tuning in for the past month may have noticed that I've had quite a few songs on my mind recently - "Whatever You Want", "Steady, As She Goes", "Don't Download This Song", "Crazy". I'm not sure what has brought about this fresh bounty of catchy tunes, but I'm not complaining. It's just amusing to see them all jostling for position as the song on my mind.

It's a bit like watching twenty teenagers crammed into an antique phone booth, trying to be the one to make a call. Blue October's Justin Furstenfeld finally squeezed past Weird Al (ingloriously flattening his face against the glass) and grabbed the receiver from The Raconteur's Jack White (a relatively easy task since Jack barely had a three-finger hold on it).

Anyway, I've been listening to their latest album (a b-day gift) almost constantly. Besides their fated to be overplayed single, I also like "You Make Me Smile", "Into the Ocean" and "Let it Go".

It's hard to believe that it's been over three years since I saw Blue October perform live at San Jose's Music in the Park. They're actually back in the area this weekend to play at Alice's Now and Zen Fest. I won't be able to catch them this time around, but maybe I will the next time their tour passes through.

According to the guidebook listing fifty short hikes in Sequoia/Kings Canyon and Yosemite, the hike to Lembert Dome is a two-mile out-and-back jaunt with an elevation gain of 850 feet starting from the Lembert Dome parking lot. In reality, if one starts from the stated parking lot, the hike is twice the advertised distance. Of course, I didn't realize the book's mistake until I was a mile into the hike and nowhere near anything resembling a summit.

The trail head was easy to find. It was right at the intersection of the parking lot, picnic area and restroom facilities. There was also a handy sign with the words - "Lembert Dome / Dog Lake / Trail Head". Trusting that nobody would leave a misleading sign standing, I headed down the trail. It was around 1:45 in the afternoon.

After a quarter-mile through a relatively flat clearing, the trail entered a more forested region and began to climb and bend gently to the right, skirting the dome where I could see tiny rock climbers clinging to the sheer granite wall. (Okay, technically they were normal-sized climbers, but they appeared tiny.)

After another half-mile of hiking (and ascending), my head began to throb and my breathing became ragged due to the altitude. Almost all of the hikes in Tuolumne Meadows begin at an elevation around 8,600 feet, which is a solid 4,000 feet higher than the hikes I'm accustomed to that originate in Yosemite Valley. To alleviate the throbbing sensation, I took two swigs of water, paused for a second and then took another for good measure.

At the one-mile mark, instead of standing atop Lembert Dome, I found myself standing at a split in the trail. A sign indicated that I could continue straight and reach Dog Lake in 0.3 miles or turn right and reach Lembert Dome with an additional mile of hiking. Knowing I would pass through later, I decided to save the Dog Lake detour for the return trip and headed towards the dome.

For a short distance, the trail remained level and bordered a small, muddy-colored lake, but at the next trail juncture (where I had to make another right turn), it resumed its ascent in earnest. I soon reached the beginning of Lembert's granite slope.

Arriving at the first plateau, a gust of wind greeted me, as did a couple who were admiring the view. And what a view.

I ventured to every edge and took photos in every direction, trying to capture the vastness of it all. At some point, I realized how ridiculous it was to be looking at things through a two-inch viewfinder and stopped photographing.

Just then, I noticed the couple talking to somebody using an orange radio. It reminded me that I still needed to buy a pair of two-way radios. I saw them sign off and begin to descend to the trail.

I turned my attention to the steep approach to Lembert Dome's peak. With a little momentum, it would be easy to climb. The only problem would be getting back down without going all the way down. To let the present me focus on climbing, I keenly delegated the responsibility of getting back down to the future me.

When I reached the top, the wind was stronger and the view was more spectacular than before. Everything - the trees, the river, the meadow - looked so small. It felt like I was looking at a model of Tuolumne Meadows instead of the real thing.

With the exception of a woman perched on a nearby boulder, staring at the horizon, there was no one else around. We did the whole I'll-take-your-photo-if-you'll-take-mine routine and then she asked, "Did you happen to see an orange radio on your way up?"

I told her I had and explained about the couple. "Oh," she said. "They must have been talking with my husband. He's waiting for me down at the parking lot."

With that, I expected her to scramble down to catch up with the couple, but she seemed rather matter-of-fact about losing the radio. I suppose she expected they would simply return it to her husband when they reached the lot. I hope they did.

Anyway, I spent a few minutes more atop the dome, snacking and enjoying the scenery. Thankfully, future me was able to navigate down the dome with only a small slip here or there, but luckily, not that big final slip.

As planned, I made a quick detour to Dog Lake, which was a beautiful shade of blue. I stayed just long enough to snap a few pictures. It would have been nice to stay a longer, but I needed to get back to the parking lot.

Picking up the pace, I activated my backpack booster rocket, secured my Rocketeer helmet and jetted back to the trail head. At least that's what happened in my head. In the real world, I walked very, very fast. By the time I reached the lot, it was four o'clock.

For anybody visiting Tuolumne Meadows, I would highly recommend hiking to the top of Lembert Dome. It's a hike I hope to repeat one day soon.

• Total Distance: 4.6 miles
• Total Time: 2.25 hours
• Peak Elevation Gained: 9,450 feet
• # of Climbers Seen: 7

As I was driving to the light rail station this morning, Bill and Marla, local radio deejays, suggested there were two types of people in this world: those who park their cars in the garage and those who fill the garage with crap. Apparently, the world is one big suburb where everybody has a garage.

Anyway, both claimed to be the latter type of folks and if a casual survey of my neighborhood is any indication, they are the majority. It seems the last thing anybody wants to put in the garage is a vehicle. Bikes, tools, boxes, workstations, big screen TVs, more boxes, couches and ice chests? Sure. But a real, operable car? Forget about it.

Either by virtue of having a non-SUV or by virtue of not owning much, I'm one of the oddballs in the first group. Somehow, two cars actually fit in the garage. True, there's no room to walk, but it all seems to fit without any junk ending up in the driveway or a car parked on the street, which is good news for the neighbors. Otherwise, they might have to park in front of their own place for a change.

Song on my mind... "Whatever You Want" by Vienna Teng

Whatever you want
Whatever you want
Whatever you want is fine by me

Whatever you say
Whatever you say
I'll do what you ask me
I'll do what you ask me
Whatever you say
Whatever you say
But do you know who's listening?

Her new album, Dreaming Through the Noise, recently came out, but I still haven't gotten it. I will at some point; I'm just not sure when.

It's the same story with Snow Patrol's Eyes Open. Speaking of which, the other day, I saw the video for "Chasing Cars". It's a pretty standard video as long you overlook the fact that the lead singer sings most of the song laying down. And it seems he isn't very choosy about where he lays - on a bed, on leaves, in the middle of a wet road.

Actually, as the video progressed, I went from saying, "That's a bit odd," to exclaiming, "He isn't going to lay there, is he?" Now, whenever I hear the song, wherever I may be, I immediately envision him nearby, horizontal and singing.

(Or "The Tale of the McTeagles")

Since Labor Day, the Ferguson Rock Slide Bypass on Highway 140 has been open 24 hours a day to signaled, one-way traffic. Due to limited space on the opposite side of the river, the bypass has a vehicle length restriction of 28 feet.

As we drove to Yosemite on Friday, I noticed a number of signs posted along the route informing travelers about 140's status and restriction. I also listened to the road condition radio station that looped a message reminding people about the length limitation.

With so many signs and alerts making it nearly impossible for people not to know about the restriction, it only makes sense that we would find ourselves in a line of cars following an SUV towing a long travel trailer on Highway 140.

1. The driver was so focused on driving that he missed the signs, didn't hear the radio and was oblivious to the restriction.
2. The driver knew about the restriction, but believed his SUV and travel trailer were shorter than the stated length.
3. The driver knew about the restriction and knew he was longer than the stated length, but figured he could make it through anyhow.

By the time we reached the stoplight at the bypass, we were ahead of the SUV. (After accumulating a large following, he had finally used a turnout to let his groupies pass.) While we waited, I caught a glimpse of the rockslide and temporary detour.

It was easy to see why Caltrans had a length restriction in effect. Long vehicles would have no trouble getting onto the bridge, but it would be impossible for them to get off. Both the bridge and the roadway were barely wide enough for one vehicle and the turn from one to the other was extremely tight - nearly a ninety-degree angle. Unless we suddenly entered the world of Tron, there was no way a long vehicle could clear the turn without clipping the bridge or the canyon wall.

To make sure traffic flowed smoothly, Caltrans had a road crew stationed to monitor the bypass. One of the workers, wearing an orange vest and white hardhat, walked down the line of vehicles and greeted us as he passed. When he reached the SUV with the travel trailer, he spoke to the driver for a minute and then walked back up the line.

The light finally turned green and we began to making our way across the bridge. In my rearview mirror, I could see the SUV pull off to one side to let the rest of the traffic clear. Although I soon lost sight of what was happening, I envisioned the crew having to shut down the road temporarily to let the SUV execute a u-turn (or, more likely, a 97-point turn). It would then have to return to Mariposa and enter Yosemite through the south entrance using Highway 41, adding at least a few hours to the trip.

As we continued towards the park, I wondered what was going on in the SUV and my imagination supplied the following scene...

[The McTeagle family is on its way to Yosemite. The SUV is packed. The travel trailer is stocked with food and everything they need for a relaxing weekend. Dad is driving, Mom is minding the map and the kids are watching videos on the drop-down screen. They pass an orange road sign with yellow flashing lights.]

Mom: Ewan, did you just see that sign? It said no vehicles longer than 28 feet are allowed on 140.
Dad: I saw it, Lassie. But don't you worry now. We're shorter than that.
Mom: Okay, if you say so.
Kids: Are we there yet?
Mom: Not yet, dears, but we're getting close.

[They soon pass another sign.]

Mom: Are you sure we're less than 28 feet long?
Dad: Yes.
Mom: Did you measure?
Dad: Yes!
Mom: You did?
Dad: No! Who in their right mind measures these things?! We'll be fine. You'll see.
Kids: Are we there yet?
Dad: Almost. Just another hour or two. Maybe three.

[They eventually reach the bypass.]

Worker: I'm sorry, sir, but I'm going to have to ask you to pull over so we can let the others cars through. Your SUV and trailer are too long, so you'll need to turn around and use 41 instead.
[Mom glares at Dad. Dad feigns indignation.]
Dad: What? That's impossible! We can't be longer than 28 feet! I measured!
Worker: You did?
Dad: No! Who in their right mind measures these things?!
Worker: Okay, sir, but I can tell you just from looking that you're too long, so just pull on over and we'll get you set right.
Dad: Can't you make an exception just this once?
Worker: I'm sorry, sir, no can do.
Dad: [sighs deeply and turns to everybody in the SUV, avoiding eye contact with the fiery glare of Lassie] Well, you heard the nice construction worker, kids. I'm sorry to say we're going to have to backtrack a little, but we'll be fine. [turns back to the worker with a resigned look] I guess if there's no other way... then fine.
Kids: Are we there yet?
Mom: [still glaring at Ewan] No, Colin and Fergie dear, and you have your father to thank!

[As he makes the u-turn, Dad McTeagle realizes the mistake he's made. And he'll be reminded about this mistake for the rest of the weekend and at dinner parties and family gatherings whenever Yosemite is mentioned and in arguments completely unrelated to Yosemite and on every road trip the family ever takes... ever again... for the rest of his life. As they make their way back along the highway, Ewan McTeagle breaks down and sobs.]

Since I don't have access to my photos at the moment, this picture-in-words summary will have to do.

We were on the road to Yosemite (a.k.a. Highway 101) by 7:30 a.m. on Friday. We made the usual stops in Los Banos for coffee and Merced for gas. Traffic was light and we only had a five-minute wait at the new two-bridge bypass on Highway 140 where the Ferguson Rock Slide took place. I have a story about the bypass, but I'll write about it in another entry.

[begin random digression] Notice how I just linked to an entry I haven't written yet? I call it future-linking or flinking. I imagine most web experts would say flinking is poor internet etiquette and they're probably right. Of course, by the time you read this, I'll have written and posted the entry I have yet to write, thereby making the flink a link, restoring order to the blog-time continuum and appeasing the so-called web experts. [end random digression]

We reached the Arch Rock Entrance around 11:00 a.m. and made our way to the Tioga Road. The plan was to visit Mono Lake, Lee Vining and the Whoa Nellie Deli, a restaurant a reader recommended. Due to a few slow vehicles and one-too-many stops to take photos along the way (I couldn't help myself), we didn't reach Tuolumne Meadows until well after noon. According to my calculations, that didn't leave a whole lot of time to visit everywhere we wanted and return to Yosemite Valley without rushing around and spending less than the desirable amount of time at any one spot.

So, after a brief bout of agonizing, we decided to explore the area around Tuolumne Meadows instead and save Mono Lake and the rest for another trip. This decision led to a solo hike to Lembert Dome and Dog Lake, which I'll detail in another entry (no flink provided) complete with photos and possibly words.

M is still dealing with an injured foot, so she was unable to join me on the hike. It's a less than ideal situation, but a short-lived one, I hope. Hiking alone is fun, but hiking is more fun when done with somebody else. While I hiked, M read and did some non-injury-aggravating exploring around the dome. We returned to Yosemite Valley by 5:00 p.m. and registered at Curry Village. We ate in and retired early in preparation for a big Saturday.

On Saturday, we were up before seven, eating at Degnan's Deli before eight and I was at the Happy Isles trail head by nine. My plan was to hike to Glacier Point by way of the Mist, John Muir and Panorama Trails and down to the valley again via the Four-Mile Trail. A 13-mile hike became a fast-paced, 5.5-hour journey as I attempted to return to Yosemite Village in time for a three o'clock gallery showing of original prints by Ansel Adams. Again, an actual hike report (with photos) is forthcoming (but not flinked... yet).

Later that evening, we dined at Yosemite Lodge, ate ice cream at the Curry lounge and retired early. I should note that I was exhausted from the day's hike and wanted nothing more than to sleep for a length of time equaling, if not exceeding, eight hours for a change.

Of course, if you sleep that long, then time flies, so Sunday morning came rather abruptly. We were up again before seven, eating at Degnan's before eight and then lounging around the village and the Ahwahnee for the rest of the morning. Around one in the afternoon, we said farewell to Yosemite and arrive home right around five. And that concludes the all-text summary of our weekend trip.

"Do you think the train will be running this morning?" she said. She was a woman in her early forties, on the shorter, slightly wider side, with grayish brown hair and thick glasses.

"I don't see why not," he replied. He was the man standing next to her. He was in his late thirties, taller than she was by a foot, with thin brown hair and a wire thin mustache.

They both peered passed me, down the track, trying to make out any sign of an approaching train through the fog.

"You didn't hear the news?" she said.

He looked at her and said, “No. Why? Did something happen?"

"You didn't hear about the eighteen-year-old killed by a freight train right here last night?" (And no, she didn't speak with a hyperlink.)

"Uh, no," he said again, shaking his head to reiterate he hadn't. "But that would explain the news crew set up over there."

I let my gaze follow his pointing finger to the white news van parked on the other side of the tracks. In between listening to the progressing conversation, staring at my feet and reminding myself to be more observant, I had somehow missed it.

It was a NBC 11 van. Its rooftop satellite dish rose into the sky, temporarily making it the tallest object in town. Two tripods stood next to the van - one with a light, the other with a camera. For a second, I wondered if I would recognize the reporter.

Suddenly, the blare of a train horn pierced the fog. The man and woman peered down the track again for a hint of the train's headlights.

"Well, I guess it's running," the man observed.

"I guess it is," said the woman, sounding vaguely disappointed. "Of course, if it hadn't, I have a friend who takes the early train who would've called to let me know she was driving, so I wouldn't have even bothered to come here in the first place."

While I digested what she said, the reporter was getting out of the van and taking his spot in front of the camera. He wore a shirt, coat, tie and blue jeans. I recognized him immediately. It was Bob Redell, probably my favorite local reporter. He typically reports serious breaking news, but when he's given lighter fare, he shows a great sense of humor.

Anyway, I also noticed that I was in the camera shot. I knew I would only be a blurry blob behind Bob Redell's head, but to be on the safe side, I took a few steps to the right, so the imaginary people watching television wouldn't see an idiot in the background staring at his feet.

I will eventually graduate.
I will eventually graduate.
I will eventually graduate...
- The logo on a San Jose State t-shirt hanging in one of the university cafes.

1. They make a better than average au lait (especially when they use Tully's Baseball Blend).
2. They're the only cafe within easy walking distance from the office that makes cafe au laits.

During the summer, with the exception of the lunch rush, there is rarely a line at the cafe. But now, with the university's fall semester underway, there is always a line. I conveniently forgot that little detail when I felt a cafe au lait craving coming on this afternoon.

When I arrived, there were at least ten people waiting to order. I was tempted to turn around, but the craving was too strong to deny, so I planted myself at the end of the queue.

Thankfully, the line moved with some regularity. Every twenty seconds or so, everybody would shuffle forward a few steps. I was maybe four people away from the register when I noticed a nicely dressed guy, sporting sunglasses and a canvas book bag, enter the cafe.

He stood off to one side, propped his sunglasses on his forehead and perused the menu. Two shuffles of the line later, the guy said to the girl in front of me, "Hi. Could you do me a favor and order a small hot tea for me?"

She gave him a confused look, so he asked her again, but this time, added a smile and ran his hand through his hair. Like that, she agreed. It was like watching The Fonz at work (minus the finger snap). He pulled two dollars from his wallet and handed her the money as the woman behind the counter said, "Next!"

I was tempted to ask her to order my drink, too, but it just didn't feel right. Instead, I waited my turn and ordered my cafe au lait while The Fonz let his tea steep.

As I drove home from last night's blogger gathering at Barefoot Coffee Roasters, I heard the catchy "Steady, As She Goes" by The Raconteurs for the first time. Now I can't get the song out of my head. (Of course, it doesn't help that I keep replaying the song from their site.)

Find yourself a girl and settle down
Live a simple life in a quiet town

Steady as she goes (steady as she goes)
Steady as she goes (steady as she goes)
So steady as she goes

Your friends have shown a kink in the single life
You've had too much to think, now you need a wife

Steady as she goes (steady as she goes)
So steady as she goes (steady as she goes)

Well here we go again
You've found yourself a friend that knows you well
But no matter what you do
You'll always feel as though you tripped and fell

So steady as she goes

Here is just a sampling of my thoughts on the first Tuesday of September...

> Steve Irwin. He worked with dangerous animals - tackling creatures better left untackled, wrestling reptiles even The Rock would avoid and taking risks (at least perceived risks) that no one in their right mind would take - but something about the Crocodile Hunter made him seem invincible, somehow death-resistant. When I heard the sad news that a stingray killed him over the weekend, I was shocked. It's still hard to believe it isn't a morbid prank of some sort. With energy and exuberance, he brought important issues like the environment and wildlife conservation to the attention of a worldwide audience. I'll miss him.

> slow lane tailgaters. I'm not a fan of people who use the slow lane as a passing lane. More than that, I don't like people who tailgate me (and others) in the slow lane, especially when there are three other lanes available for passing. I don't know where they're hoping I'll go and I suspect they don't care as long as I get out of their way. I'm just waiting for the day when one of these anti-pass-on-the-left drivers passes me using the shoulder.

> hiking alone. Hiking alone is fun. Or so I've heard. When you hike alone, you don't have to worry about your pace. You can walk as fast or as slow as you want. When you hike alone, you feel more in tune with nature. You can stand still and take in your surroundings more completely. Hiking alone isn't bad as long as you don't have an overactive imagination. If you do, then you'll probably find yourself running from every shadow, jumping at every sound and screaming a lot, all of which can be extremely exhausting. Or so I've heard.

> loud talkers. When people on public transit have conversations, whether it be face to face or over the phone, they seem to forget where they are. They speak loudly, as if they were in a crowded bar or a guest on The Jerry Springer Show.

Today's example of a loud talker was a young white man in his early twenties. He had a lanky build, shaved head, oversized black shirt and baggy blue jeans. He boarded the bus in the middle of a phone conversation with one of his buddies. As he made his way down the aisle to an open seat, his volume didn't drop, so the following sentences were audible in all their glory for everybody to hear...

"I was drinkin' Coronas, bro. Yeah, just chillin' and drinkin' hella Coronas. Fo' sure. What? Are we meeting up later? Nah? Aww... then I just be chillin' with Big Red, bro. Fo' sure. Right. Out."

It was the most eloquent piece of poetry I couldn't help but overhear in a long time.

Whenever I buy a train ticket from a station machine, I try to be ready with the money beforehand. It eases my mind knowing I won't have to fumble through my wallet for cash or dig in my pockets for change while people wait for me to get out of the way. Friday morning was no different

When I arrived at the train station, I went to the machine to buy a ticket, which cost $5.25. I already had my money ready: five one-dollar bills and a quarter. As soon as the machine started accepting money, I fed the dollar bills in. The machine didn't reject even one, which took me by surprise. Machines are notorious for gobbling up bills and spitting them back out. I smiled inside.

I then inserted the quarter. It went in and came out the other end. I tried again, but the machine wouldn't take it. Glancing behind me, I noticed a line of Bellarmine boys beginning to form. I searched my backpack for another quarter, told myself not to panic, found one and put it in, but again, the machine refused it.

I was starting to feel the stare of eyes bore into the back of my skull. That's when I panicked. I pulled my wallet from my pocket and frantically searched it for another dollar, but discovered I only had a ten left. Grumbling loudly, I yanked the bill from my wallet, jammed it into the machine and waited.

The machine gurgled, paused, printed the ticket and after another agonizing pause, released the ticket and $9.75 in change. The rush of falling coins reminded me of my trip to Vegas several years ago, when the person playing the nickel slot machine next to me won big.

As quickly as I could, I kneeled, scooped the ticket and pile of coins into my cupped palm and, without making eye contact, hurried to an unoccupied part of the platform.

Yesterday, I gave a paraphrased example that hinted at Little Richard's loony judging. Today, I discovered a hilarious YouTube montage that captures it fully.

I've yet to adjust to the feeling of repeating stories. Whether it's writing it in an email first and retelling it here or writing about it here and then bringing it up in a conversation later, it still feels weird. It's as though whoever hears or reads it first has exclusive rights to it and it would be a betrayal to tell anyone else.

The whole thing is ridiculous. You would think after doing this for nearly four years, I'd be over it, but I'm not. I don't know how many times I have to tell myself that it's okay to repeat stories. I should probably clarify that I'm not talking about stories that are result of personal drama or violate privacy. I'm talking about funny, day-in-the-life anecdotes or observations.

I imagine the best conversationalists and storytellers have no qualms retelling tales, no matter the audience or forum. Every retelling is an opportunity to relive the events and tailor the details and embellishments to suit those listening.

I need to change my perspective on the matter. It should feel weird to recount the story to just one person or in just one place. An anecdote isn't a secret and every retelling isn't a betrayal, but a fresh chance to share and connect with people, tell a better story and be a better storyteller.