Famous again

This is old, but this post by the Oakland Trib's beer blogger (how do I apply for that job, btw?) contains a photo. Two photos, actually, but we're interested only in the second photo. In that photo are my lovely wife and me.

This photo was taken at the opening night of The Trappist, a fantastic, albeit narrow, Belgian beer bar in Old Oakland. This bar is dangerously close to my work. Belgian beers and no food served...what could possibly go wrong?

First I'm on the news, now I'm in the paper, and nary a crime committed. Perhaps it's time to hire representation after all.

Jay Cutler, You Handsome Devil

This is a post about the Raiders. If you don't care to read about sports, what is your freakin' problem, anyway? Consider yourself warned.

Here's to the end of several nasty bad streaks. Between beating Kansas City on the road the week before, and Denver at home last week, the Raiders now have:
- A 2-game winning streak (don't laugh, we'll take it)
- A 2-game winning streak within the division (after a record-tying streak of intradivision futility)
- A divisional road win (in Arrowhead, no less!), and
- A divisional home win (against the hated Shanarat).

After enduring the travesty known as the last four seasons, those four accomplishments alone are enough for me to consider naming my first born "Lane".

It's not just that they beat the Broncos, but how they did it. They crushed their spirit. It's not like the sloppy KC game the week before where it seemed the teams took turns handing each other the game until the Raiders finally said, "Fine, Herm, we'll take it! Now, can we please leave?" This game bordered on an ass-kicking. And watching Shanarat's team lose in agonizing Raider-like fashion took the cake.

Extending an opponent's scoring drive with a roughing the punter call? Check.
Gifting opponents points by turning the ball over repeatedly deep in your own territory? Check.
Climbing back to within 4 points of the lead only to squander your chances in heartbreaking fashion via bone-headed plays and crucial turnovers? Check.
Heck, the Raiders' rookie QB made his very first NFL regular season appearance for two possessions and the Raiders still won the game.
Congratulations, Shanarat, your Broncos are the new Raiders, the very team you loathe more than any other.

Mostly, though, this post is an excuse to show the pic above. God, I love that pic. The helmet flying through the air, the befuddled look on Cutler's face (he looks like a stoned frat boy whose girlfriend just found his porn stash), it's perfect. Hey Broncos fans, it's your quarterback of the future! Feel the excitement!

Canadians are Scary

This Canadian PSA is downright frightening. Don't watch it if you're feeling particularly vulnerable or fragile or squeamish or about to eat any fried foods. Seriously, don't. (Found via Deadspin).

Turkey Day

We went up to Portland for Thanksgiving this year. We stayed with my wife's brother, his wife, and their new baby (4 months old). Man, is that kid cute. You may think I say that only because I am biased. But, no, he's actually very cute. Despite the fact our laptop is in what I fear to be its final death throes, here is a pic of the little dude, so you can see for yourself that he is, indeed, very cute.


We flew up to Portland Wednesday afternoon and came back Sunday afternoon. I know, I know, the two busiest travel days of the year, we're asking for it, etc. Well, ya know what? Nothing happened. Nothing. Smooth as silk. I've had far worse travel experiences on random days in the year. Wednesday and Sunday? No biggie.

One complaint about the trip: no turkey. Well, we had turkey, but not A turkey. It was just some turkey-ish loaf-like thing instead. Everything else was good (mashies, yams, stuffing, pie, etc) but to not have the bird...well...I dunno. There's just something very traditional about the bird coming out of the oven and everyone oohing and ahhing over it. It doesn't seem like a big thing to be missing, but try it sometime and see if you don't end up feeling empty and forlorn.

I managed to avoid over-consumption on Thursday, partly due to the fact that, due to late-arriving family, we didn't start eating until 5:30 (Thanksgiving dinner should start at 1 to allow proper grazing and napping the rest of the day. Everyone knows this.) Saturday, however, I nearly killed myself with food. At the Laurelwood Public House and Brewery I really did myself in. I showed up so hungry I ate part of my Nephew's car seat on the way over, even though the recent recall notice warned against doing this due to the choking hazard (I'm serious!). We got a beer sampler (6 oz of 9 or 10 different beers) and I could not resist the lunch special. Penne with chicken, prosciutto, sun-dried tomatoes and asparagus in a smoked Gouda cream sauce with little garlic bread toasts. Oh god yes. And a 16 oz stout. I ingested so many calories my distended belly lasted for hours and I didn't get my appetite back until after my workout this (Monday) morning.

The most exciting thing to happen (besides LSU losing to the Razorbacks) was my bro-in-law taking me for a spin on his new motorcycle. It's a Suzuki 650 something-or-other. I'm not really a motorcycle guy, per se ("per se" meaning "I've ridden a motorcycle, by myself, exactly one time") so I'm not sure of all of the details. It's blue. And has aftermarket fairings on it.

Before we set out he told me that, on a particularly remote and straight section of the road around the lake, he would tap my leg which meant "hold on, I'm going to open 'er up." Uh, ok. Perched on the back, during the mere motions of such daredevil stunts as starting from a stop sign or shifting gears, I felt as if only my death grip on the "sissy bar" prevented me from flying off the back. I grew convinced that I would feel the tap on my leg followed shortly by the pavement on the back of my helmet.

Turns out I survived. This, despite the fact that, after the tap, the front tire lifted off the ground for a bit, a happening I was not aware of until it touched back down on the pavement. My brother-in-law is fortunate I was late in noticing it, as he would still be dealing with the hearing loss caused by my screams of terror had I been aware of it as it was happening.

Indeed, I survived and now I am back at work, dealing with the fact that my product is in the final phases of spinning off from the mothership company and becoming it's own little startup. Um, hello, what do you mean I can't use the main office's sink anymore? I have to wash my dishes in the restroom now? But, does this mean I can no longer use the private, one seater bathroom downstairs in the main office? Stock, schmock. I want my private pooper.

Perspective. Get some.

I can't help but think...what if something horribly tragic happens at these Olympics and this dude is walking around for the rest of his life with the Chinese equivalent of "September 11th, 2001" on his forehead?

Burning Man

So, as I mentioned in my last post (over four freakin' months ago), we went to Burning Man over Labor Day weekend (and the week prior, too. 8 days in all). It was our fourth year going to "the event" as Burners sometimes call it. This year differed from the others, though, as we were part of an entirely new camp and went with a new group of people. Half of us were veterans of the previous years' Yum Camp, the other half were Burning Man virgins (10 people total in camp). Our camp this year was called The Society. Our overall theme was Steampunk, with the centerpiece being our artcar, The Perambulator. We chronicled the events, discussions, and overall effort of creating our camp's Burning Man experience here. Many photos of our experiences can be found there, so feel free to poke around, look at the photos, take it all in.

There were some phenomenal art pieces there, two of the larger and more impressive being Big Rig Jig, and Crude Awakenings. Crude Awakenings' visual display was just stunning, and when they burned it, well, let's just say it's not often in life one gets to witness a mushroom cloud in person. The heat nearly singed my eyebrows from 250 yards away.

But, as usual, it's the smaller things making up everyday life on the playa that make the event something I return to over and over again: People standing in the middle of the street in 100 degree weather giving away slices of cold fruit to passers by. The Hardware Camp guys helping us rebuild The Perambulator's 5th wheel in the middle of a ferocious dust storm. And just the overwhelming awe that comes over me when I think that, for three quarters of the year, there is nothing there but wind and a bunch of dust. When I stop to look around on Friday night and see all of the individual contributions put together to make the whole of the Burning Man community, it truly amazes me.

Every year, it seems there is one small experience that sticks out for me. Our first year we were coming back from a night out on the playa to our woefully inexperienced and disorganized camp. We're tired, hungry, and really not looking forward to scrounging through the piles and boxes of food in the truck looking for something to eat. I really did not want to eat another Clif Bar. We're nearly back to our camp when Christen grabs my arm, points across the street and says, "Does that say 'Fish and Chips' "? I look to where she is pointing and lo and behold, there is a banner over a rather nondescript camp saying "Jonah's Fish and Chips". Could it be? We wander over and find a couple cutting sweet potatoes with a potato cutter (like they use in In N Out) and dropping them into a generator-powered deep fryer. Are you kidding me? They smile at us, wrap some fries in a sheet of newspaper, sprinkle some seasoning salt on, squirt in some ketchup, and hand the whole glorious thing over. Those fries, still, to this day, are the best I've ever had, and will probably remain the best I ever eat. Salty, soft on the outside but still slightly crunchy in the middle...just, and I mean EXACTLY JUST what the doctor ordered. I learned then and there what is meant by "The Playa Provides".

And the girl who handed me the fries was topless.

This year's stick-out experience is not as exciting, but still resonated with me none-the-less. About a year or so ago my friend, let's call him "Jason", turned me on to the band System of a Down. They are very very good and I enjoy their music greatly. They have a song called "B.Y.O.B." One of the lines is:

Everybody's going to the party have a real good time
Dancing in the desert blowing up the sunshine

I thought that resonated pretty well with Burning Man, and as we were installing the sound system in The Perambulator I imagined playing that song. But, its metaliness is strong and maybe would not be enjoyed by my campmates. Well, Christen and I are out riding our bikes around the playa one day and we end up riding by one of the Burning Man radio stations (yes, people set up radio stations for the event). What song do they happen to be blasting out of their speakers at us as we ride by? You got it, "B.Y.O.B." I made Christen ride around in circles in front of the radio station until the song was over. I mean, really, what are the chances? The VERY song I wanted to hear at Burning Man more than any other and it just so happens to be playing as we ride by? Just fantastic.

It's those types of experiences (and they happen the entire time) that keep me from saying "I will never go back." It is a crapload of work, both in preparation and while there, but there is no vacation I have ever been on that makes me feel further away from my everyday life than Burning Man.

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.