No posts, then no more posts, then, still, no posts

Yeah, no posts for a while, huh? We're busy. Very busy. I even have a hilarious story about my friend Scott's impromptu bachelor party, but that will have to wait.

What are we so busy with? Preparing for Burning Man. Oh, and working on our art car.

So, the tales of debauchery and, yes, even the rest of the snow rescue tale, will have to wait until September.

4th of July - Update - News Clip Obtained

A few days ago a friend told me she saw my little interview on the news the other day. So, thanks to the wonder of this here new fangled internet thing, here is the news segment. My killer sound bite is around the 1:53 mark.

A few comments:

• Boy do I sound nervous. Is my voice shaking? Jeez.
• I'm pretty sure I meant to say "set off", not "set up". Damn stage fright.
• See, I'm not the only one who thought it sounded like a war zone. The lady around the 0:55 mark felt the same way. I'm not as fragile as you think. Maybe she wasn't cowering behind her loved ones like I was (thanks, honey!), but she was scared, too, damnit.
  
• I didn't mention in my post that the camera man looked like he was recovering from a 4 day bender and might vomit on my shoes at any moment. Judging from his camera work, I'd say that diagnosis is not far from the truth. Way to chop of the top of my head in that shot. First time working the camera, dude? So much for using that clip in my portfolio.
• "...in random, illegal, 4th of July glory." Work that drama, Leslie, you angry newswoman of the people.
• I love how the Oakland po-po spokesdude shifts the blame on to the citizens at the end. Sweet. Hey jackass, we're not out there watching and applauding, we're out there making sure they don't throw fireworks on our roof. But, you're right, next time I'll just start busting heads. What could possibly go wrong?
  

4th of July

The wife and I didn’t do much this 4^th of July. No boozy trips to San Diego. No getting married. Rather, in a fit of domesticity, we started the day gardening. My neighbor recently said something to me, as we were both out in our front yards pulling weeds, that stuck with me: “Gardening seems to be more about killing the things you don’t want in your yard, rather than nurturing the things you do want.” Indeed. While I frequently receive compliments from passers-by on the beauty of our garden, the damn thing is more work than I signed up for. Weeds, watering, dead-heading of the 25 or so rose bushes out front, and don’t get me started on the damn Bermuda grass. And that’s just the front yard. As we “inherited” the garden from the previous owner, it’s tempting to just let it all go to hell then use its hellish appearance as an excuse to rip it all out and start over. I don’t know if it’s some deep-seated set of gardening values implanted in my brain via the two summers of landscaping work in college or what, but I just can’t seem to let it go. So I water, and I weed, and I maintain the roses and curse at the Bermuda grass.

While toiling in the yard, we waffled back and forth about whether to go into San Francisco for a BBQ. On one hand, plopping our butts on the couch with season 3 of Deadwood greatly tempted us, but the thought of the 4^th without a BBQ started to feel overwhelmingly unpatriotic so off to the city we go.

Ah, the general craziness of mass transit. The BART train into SF was standing room only so we found empty space near the doors in front of the last row of seats. At first I barely noticed the elderly looking lady occupying those seats, until she began talking. To her bag of groceries. I think she was one of those people who carries on conversations with you, without actually looking at you, and regardless of if you acknowledge them or not. She discussed my wife’s shoes, the racists on the train (I could not locate them), the state of the country, etc. All in all, a harmless somewhat crazy person.

At the next station a black dude with a mouth full of teeth desperately needing braces and a snazzy leather jacket got on the train, strutted down the center aisle and grabbed an overhead bar. All the while, jabbering away nonstop on his Bluetooth headset. Shortly, I, and everyone within earshot, became aware of the following facts: He’s going to some 4^th of July breakdancing contest a friend is hosting but first has to stop by his house to pick up his old school breakdancing duds. Yes, he’s going to win it, as he has extensive breakdancing props to his name, including:

- Many competition wins. “I went to Chicago, they couldn’t beat me. I went to New York, they couldn’t beat me. I went to LA, they couldn’t beat me.”

- Video creds! “You know the guy with the high-top fade in the 1993 MC Hammer video? You’re lookin’ at him.” You're looking at him? Who says that to someone on the phone? This is our first hint that perhaps he’s a bit crazy.

He also knows many many many people in the music industry. If there was a “playa” name he didn’t drop, I missed it. Snoop, Dre, yes, even Diddy. They all know him and request him in their videos. Because, you know, all of the breakdancing going on in today’s hip hop vids.

At this point he’s been talking nonstop for about 5 straight minutes and we’re seriously beginning to doubt if anyone is actually on the other end of the phone. If they are, they’re either asleep or have put the phone down to go make a sandwich. (Tangential story: In college, my roommate Andy was planning his wedding. His mother-in-law would call ALL THE TIME to blather on and on about the napkins, flowers, and everything and anything having to do with the wedding. One day my other roommates and I were watching TV while poor Andy was stuck in the kitchen talking to her on the phone (none of us were rich enough to have one of those new fangled fancy “cordless” phones). Suddenly, Andy walks in and sits down. “Wow, that was a fast one, Andy, did you hang up on her or something?” “Nah,” he says, “I just put the phone down on the counter. I bet if I go back in there she’ll still be blabbing away and not even know I was gone.” He sits and watches TV with us for another minute or two, after which we all follow him back into the kitchen. He picks up the phone and gives us the thumbs up. We were in awe. Both at his scrotal fortitude in taking the risk of being caught doing that to his mother-in-law, and the absolute completeness of her self-absorbed conversation. I mean, most people at least expect to hear a bored “uh huh” every so often, right?). This guy, he's doing the same thing, so we’re pretty sure this guy is somewhat crazy, although he’s dressed pretty well. Just another harmless crazy person.

In order to cement in our brains his reason for being on the train with us, he once again mentions the 4^th of July breakdancing contest, but adds further that he considers it just a warm up for the big contest coming up in LA. He’s going to go down and stay with a friend in LA and “win this thing”.

At this point Ms. “Talks to Her Groceries” chimes in and says, “Well, you better call him first or he’s going to have a real big surprise when you show up.” Wait, is she talking to Mr. Breakdancer? I think she is! I think she’s telling him to call his friend in LA before he goes down there to visit. Now this is getting interesting. We have crazy Bluetooth breakdancer having a conversation with the grocery talker, but neither of them knows it. Ah, the serendipity of public transit.

He continues to blather on into his headset and she continues her end of the “conversation” for another station or two. When we get to West Oakland, he announces, “Ok, I gotta step off. Catchya.” And gets off the train. This “I gotta step off” comment pretty much solidifies our belief his conversation existed solely between him and Ms Groceries. If you’re having a (normal) cell phone conversation, do you really say goodbye to people on the train as you get off? Usually, no. It’s not out of the question he was talking to someone, but I seriously doubt it. Apparently, wearing a Bluetooth headset is the modern way of disguising the fact that you're unbalanced.

The fireworks themselves were exciting. Between BBQing in the Mission district of SF, then going home to Oakland, I think we hit the two places most active in illegal fireworks activity. Both places sounded as if we were in a World War II battle zone. The nearby firecrackers provided the rata-tat-tat-tat of close range small arms fire while the larger, more distant aerial pyrotechnics resembled the mortar fire and bombing runs. Not that I’m AT ALL versed in what a real battle zone sounds like. The closest I’ve come to a true battle zone is watching Band of Brothers in surround sound. But, hey, were I to find myself in an actual battle field, the first thing I might think to myself after I stop whimpering in my foxhole and repeatedly soiling myself is, “Hey, this sounds like the 4^th of July in Oakland!” If anything, this is probably a more realistic representation of what the Revolutionary War sounded like, as opposed to sitting in a stadium watching 150 people with painted faces arrange themselves on the field to look like the American flag and sing “Proud to Be an American”.

On the 5^th of July, during my lunch break, as I exited my favorite deli, sandwich in hand, a TV reporter and her camera man stopped me. She wanted to ask me “a few questions about the fireworks last night”. Ok, sure. This could be my big break! She was a very angry woman. She tried very hard to goad me into anger regarding the fireworks the previous night. I responded with, “Well, other than setting off my car alarm once or twice, I don’t really mind it so much.” “So, you think they should just be allowed to set off these illegal fireworks whenever they want?” Trapped. “Um…” I sputtered, “no, I, uh, well…good question. I, um, just think that there are other, more serious, crimes the police should be focusing on.” Then she tried to get me to keep talking by not saying anything (the old therapist trick!) but I kept silent and she thanked me, took down my vitals, and I went on my way.

What do I wish I had said? How about what came to me a few hours later: “It’s not so much the fireworks that bother me, it’s the blatant flaunting of the law. Everyone knows they’re illegal, everyone knows it’s illegal to set them off, yet it seems fireworks are going off on every block. It’s not the fireworks themselves, it’s these peoples’ blatant disregard for the law and their complete confidence that they will not be caught. That’s what bothers me the most. It’s not the fireworks. It’s what they say about the state of law and order in our city.”

Friend OK, The Culture Divide

For those of you concerned about my friend, he's fine. For now. He's deathly afraid of another relapse, not that I blame him. Currently, however, he's fine, and has even resumed berating me for not inviting him over to drink my beer.

My haircut the other day differed greatly from any of my past haircuts. Since I chose that day to work from home I decided to check out the place near my house advertised as "Barbershop and Auto Detailing". You read that correctly, yes. In fact, a few weeks ago while waiting for them to complete the detail on our car they showed me around the place. It's quite nice. It's an old brick warehouse with a refurbished balcony. Downstairs is the detail shop and a plush "business center" with dark walls, dark wood furniture, and several computers with flat screen LCDs. The barber chairs are upstairs, with a bar area (they don't serve but you can rent it for a party, which I guess they do frequently), flat screen TVs, the whole works. Definitely not a "salon" but a "barbershop". And, yes, just like the movie of the same name, I was the only white guy in there.

This time, I walked in and asked if the barbershop was open. The first thing asked of me by the large black man standing by the door was, "You like it close and tight, right?". Only after answering "yes" did he tell me they were open and show me upstairs. Turns out Mr. Close and Tight would be my barber. He sat me in the chair and offered his hand, "My name's Aubrey". Taking his hand I introduced myself, and the unspoken culture divide presented itself. As he was standing on my left, I had to twist in the chair and reach across my body to shake his hand. Thinking the common introductory ritual completed I began returning to a normal seated position. Only at this time did I notice the quick movement of his hand turning into a fist. He was going for the post-shake fist bump! Being too far back into the chair already it was far too late for me to lurch forward and bump fists. Realizing the bump was not immediately forthcoming, he withdrew his fist with a slightly awkward smile. Only one option remained for the two of us: proceed as if the fist had never been offered.

How was I to know the bump follows the shake? Alas. The moment, it had passed, never to be recovered.

The cut went well, although it's much shorter than usual. After asking him to leave an inch on the top, the clippers came out, and not 5 seconds later he had run them all over my head. Zip zoom zip zip! Hair = short. In record time. The sides, though, that's where the artistry lie. He spend 18 of the 20 minutes 1. meticulously fading the shorter sides and back into the longer top and 2. shaping my sideburns and hairline. I swear at one point I could hear each individual hair being cut, so fastidious was he.

All in all, I look good, the cut was cheap and fast, and most important of all, the wife likes it.

Irritations

Picasa, seriously. If, while using your fine application to browse my library of images, I come across one I really like and want to post to my blog, how nice it is of you to provide a "Blog This!" button. Clicking it with a picture highlighted opens Blogger and automatically adds that picture to a new post. Wonderful. But, seriously, why is the picture not uploaded to the blog itself? Instead, Picasa wants to use my home computer (the location of the picture file) to serve the image to my blog. Meaning, not only would I have to leave my computer on all day, but, even worse, open my computer to the world so the images can be served from it. Puh-lease. This is ridiculous. Just upload the pic to my blog (that's what happens when I upload the pics through Blogger, after all) instead of trying to serve it from its present location.

That's the long and fascinating explanation for why there are still no images on the post below.

While we're here in a somewhat ranting mood...I saw this again today on my walk to work and I just do not understand it: Why do pedestrians in Oakland stand on a street corner, not going anywhere, and only when the traffic light in front of them turns yellow do they begin crossing the street? What is the matter with you? Was the light too green for your crack-addled brain? Are you an anarchist rebelling against "society"? Are you trying to kill yourself? (If so, call the suicide hotline or something. Don't do it in a manner resulting in an innocent person (the driver) having to carry the guilt of killing someone an idiot for the rest of their lives.)

And when the guy attempting to drive his car through the green light skids to a stop and honks his horn at you, you are NOT in a position to yell back at him to "Watch where you goin', muthafucka!". YOU are the idiot in this scenario, not him. Try some self-awareness. Try to consider, for once in your god-forsaken life, how your actions impact others. Oh, that's right, other people don't matter as long as they give you their hard earned money just because you asked for it.

Hey, coworker, sit down, shut up, and get to work. You're already so far behind schedule on your task the sales team completely stopped mentioning it as an "upcoming feature". You make so much more than anyone else this stuff should've been done in record time. And for god's sake, no one wants to hear your unsolicited, inflexible, and "expert" pontifications. I know the low cubicle walls create a communicative environment. In fact, that's why we have them, to foster teamwork. But, when I'm having a conversation with the guy next to me about remodeling our homes, we do NOT want you to wander over and give us a 20 minute lecture on how we're hanging drywall incorrectly. Screw you, buddy. Come over and see my drywall mastery for yourself (in my (somewhat) new laundry room! Woohoo!) then tell me I did it wrong. On second thought, don't.

Have you really not noticed the sudden rapid appearance of headphones from everyone within earshot a mere two minutes after you begin speaking?

We also do not want to hear your soliloquy regarding Apple "shooting themselves in the foot" because they're only selling the new iPhone through their Apple Stores. It's not going to sell because "people will only buy phones in places where they can sign up for the service"? I didn't know you had a marketing degree. Strange, given your current role in the company. I think you may be right though. Apple has, over the past 5 years, proven they have no idea how to sell a product. There is no craze for Apple products. There's no hype around this phone at all. All early-adopters will shun this product because they will have to go to a different store to sign up for service. All the poor iPhones will languish on the shelves, unsold. Steve Jobs, consider yourself warned.

Bedside Manner Tip for All Prospective and Practicing Medical Professionals

Ok, so I'm working on a big long post for your enjoyment, but maybe this will tide all three of my readers over for a bit.

My friend was really sick a few weeks ago. Fever for 5 days, sickness, doctor visits, the whole works. He gets better, we go out drinking, all is well.

I find out yesterday he's sick again, only this time with the added pleasure of vomiting yellow foam and delirious ramblings of hate directed toward his fever at 3am. Off to the doctor again. In the doctor's office Mr. Doctor (Dr. Doctor?) examines my friend's lymph nodes and exclaims, "Jesus! They ARE big!".

Mr. Doctor must have failed his Bedside Manner class in Med School. While examining your patient it is not permissible to exclaim in wonder at the advancement of your patient's symptoms. If you feel the need to marvel at how violently your patient's immune system is responding to the invading organisms, the proper response is, "Hm." Only after you're out in the hall and have closed the exam room door may you say to the nurse, "Be nice to the guy in Exam 2, he's fucked."

Boonville Beer Fest - Pics

I'm sure both of my readers would like to know that I added pics to the Boonville Beer Fest post.

I'm Tired

I'm tired of people jamming me into corners, despite my every effort to avoid it, and expecting me to do the impossible, time and time again. Guess what...it didn't work last time and I yet again painstakingly explained to you the reasons why. So, why are we repeating it all over again this time? And no doubt we'll repeat it next time, and the time after that...

I'm tired of people claiming they want to be independent, but then showing absolutely no willingness to do the things required to actually be independent. Guess what...being independent is hard work. We all have obstacles to overcome and when life throws you curve balls you are the only one who can adjust your swing accordingly.

I'm tired of people wasting my time by lecturing me about how to be more efficient. Guess what...if you want me to be more efficient, don't take 12 hours to tell me something that can be said in 3. Keeping me captive is only making me less efficient.

And I'm tired of people farting at the gym. I'm trying to breathe here, people.

Boonville Beer Fest - Recap

Last weekend Christen and I took part in our 4th Boonville Beer Fest. It's held in Mendocino County at the fairgrounds in Boonville. We camp among the redwoods at Hendy Woods State Park outside of Philo, only 5 miles or so from the fairgrounds. The beer fest organizers are kind enough to provide a shuttle to and from the fairgrounds from the campground. It only makes sense as the first year we went some drunk driver drove UP a slightly leaning tree on the side of the road in the campground. Anyway, it's amusing to be picked up in a van reading "Mendocino County Retirement Home". Just 40 or 50 years early, no? But, I tell ya, after 4 hours of "sampling" beers I'm pretty glad the shuttle has an electric wheelchair ramp. It makes it much easier to roll any companions that may have been overserved into the van. I'm curious, though, if the old people notice the vomit smell on Monday when they get the van back.

We didn't go last year. The year before (2005) it rained nearly the whole time (except, thankfully, during the beer fest itself). We woke up in the middle of the night to drip-drip-drip in the CENTER of the tent. Yeah, that's right, the center of our tent leaked. We slept the best we could the rest of the night with a river running between our sleeping bags. Just after first light we rolled up the sodden sleeping bags, thermarests, and tent into one big wet ball, stuffed it into the back of the GTI and high-tailed it to the nearest diner for a nice hot cup of coffee and some flapjacks. (Does anyone even say "flapjacks" anymore? It's a great word. We need to bring it back.)

Last year, the lingering memory of the previous year's rain-soaked disaster combined with the still-raw psychological scars of the snow cave adventure served to keep us away from the beer fest. If we had been rained on again less than a month after surviving being lost in the snow there is no doubt I would have lit everything within reach on fire while running directly to the nearest 5-star hotel.

This year was far less eventful. Gorgeous weather and delicious beer. They rearranged the setup of the booths so it took us a while to find some of them. At one point I couldn't believe the Eel River, Deschutes, and Russian River breweries all were not there. Crisis averted as someone clued us in and we managed to drink our fair share of their beers, too.

Me and the wife at the beer fest.

It's amazing how drunk some people can get in only 4 short hours drinking 4 oz of beer at a go (you get a souvenier sampling glass when you walk in). This year I saw a first: I was in line for a tri-tip sandwich at about 1:15 (the taps open at 1:00) and this dude was so drunk in front of me he dropped his money all over the ground. In the process of fumbling around trying to pick up the bills more of them continued to spill from various points on his person. His friends gave him grief for his offensive display of coordination (as well they should) and, in his distracted and inebrated state, while flailing for his money he dropped his sampling glass and it shattered on the ground. This caused everyone nearby to let out a big "ooooooooooooooh" in unison. It's a tradition at the Boonville Beer Fest; someone breaks a glass, the crowd does a big "cheers" in unison. I've just never seen it done 15 minutes after the gates open. This dude was wasted. Is it a good idea to yell at the overworked tri-tip guy because you no longer have a glass and your friends have convinced you it costs $30 (lie) for a replacement? It's no one's fault but your own, buddy. Maybe next year exercise some restraint and don't get wasted on bloody marys before showing up to a flippin' beer fest.

Cole, come on, show some restraint.

The winner this year was Lagunitas. They had great beers and many of them are normally unavailable in bottles. Mmmm...specially brewed beer fest beers. I don't go to a beer fest to drink Redhook IPA or Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, I go to drink the special beers, and Lagunitas' special beers were delicious. The loser was Pacific Coast Brewery. It pains me to say so as they are located a mere block and a half from my office in Oakland and I frequently lunch there and ruin my afternoon's productivity, but running out of beer at 2:30? Really? How can you miscalculate so badly that you run out of beer before the beer fest is even half over?

Cameron and Sierra dancing at the beerfest.

We camp every year with our friends Jed and Megan and Dan and Michelle. Between them they have 4 kids all under 6 years old. 8 month old Cole, 2.5 year old Connor, 3.5 year old Sierra, and 5 year old Cameron. Christen and I like to call it the Birth Control Weekend. Saturday night, after waking up to Cole's screams of hunger, I decided I'd take advantage of my wakened state to empty my bladder. Hearing Jed and Megan struggle in a tent to fill a bottle at 2:30am caused this exchange between Christen and I the next morning:
Me: "Let's never have children."
Christen: "Ok."

Me and Cole in a happier moment.

Cameron is a sweetheart and ridiculously smart. Cole is a chunk. I mean, they really need to wrap his knuckles in white tape and put some fake blood on him for Halloween. He'd look just like a UFC fighter. Connor and Sierra are in full-on potty humor mode these days. We'd be hanging out by the fire and hear, "Sierra, I'm going to pee on your head." followed by "Connor, you are made out of poo with pee inside." Hilarious. They'd both get in trouble for it, but you just can't stop it at that age. Heck, I can't stop it now and I'm 35. At one point it was discovered that they were in the big tent showing each other their "privates".

Sierra, Cameron, and Conner doing what kids do.

The funniest thing was Connor's mom, Michelle, in the tent Sunday morning, rolling up sleeping bags, yelling out the tent flap, "Connor, are you misbehaving?" to which Connor replied, "Yeah." Give the kid points for honesty, at least. After a few seconds Michelle poked her head out the tent with a slightly befuddled look on her face and said, "Well, get over here I guess."

All in all a good trip, and we added to our small glass collection.

The whole silly group.

Busy

I've been kinda busy lately. Sorry for the lack of posts. I'll try to get more India/Sri Lanka/Singapore posts and Part 2 of the snow shoeing rescue up soon.

Poor Fred

Here's a completely hypothetical situation for you to consider:

Let's say an employee, Fred, has been asked by his company to attend a series of training seminars. Not so bad, happens all the time. Now let's say there are more than 4 of these seminars. OK, a little excessive, but, again, not too bad. Now Fred is told these seminars will occur during lunch. Well, now, this is a bit more presumptive, as the company is now asking Fred to attend these seminars on his own dime, as he does not get paid for his lunch hour. But at least he's getting a free lunch, right? Well, no. It turns out that, if Fred wants to actually eat during lunch, Fred is responsible for bringing his own lunch to the seminar. Additionally, Fred has heard from many others who have already been to the seminars in the past that they are completely useless and totally worthless wastes of time. So, now, let's review...the company is asking Fred to: Give up some of his lunch hours, work through lunch without pay, and bring his own lunch to seminars that will bore him to tears and provide absolutely no benefit to anyone.

Seems reasonable that Fred would want to get out of this situation, no? Well, Fred, using certain circumstances regarding his position and his smooth talking skills, manages to talk his way out of this session of seminars, postponing, or perhaps entirely avoiding, his fate. Phew, good work, Fred.

But wait! Our hero's boss has heard this! He is of the notion that Fred needs to attend these seminars, even after hearing from others who have been through them before that they are a "complete waste of time." Fred's boss intercedes and signs Fred up for the seminars anyway, telling Fred, "You will thank me for this later".

Oh, Fred does not think so. Fred does not think he will ever thank his boss for this utter and complete betrayal. Fred is angry beyond repair. This very well could be the last straw for Fred.

Sucks to be Fred. I'm glad I'm not Fred.

Happy Rescue Day

Today, Tuesday April 17th, marks the one year anniversary of me, Christen, Jon, and Natalie being rescued in the El Dorado National Forest, after wandering lost in a snowstorm for 24 hours. To mark the occasion I have started writing the story of the experience, told from my perspective.

This is part 1 of many, probably 4 or 5. It has the most pictures of any of them, since they were taken during the less stressful part of the trip. No promises on when the installments will be posted, but I will finish the story at some point, I promise.

PART 1:

It all started innocently enough. A trip to El Dorado National Forest, above Pollack Pines, to stay in a no-longer-in-service Forest Service fire lookout tower called Robb’s Hut for the night. It’s Easter weekend of 2006, mid-April. The forecast called for some light snow, but nothing major.

After waking up Saturday morning in Oakland, hemming and hawing about whether we actually wanted to go (something about Natalie misplacing the combo for the lockbox at the ranger station containing the key to the cabin), somehow we rallied and Christen and I head up Highway 50 with Jon and Natalie.

At the ranger station we luck out as someone is there to give us the key. Jon and Natalie grab a map, we ask a few questions, and off we go. The rangers confirm what we’ve heard about the forecast; some light snow, nothing to worry about. After taking our exit and following a two lane road another 20 or so miles into the Sierra foothills, we park at the trailhead, strap on our backpacks and snowshoes, and off we go.

As the approach to the cabin is a three mile all-uphill snowshoe trek, I find myself thankful that the cabin has mattresses and propane heat, lights, and stove. This allows me to leave behind my lanterns, Thermarest, tent, stove and a few other heavy things, lightening my backpack considerably. Since Christen does not have a “real” backpacking pack, per se, we have no trouble stuffing her things into Natalie’s smaller backpack and strapping her sleeping bag to the bottom, with me carrying the rest of our supplies.

The four of us make good time up to the cabin, following the trail of blue diamonds nailed to the trees, with some snow flurries beginning as we approach tree line. As this cabin used to be a fire lookout tower it is naturally located above tree line on an exposed ridge, for visibility. It turns out we’re not staying in the tower itself (which is boarded up), but in the outlying cabin. As we approach the cabin I notice it is barely visible. The snow is nearly up to the roof of the cabin, with a partially visible picture window. We hike up to the roof level of the cabin, around the side (at which point I could have walked onto the cabin’s roof) and down some snow steps into the vestibule to get into the cabin. Once inside the vestibule, sheltered from the increasing snow, we unstrap our snowshoes, drop our packs and head inside. Jon turns on the lights, fires up the heater and in no time the four of us are peeling off our layers and lounging around, enjoying the warmth.

On the way up.

The cabin, with the lookout tower in the distance.

Into the vestibule.

The snowfall continues to increase over the course of the remaining day and into the evening, making trips outside to go to the bathroom a very cold and windy experience. Every time we try to venture outside, opening the door reveals a wall of snow where the snow steps used to be. This requires the full-bladdered person to stomp, lie on top of, and otherwise smash all the new snow into some sort of steps or ramps, just to get outside. Once you’ve squeezed yourself between the snow and the eave, you are now out in the howling wind and driving snow. The girls are no longer making the 20 ft trek to the outhouse, opting instead to brave the elements and drop trou outside. Those not paying attention could pee right on the roof of the cabin and not even know it. By the time we’ve eaten dinner, played some cards, and bemoaned the fact we didn’t bring more vodka, the picture window is about half-covered by an ever-growing snow drift.

Eating dinner.

Waking in the morning finds the picture window almost completely covered. There is one small corner in the upper right still allowing light through, but the rest is a cross-sectional view of striated snow pack. An attempt to get outside led to the discovery we could no longer see the sky. Overnight, snow had completely covered the opening we had crawled through the day before. I had to poke through the snow with a snow shovel just to see the grey clouds overhead. Opening the kitchen window revealed the screen covered in ice. Only by banging on the screen to free the ice could we get airflow moving in the cabin.

The picture window before.

The picture window after.

These new developments, coupled with the burning of the propane lamps and heater inside the single-room cabin, led to an ever increasing feeling of claustrophobia. It is not a comfortable feeling to have your little cube of living space be slowly buried by snow. In 12 hours we all would have welcomed that feeling with open arms. But right now, we all just wanted to get out and get home.

We eat some breakfast, pack our things, clean the cabin and head out the door. Of course, the hole has been covered by snow again. I scramble my way up the powdery snow slope, poke a hole through the snow cover, and exit into a near whiteout of blowing snow. It was like being at the top of a ski resort during a storm. The wind blew so hard the snow stung my eyes. Jon and I, working together, he pushing from below, me pulling from above, managed to drag everyone and their packs up out of the vestibule and into the storm.

The exit hole from inside.

The exit hole from outside.

Me and Christen are strapped in and ready first, and rather than stand in the blizzarding conditions, we trek to the outhouse to take shelter and pee one last time. Jon and Natalie meet us there, and in the lee of the howling wind we yell to each other through our cinched-tight hoods; Do we really think this is a good idea? Should we just stay here until the weather breaks? Christen is visibly shaken and favors this idea, and I can’t say I would complain if we stay. After some discussion, we take comfort in the fact that the car is only 3 miles away, downhill. All we need to do is head three miles down the trail to the car. If we struggle too much we can always drop the packs and speed to the car, coming back for the packs later. Additionally, we hope the wind will lighten up as we descend into the trees.

With this small comfort, and the overwhelming desire to be back in the comfort of our own homes, we begin to head down the hill to intersect the trail at the tree line.

I Never Posted This? Poker Recap From a Month or so Ago

So, poker went pretty well, and the faulty kegerator tower held up without any additional disasters. Although we put much more of dent into the keg than I expected. Probably because no one else brought any beer with them. I thought for sure my mention of the fact that Prohibition Ale would be the only beer offered would spur someone, anyone, to bring some sort of lighter beer. It seems we always have a case or so of Bud Light show up at these things.

Well, no one brought any so everyone was stuck with the Prohibition. Not that it's such a terrible beer to be stuck with. It was described at various points of the night as "chewy", "thick", and "sticking to my liver". Several people asked, at different points, and with various levels of slurring, "what's the alcohol content of this beer again?". Prohibition is 6.1%, for the record. If you're used to drinking a sixpack of 3.8% crap light beer and coming out relatively unscathed, I could see how Prohibition might hit your faculties harder than expected.

Maybe that's why I cleaned up. Like Merry Maids. The cards certainly hit me right, which no doubt contributed to most of my winnings, as my already mediocre poker skills were being further eroded by the aforementioned Prohibition Ale (what's the excuse for refusing a "fill up" of your glass when you're in your own house again? It escaped me all night). I caught two 4-of-a-kinds, the nut flush on an unpaired board, seemed to always hit trips when holding a pocket pair, once even with pocket rockets when an ace fell on the turn (with no straights or flushes possible)...it was a ridiculous run of cards.

Mike also did very well, so he and I spent the last few hours beating up on the small stacks and studiously avoiding each other. No reason to tangle with the only other person at the table capable of severely denting my stack at 1am.

Burning Poop, Buzzed on Beer

Working in downtown Oakland provides me a wealth of choices from which to obtain my midday sustenance. One of which is Quizno's. Never, in a million years, will I eat there. Every time I walk by that place I'm assaulted by a smell of such utter foulness, I really don't see why anyone goes there. It smells like burning poop. Literally, like some dropped some #2 on the floor and set it on fire. I'm sure it's just the combination of melting cheese and other assorted ingredients burning in the toasters (am I? Am I really?), but damn, the smell, it's foul. Why anyone eats there is beyond me. How does one walk in, smell that stench, and think, "Mmmm...I can't wait to eat me some of THAT!"?

The kegerator is back up and running. Freshly filled CO2 bottle, new keg of Prohibition Ale...and guess who disconnects the keg every night. This guy. The replacement tower arrived last night from Avante. We'll see how long this one lasts. Especially if I manage to install it before the poker game starts tonight. It may last only a few short hours, given the quality and sturdiness of its predecessor.

It also no longer smells like beer in the house, or, specifically, in the kitchen. Thanks for the new tower, Avante, but it would've meant far more to me if someone had come over and pulled the bottom drawer of the stove out and scraped the gag-inducing coating of dried beer/dirt/mouseshit off the floor underneath the stove and the adjacent cabinet. Just sick. If that doesn't qualify as "pain and suffering" and "emotional distress" I don't know what does.

While at Speakeasy last Friday getting the new keg, Christen and I were offered free beers. You know how, at Peet's, if you buy coffee beans you get a free coffee? Apparently it works like that at Speakeasy, too. But with beer. I asked for a full keg and two beers and he gave us the beers for free. Sweet. Christen got a Prohibition and I got a Double Daddy IPA. It turns out Double Daddy is 9.5% alcohol by volume. And I drank it in about 5 minutes. And it was 6pm. And I hadn't eaten since lunch. That beer hit me like a shot of tequila. I babbled and slurred and tripped over my own tongue for the next 2 hours. I just did not have enough warning to prepare myself to be buzzed like that. If you're on your third beer, ok, you can expect to be buzzed and increase the filtering of the brain-to-mouth censor accordingly. One beer? Not ready. I'd like to apologize to Mike, Kelly, and Carlos for any and all inappropriate, derogatory, or insulting things I may have said that evening. And, Christen, I'm sorry we can't hang out with those particular friends of yours anymore.

Sri Lanka, Day 1 (Friday, March 16th, 2007)

Thursday evening I went to the airport and picked up Christen. Totally uneventful, but it sure made me smile to see her come out the door. Luckily I had prepared her for the chaos that is the arrivals area of the Chennai airport, and the craziness was at a minimum. All told, no big deal.

Friday I worked half a day, then we were off to the airport (again) to fly to Colombo (the capital city of Sri Lanka). Before we left we had a final lunch at the Raintree (the hotel I stayed in for the previous 12 days). All week the hotel employees harassed me about my wife’s impending visit. They just could not wait to meet her. At lunch, the servers tripped over each other introducing themselves to Christen. To top it off, at the end of the meal they brought out a cake with “Bon Voyage” on it. They put it in front of Christen, but, whatever, I know the cake was presented in sadness of my departure. Right? Right.

Off to the airport…poor Christen…after almost 24 hours of transit getting from Oakland to Chennai, what do I do to her? Haul her to the airport again and force her on to another plane (at least the flight from Chennai to Colombo is only an hour and a half). As I rounded the last turn of the jetway and walked on to the plane I very nearly grabbed Christen and bolted back the way I came. Smoke billowed from the vents both above and underneath the overhead bins. After overcoming my fight-or-flight instincts and inspecting more closely I noticed the “smoke” dissipated very quickly and was actually more fog-like. Almost like the vapor from dry ice. I went from thinking I was walking into my death to feeling as though, with the billowing fog and the white blankets on the bright blue seats, I was walking through heaven.

After sitting down we discussed various theories for the fog. One idea proposed and quickly discarded was that it was a calming measure. Um, so they attempt to calm people by making them think the plane is on fire? As I said, quickly discarded. We ultimately decided it was a dewpoint-type effect of cold air from the AC meeting very warm, humid air. Anyone with a greater understanding of thermodynamics than I possess is welcome to add their thoughts.

The uneventful flight ended at the very nice and modern Colombo airport. I wasn’t sure what to expect, what with a civil war raging and all, but it was quite pleasant. Especially as compared with the dingy chaotic mess that is the Chennai airport. Things went smoothly through duty free (to stock up on quality booze while we still had the chance), immigration, baggage claim, and customs. Unfortunately, Doug, who thought he would be able to pick us up from the airport, was no where to be seen.

After waiting an hour at Passenger Pickup and still no Doug I decided to try his cell phone. Why not earlier? Well, this involved going through the process of exchanging money and then somehow obtaining coins for the pay phone, which, in turn, involved leaving Christen alone with our loaded luggage cart. Not my most favored situation, but at least so far the airport seemed civilized with a distinct lack of unscrupulous characters.

I headed to the information booth to ask about pay phones and they directed me to the little post office window. And quite a full-service post office if I do say so. Not only did the guy exchange my Indian Rupees for Sri Lankan Rupees (without ripping me off on the exchange rate) but they had phones I could use, too. There were three everyday white phones sitting on a counter. I picked one up, dialed Doug’s number and after several attempts finally connected. During the call the post office guy sat there with a stopwatch and timed my call. After hanging up he charged me a total based on the per minute phone rate. That’s an entirely new and unique take on a “pay phone”.

Good thing I called Doug. Plans had changed considerably and now involved us taking a taxi to a hotel. Doug said it should cost about 2000 rupees and take about an hour to get there from the airport. So now I have to go haggle with the taxi people. I go back into the airport, walk up to a counter and ask how much to take me to the address Doug provided. The guy says 2000 rupees. Sweet. I was fully expecting him to say 5000 and me having to assert the fact that, although I may look like a lost American tourist, I am not a mark and will only pay 2000. My relief soon vanished as, after handing him a 2000 rupee note and asking for a receipt, he told me there would be a 200 rupee “service charge”. Mm hmm, and then what’s next? A 500 rupee “destination charge”? A 300 rupee “luggage charge”? Now I really needed to assert my unwillingness to be blatantly ripped off, so I grabbed the 2000 rupee note out of his hand, said, “no way”, turned around and walked back out of the airport with the guy following me saying, “Sir! Sir!” Probably an overreaction on my part, but what the hell, it just came to me.

I walk back to Christen and the luggage cart muttering about how this guy is trying to rip us off and with no idea how we’re actually going to get to the hotel. After standing there for 30 seconds or so Mr. Service Charge sidles up next to me and says he’ll do it for 2000. Soon he’s writing me a receipt, the taxi is pulling up, the driver loads our stuff into the back, and we’re climbing into the van. Strangely, the guy I negotiated with gets into the van, too, saying he’s coming with us. Ok, fine, whatever.

After driving for about 15 minutes the van pulls over and the negotiator says something heavily accented about “getting out”. Um, no, I don’t think so. Doug distinctly said it would take about an hour to get to the hotel and we’ve been on the road for about 15 minutes. And, we’re stopped on some random corner in a rather remote and industrial part of Colombo. And, it’s dark out. I mean, I know I didn’t fall for your tourist trap game, but is that any reason to abandon us here, presumably without our luggage? Christen stiffened and actually grabbed my arm, non-verbally saying, “There is no way on god’s green earth I am getting out here.” I agreed. The negotiator turns to us and says, “Bye, have a nice trip” and gets out of the van, shuts the door, and the van continues on.

Oh.

HE’S getting out here. He’s not telling US to get out. Well, carry on then. Off to the hotel!

We eventually arrived at the hotel, met up with Doug and Jana (his girlfriend), had dinner on the beach (while being bitten by sand fleas, the little bastards) and slept soundly.

That's Just Swell

After being gone nearly a month in a part of the world with mediocre (at best) beers, one of my main objectives in life revolved around getting my kegerator operational again. I had an empty keg from Speakeasy Brewing lying around so I decided their beer would work nicely to welcome my kegerator back into operation.

It’s not that easy to get Speakeasy kegs. You have to go to their brewery in the lovely and not-at-all gang infested Bayview section of San Francisco on Fridays between 4pm and 8pm. Not a small task for someone who lives and works in Oakland, gets off at 5:30, and has no desire to fight Bay Bridge traffic to get to SF on a Friday during rush hour.

Oh, but Prohibition Ale is so very tasty. One of my top 5 beers. Maybe even top 3.

I persevered. I worked from Tim’s house in SF on Friday, and then left to Speakeasy to exchange my empty keg (and $50) for a full one. Since Sunday was the gluttonous event known as the Belgian Beer Dinner, I didn’t hook the keg up until Sunday night, and then poured only enough to clean out the hoses. The point here, which will be sadly relevant later, is that the keg remained almost completely full.

Forward to Monday evening. Christen and I walk through the front door after work and the first thing I notice is that it smells like beer in the house. Lots of beer. I’d say it smelled like a frat house, but it smelled like good beer (not Natty Light) and the underlying scent of vomit was missing. As the kitchen is in the back of the house, if I’m smelling beer at the front door this cannot be good. Trying not to panic I head to the kitchen where my worst fears are realized; there is beer all over the kitchen floor.

The kegerator is essentially a fridge slightly larger than a dorm fridge with a cylindrical tower attached to the top. This cylinder holds the tap handle from which the nectar of the gods is dispensed. This cylindrical tower no longer pointed to the heavens but now lay on its side on top of the kegerator. Due to its incredibly crappy design, it must’ve fallen over (perhaps nudged by one of the cats), and in the course of landing its valve opened, spilling all 5 gallons of my precious Prohibition Ale uselessly on to the kitchen floor. Now there is a goddamn LAKE of beer in the corner of the kitchen. I was using a rolled up beach towel like a broom and sweeping WAVES of beer out the back door. While crying. (Jason was a big help cleaning up. I guess that what he gets for harassing me non-stop until I finally accepted his invitation to come over and drink my beer).

So much beer hit the floor the beer made its way under the linoleum, between the planks of the sub floor, and was dripping on to the dirt under the house. Mother loving crap.

How long do you suppose my house is going to smell like beer? 3 months? 6 months? 2 years? I don’t swear much on this blog, but…Fuck.

And now all my CO2 is gone, too, because, after ALL 5 GALLONS (did I mention it was a full keg?) of beer spewed out, the open valve did nothing but vent CO2 into the kitchen. Opening the kegerator revealed a frozen mass of beer and ice. You know how paintball CO2 cartridges freeze over when they’re empty? The same thing happened inside the kegerator, but with a 5 lb tank of CO2. You think it’s hard to get a keg of Speakeasy beer? Try getting a CO2 tank filled on the weekend.

The kegerator company (Avanti) has been good so far. They’re sending a replacement cylinder, although, it is probably of the same crappy design. Compensation for my lost beer, CO2, and perhaps damaged floors could be far harder to obtain.

That was my Monday.

God Bless America

Yep, we're back in the US of A. Jet-lagged as all get out, but back safely and really enjoying drinking the water from the tap and eating whatever I feel like eating. In fact, I had a bacon cheeseburger for lunch on Tuesday and fajitas for lunch on Wednesday. Mmmmm...American food. (Yeahyeah, fajitas are Mexican. Whatever. I ate them at Chevy's so they might as well be American food).

I will update with full reports on the rest of the trip at a later time. For now you should know that the flight back from Singapore was freaking long. And my seat back would not lock upright so I had to fight the slowly reclining seat for the whole flight. Goddamn irritating.

Oh, and the LTTE Sri Lankan rebels bombed the airport in Colombo just a few days after we left. My biggest fear while visiting the civil war torn country, even if we were far far away from the actual fighting, was that the rebels would seize the international airport and make it difficult or impossible for us to leave. Nearly happened! Yikes. Doug is crazy. Every US State Dept. and travel advisory bulletin I read regarding Sri Lanka said that all Americans in Trinco (where Doug is living and a place we got absolutely nowhere near) should leave immediately. And here's Doug telling us, "Eh, it's not that bad, really. The fighting is a good 4km away from me." Super Doug is insane. Although his blog has a nice recap of the sea turtle sanctuary we visited, so go check it out.

The Belgian Beer Dinner is Sunday at the Toronado in San Francisco. It's a five course meal with three Belgian beer pairings per course. Like wine pairings at a fancy schmancy restaurant. I like the beer pairings better. Some of the Belgians taste like mold, or like the inside of a used wetsuit. Those I don't like so much. But most work really well with the food. Anyway, it should be a drunkenly decadent good time.

More later, if I have anything interesting to say.

I Just Need a Stamp

I went to the post office the other day. Gripping, I know.

We left the office at about 11:30 in the morning. After a ten minute walk, complete with cars and motorcycles whizzing by my elbow (a feature of any walk to any destination here) we arrive at what best could be described as a “postal annex” and more accurately described as a “shack”. It’s a tiny little building featuring the requisite Indian chaos. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the organization of the papers, envelopes, and other objects I could see through the old-school, Clint Eastwood-style barred teller windows.

I tried to “speed post” the birthday card to my Mom (awwww, what a good son) but it was not to be. Apparently, we had to go to the “main” post office to do that. We determined this after a rapid-fire exchange of Tamil between my guides and the postal worker, who were soon joined by several onlookers, all who seemed to have an opinion or contribution to telling us how to get to this place. The rapidly spoken and nearly full volume Tamil flew everywhere and somehow I ended up right in the middle of it all. If I was a language-learning savant I would have looked like Trinity learning to fly the Apache.

Armed with our new directions, we hire a tuk tuk (or auto-rickshaw) for the ride. These things provide quite an exhilarating ride. The one wheel in front and motorcycle-style handlebars inside make them very maneuverable. We darted in and out of traffic and were making turns between two other moving vehicles. I think they’d be kinda fun to drive around. They’d be great for a version of bumper cars but they probably tip over easily.

We arrived at our new destination and this one looked more like a government office. Run down, peeling paint, signs everywhere, stacks of papers and folders all over, and more chaos. The concept of a “line” here is a bit different than in the US. If someone is conducting a transaction and there is a brief delay for, say, getting your money out of your wallet or some translation of the prices of the different delivery methods, the next person in “line” will just walk up, nudge you out of the way, and hand their letter to the clerk. I nearly, and I mean NEARLY, elbowed this guy out of the way the first time it happened. I mean, it’s so different than the American “please wait behind the yellow line” approach that my natural, almost instinctual, reaction was, “Dude, hello, WTF?!? Go wait your F’in turn, buddy.” But, hey, that’s how they do things here and it didn’t really slow down my transaction at all. I think it’s a product of having so many people in one place. I think. Dave says China is even worse in that regard, with cutting in line and other types of madness.

Christen comes in tonight and we’re off to Sri Lanka tomorrow. The blog posts will no doubt decline in frequency and may stop completely. We’ll be back in the US on the evening of March 25^th. I will no doubt be ready to come back to the US by then, although I am looking forward to lounging on the beach for a few days.

Temple and Random Thoughts

I did some sightseeing today after work. Manickam and Anwar took me to a temple not far from the office. The largest temple-type structure served as the entranceway into the complex itself. The vast majority of the structure consisted of a pyramid-shaped top, probably about 100 ft tall, on top of a cube, about 20ft square, with a 20 ft tall opening to walk through. Many, many carved and intricately painted figures depicting various gods and characters from traditional stories covered the pyramid roof.

After taking our shoes off, we walked through the entrance into the main complex. This was a courtyard type area with various shrines and smaller temples to various gods, also covered with the carved and painted figures. The stones making up the floor were pleasantly warm on my feet, although the thought of stepping on a wayward sharp foreign object did concern me a bit.

Some people wandered around, some sat on the ground, others waited in line to pay their respects to certain gods, still others bowed and kissed the ground at what seemed to the uninitiated (me) to be random spots on the floor. It was a much more chaotic, disorganized, and free form type of worship than that found in your typical Christian church. Some of the smaller shrines had certain routines associated with them. For example, at the shrine to the 9 planets of the solar system I could see a path worn in the stone where people walk (and were currently walking) in a circle around the 9 figures representing the planets.

Pretty cool experience. Too bad I couldn’t take pictures (not allowed). I did take a few from outside of the big entrance temple. Not like you’ll see them.

Iron Maiden is playing in Bangalore (about 2 hours from here) on March 17^th. Too bad I’ll be in Sri Lanka and unable to play with Indian madness.

At lunch the other day the water poured from the metal pitcher, presumably filled from the tap, was a nice shade of yellow. Um, can I have some bottled water please? Thanks.

There’s a brand of car out here called “Tata”. If you own two of them do people ask, “How are your Tatas?” Heh heh.

I spent all of Thursday on the way out here from California in the dark. I took off at 5 after midnight on Thursday morning. Darkness followed us all the way to Hong Kong where the sun finally came up on Friday morning as we reboarded our plane.

People out here point a lot with their middle fingers. It’s disconcerting and I still am not used to it. “Oh yeah, buddy? F you too, pal. You wanna go? Oh. Right. Sorry. Here’s your hat back.” Though I did just read it’s rude here to point or gesture towards someone with your left hand. I don’t know if it’s quite the equivalent of flipping someone off, but, well, I’m an American. Isn’t it just assumed I don’t know anything about anyone else’s culture? They can cut me some slack.

Shady Dealings

I spent today (Sunday) lounging by the pool on the rooftop of my hotel. I’m trying to get as much lounging practice in as I can before my trip to Sri Lanka. That and I need to tan my pasty white American skin.

Christen and I have one night to kill between Sri Lanka and Singapore. We’re staying in a beach resort south of Chennai. Very posh. It better be for the prices we’re paying. It’s spendy by American standards.

Paying for the room turned out more difficult than necessary. I booked the room over the phone, since the website wasn’t working. The lady on the phone told me I had to go to the 2^nd floor of an office in Chennai to pay for it. Why I couldn’t pay over the phone I don’t know.

So, Saturday morning, before going to work (total BS) I gave my taxi driver the address I was given and we were off. Turns out, this city is so confusing even my cab driver couldn’t find the place. It took the two of us, collaborating in very broken English before we could even find something that looked like the right building. It had some closed clothing store on the first floor. No obvious way up to the second floor immediately presented itself.

My taxi driver kept motioning me to go around the side of the building and into a darkened doorway. I couldn’t help feeling like Loraine Bracco in Goodfellas when Robert DeNiro is telling her he has some dresses for her “…just around the corner. Go ahead. Through that doorway. It’s ok, go ahead, right through there.” I have never seen a more dilapidated staircase. Broken marble, piles of trash and construction materials, the building looked abandoned. I just couldn’t picture giving my credit card info to someone in this building. I almost turned around and left but figured I might as well at least go up to the second floor. Up I go and I’m greeted not by an enclave of squatting feral children, but by the standard security guard seen in front of most offices. I ask for my contact and he directs me through a set of glass doors into an ordinary office. I went from “condemned building” to “everyday office” disorientingly quickly. Everything else went smoothly (I even got a receipt), although I’m still confused as to why I had to go to this strange office building to pay for my hotel room.

Did you know the mom from Six Feet Under shows up at the end of Scent of a Woman? And why does the HBO here have commercials? What kind of crap is that?

By the way, thanks to everyone for the comments, they make my day.