emptyage

Are You Going to San Francisco

When I read this post from Caroline McCarthy about moving from New York to San Francisco, my first thought was, "you're going to hate it."

And perhaps that's not fair, but it was my immediate reaction based on the preconceptions of the city as being made up of Mission hipsters and Silly Valley koolaiders. It is neither. Those are simply two facets of this place, but unfortunately they are often the only experience that short-timers immerse themselves in.

San Francisco is my home. I love it. I adore it. I'm institutionalized and ruined for pretty much anywhere else. And so of course I have some strong opinions about it. And when I hear people are moving here, I naturally want them to love it too. I hate it when people move here for a year or two, and move away having had a bad experience because they never really got to know it. I think that's avoidable.

I don't think the world should look like San Francisco, nor do I think that it should be home for everyone. But if you're going to come here, even if it's only for a year, you should make the most of it. And to do that (and this really goes for anywhere) you need to embrace what's unique about it.

1. Live in San Francisco.
Here's a novel idea. If you're moving 3,000 (or even 300) miles to live in San Francisco; live in San Francisco. And by I don't simply mean that you should not live in the East Bay or the Peninsula or Marin. I mean live in a part of the city that your great-grandparents would recognize as being San Francisco. Somewhere that was entirely residential, and all of the homes in your neighborhood existed, prior to 1915. If you've only lived in SoMa, you haven't lived in San Francisco. I know a lot of people who've moved here from somewhere else only to settle in SoMa (which, when I first moved here, was sort of like NoPa in that it was really only starting to gain traction as a term for a neighborhood) or South Park or China Basin or some other reclaimed part of San Francisco's industrial past. Big mistake. If you haven't lived in one of San Francisco's traditional neighborhoods, you've missed out. You haven't ever gotten to experience one of its primary joys. Sure, you may be close to your job; you may have a lot of space and nicer weather, but by that logic you should find a job in a Phoenix exurb. This is a city of small communities, each with its own character. Get to know one, with its small shops and locally owned businesses, and you'll find it infinitely rewarding.  If instead you choose to live in some light industrial zone, however, you may as well be in Seattle, or Atlanta, or Portland, or any other moderately-sized city. Except you'll pay five times the rent.

2. Jump in the water.
If you've lived here more than a year and have never taken a dip in the Pacific; you're doing it wrong. Take advantage of your local environment. One of the greatest things about San Francisco is that it's bounded by so many amazing natural wonders. This is a place where you can--quite literally and I know people who have done it--go surfing and snowboarding in the same day. First and foremost, of course, there is the ocean. This is a region defined by the ocean and the scraping together of two plates. Swim in the Bay. Dive in the ocean. Hike along the seaside cliffs. Explore the tidepools. And when you're finished, get your ass out of here to the Sierra, to Yosemite and Sequoia and Tahoe. One of the greatest things about this city--and it's something that I think is intrinsic to the character of its people--is that you can have nature all day and culture all night.

3. Eat the food.
You may think of California as being the home of the entertainment or technology industry. But neither would be here without the farms that came first. California's agriculture industry is a $40 billion a year enterprise. We have a longer growing season than just about anywhere else in the country, and nowhere else in the country has the year-round selection of local, sustainable, and/or organic options we do. You'll have your pick of farmer's markets, CSAs, and local dairies. Yes, enjoy the restaurants. We have great ones that focus on the local flavor. But do yourself a favor: Find a good source of local food and learn to cook.

4. Get a bike
Looking out my window, at this very moment, I can see where mountain biking was invented. Marin, Sonoma, and Napa counties have some of the finest road biking in the world. Santa Clara, Santa Cruz and (again) Marin likewise offer some of the best mountain biking to be found anywhere. Moreover, there's no better way to get around San Francisco than by bike. Muni, especially the light rail lines, is okay for getting around. The bus system less so. Driving is an abomination; good luck finding parking. But on a bike you can be anywhere in the city--anywhere--within 15 minutes. Do it often enough and you won't break a sweat getting there.

5. Make real friends
This only applies to people working in the Internet and technology sectors, but you may be amazed to discover that most people in the city work in fields that have nothing to do with the Internet. It's fantastic to have friends in the industry. You'll have shared interests and they'll always get your meme-of-the-day jokes. But if most of your friends work in the same field you do, that's a little boring, right? Try to branch out. This is a city of people from all over the world, doing all sorts of interesting things. Get to know them. If you want to get to know a place, get to know its people. It will also help you keep things in perspective. If something is truly a big deal (say, an iPod or Facebook) it will be a big deal to your non-techie friends as well.

6. Be real yourself
San Francisco is the kind of place where nobody will tell you when you have a bad idea. That's just how it is. In an effort to remain tolerant, people go out of their way not to judge. That can be a bad thing. "Hey, dude, I think I'm going to pierce my eyelids with this sliver of depleted uranium for Burning Man this year." "Right on, that's cool." No. No, it's not cool. It's a very bad fucking idea. But nobody will tell you that. And because it is a town where nobody calls bullshit, it's easy to get caught up in your own. Stay true to yourself. Sure, let your freak flag fly. You can do whatever you want here and nobody will even look twice at you. Embrace that inner weirdo. But don't be weird for the sake of being weird: That way lies blind hipsterism and the cult of the yogi. You moved here to set trends, not to follow them, right? This is California. You can do whatever you want. So do yourself a favor and make it real, make it genuine, make it your own. Otherwise you're just going to burn out.

Look. You can certainly be a Mission hipster or Silly Valley type and have a wonderful experience here. But to do so you have to get off Valencia street and make some friends outside of the industry. You have to figure out what drew people here in the first place before it became populated by those stereotypes. It's a great place to live. But you'll never know that unless you truly live here.

I Remember 1999

After a year in San Francisco, in 1999 I picked up a shovel and went to work for a start-up webzine (remember webzines?) hoping to find gold. I had just finished up an internship at Mother Jones, and scored an editing gig at this as yet unnamed dot-com (remember dot-coms?) that was aiming to be a sort of a Mondo 2000 meets Nerve meets Punk Planet meets something stupid. But edgier. It was a lot of fun, but ultimately kind of a disaster.

My boss was an O.G. cyberpunk hero named R.U. Sirius. Super nice guy. He gave me some ketamine. We didn't have any ads, but it was funded by a porn magnate. There was a second, smaller, workspace with a separate entrance that was semi-attached to our office. A guy named Steve worked there, and he spent hours every day (well, nights, typically) tagging porn movies in this windowless little 8x10-foot hole.

These were my business cards, which I came across while cleaning up yesterday. I remember there was a big stink over the titles on the card--senior editors were made señor editors. This was especially an issue for the lone female senior editor. But whatever; it was that kind of place. I think my favorite thing about these is the address bar. If you look closely, you can see it points to file://Macintosh%20HD/Desktop%20Folder/strawberry/straw.html. (Oh, %20. You are so spaced out.) The Netscape logo is also a professional touch.

Swimming at Aquatic Park, Minus the Wetsuit

I've been swimming in the Bay for a few years now, but always with a wetsuit. I keep meaning to take the plunge with just my skin to protect me, but I've never been able to get up the gumption. So last week when Mark Robinson--who is the very definition of dashing and cool, and a guy for whom I'd walk across a mile of broken glass just to bring him a Band-Aid--invited to come meet him at the Dolphin Club and go for a wetsuit-free plunge at Aquatic Park, I decided I'd take him up on it. I'd also always wanted to see the storied club.

It was cold.

I started off warm enough. Well, no. It started off freezing. When I hit the water, my testicles immediately relocated themselves up somewhere near my esophagus. But once I acclimated it wasn't so bad, and we swam to the end of the buoy line that runs parallel to the shore. Robinson pointed out a buoy about midway to the end of the pier, and we agreed to go for it instead of swimming back along the shoreline. (I'll often do a full loop of the perimeter of Aquatic Park, but that's in a wetsuit.) When we reached the buoy, I then suggested that instead of going back, we swim straight over to the Balclutha.  So we did. The current was really strong, it was at maximum ebb. But moreover, the deep water was much, much colder than it had been by the shoreline buoys. By the time we got about 4/5 or so of the way to the Balclutha, I was frigid, and my left hand and arm were numb and nearly useless. I couldn't make a cup with my fingers to drag the water, and my entire arm felt like a piece of rope that I was just throwing on top of the water, slapping it without really pulling through. My chest felt a little weird. Also, all my toenails all fell off into the water*.

At this point, I suggested we change course, and make a beeline for the Dolphin Club. Mark, thankfully, agreed. 

As we approached the shore, the water became noticably warmer. By the time we hauled out on the beach, I felt a little bit like normal again. The warm shower inside the Dolphin Club may have been the second greatest sensation I've ever felt. Number one was the sauna immediately afterward. And man, did I need that sauna. Even after ten or so minutes in the shower, my skin was still cold to the touch, and my ankles felt like someone had poured concrete in the joints. My skin was bright red all over, except where my trunks had been. Even after the sauna, my chest and arms were covered in red splotches.

And I felt like a hundred million dollars. Even better than that. I felt like the entire TARP package and a thousand shares of Google stock. It was amazing. Rode my bike home, stopping on the way for a cappuccino at Mojo. Great morning. You should try it.

*My toenails are, in fact, intact.

Golden Gate Trails Loop

You can see where satellite reception was bad in some spots, but this was created with my iPhone and TrailGuru. It's not there yet, but it's getting closer. If I could track heart rate (preferably R to R), I'd be ready to make the leap to iPhone-only as my main casual training device. I'd still want something beefier on race day and competitive training but for day to day training it's starting to show promise.

The Brutally Honest Pint

If you're a beer drinker, you've probably heard about the brouhaha (oh snap) over the 14 ounce "pint" glass. If not, the twenty-five cent summary is that in order to compensate for inflation without raising prices, some pubs have begun serving beer in 14-ounce falsies--glasses that look like a pint but aren't. It led Jeff Alworth to start the Honest Pint Project, and even got the attention of the Wall Street Journal.

Given that debate--over 14 or 16 ounce pints--it was really refreshing (double snap) to read the following in an email from Magnolia Pub's owner Dave McLean today:

We do remain 100% committed to the 20-ounce, English pint glass as the base by which we calculate all of our beer pricing. And that means, priced per ounce, you'll always get a slightly better deal here. Most places are basing their pint on a 16-ounce, U.S. pint. And aside from price and volume, we will always prefer the quality of an English pint glass, particularly the thin lip that makes for a nicer sip. So, the 20-ounce pint is here to stay, as are the premium ingredients that we think make our beer so unique and delicious, especially Maris Otter barley, which costs more per pound than any other barley but is worth every penny. These aren't easy times in the craft beer community but more people than ever are discovering the joys of locally brewed, unique, artisan beer. The only direction available is forward and we'll keep making beer the best way we know how.

Come See Me Race!

I'll be racing in the Escape From Alcatraz triathlon on Sunday June 8. It's a great course (fully described below), with a 1.5 mile swim / 18 mile bike / 9 mile run. Phew. I'll jump off the boat next to the island at 8 am, and haul out of the water at Marina Green (hopefully) in a little less than an hour later. The bike rolls through the Presidio and Golden Gate Park, and then the run trots out to Baker Beach--where I have to haul ass up the sand ladder--and back again to finish at Marina Green. I would love it if you (yes, you!) came to say hello. And if you don't feel like coming out (or even if you do) you can still track/stalk me with updates via email or text message as I pass through the gates by signing up here. But please do come cheer for me. I could use the help.

2008 Accenture Escape from Alcatraz Triathlon Course

SWIM
The Accenture Escape from Alcatraz Triathlon begins with a 8:00 am plunge from the ferry, into the icy cold water between the San Francisco Piers and Alcatraz Island. The boat is quite hot with 1000+ wet suit clad participants surrounding you, so we suggest you bring fluids. The currents, ebbs, and available dates make it difficult to determine the exact starting point. Participants are unloaded from the boat in less than 6 minutes. It is quite a rush when you take the leap, like a paratrooper from a plane, for the 1.5 mile swim. The swim finish is at the Marina Green Beach adjacent to the St. Francis Yacht Club. Triathletes face the risks of strong currents, treacherous 55 degree waters and two ton sea lions. Wetsuits and hoods are strongly recommended.

WARM-UP RUN
Upon exiting the water at the Marina Green Beach, triathletes proceed to the first transition area where they will switch to running shoes and warm clothing for the 1 mile warm-up run to the Marina Green. This run will take them beside the St. Francis Yacht Club, South on the Little Marina Green, and East on the sidewalk of Marina Blvd to the bike transition area.

BIKE
Mounting their bikes at the Marina Green, triathletes will begin the out-and-back 18 mile ride heading west into Crissy Field via Marina Boulevard. They will climb onto Lincoln Blvd., traveling through the Presidio onto Camino del Mar. They will then climb up the hill to the Palace of the Legion of Honor. They will come down the hill and make a hard right turn onto Clement Street and ride west to Seal Rock Drive. They will make a sharp down hill left turn onto 48th street and then a right turn west on Point Lobos Drive; and ride South on The Great Highway to Golden Gate Park. Triathletes will enter Golden Gate Park from Lincoln Way onto Martin Luther King Jr. Drive. They will veer left on Middle Drive and go to about the center or the park. They will then turn left on Transverse Drive and make another left turn onto John F. Kennedy Drive; and ride back to the Great Highway on the north side of the park. After going north on The Great Highway, they will retrace their course back to the Marina Green for the transition to the run. Triathletes risk disqualification for drafting and forward motion to the left of demarcation cones.

RUN
On tired legs, the triathletes will begin the 8 mile run to Baker Beach Battery by leaving the Marina Green, running West into Crissy Field to Fort Point below the Golden Gate Bridge. From Fort Point they battle the Presidio Headlands up and under the Golden Gate Bridge through the tunnel and onto the Coast Trail. Runners will be next to the Coastal Defense Batteries (Gunnery Locations from the turn of the century) until they reach Lincoln Boulevard, just past Battery Dynamite. They parallel Lincoln Blvd. on the narrow trail above the Coastal Bluffs to Baker Beach, where they return to the shoreline below. They will encounter the deep sand of Baker Beach through the turn around point until they reach the dreaded Sand Ladder (400 steps up the cliff). This experience will drain the legs of even the best professionals, as there is nothing like it anywhere in the sport of triathlon. More than one triathlete has used the hand cable to help them walk up the stairs. The stairs are to the run what the currents and waves are to the swim. After reaching the top of the Sand Ladder, runners will go left on the Coast Trail and back to the Finish line via Lincoln Blvd. They will then cross back under the Golden Gate Bridge and get to sea level, it is just a matter of endurance to the Finish Line.

Aquatic Park

I went swimming at Aquatic Park this morning for the first time this year. I used to go once or twice a week. I don't know why I haven't been back. I love it so very much.

I love to see the sun rise over the East Bay hills, and the Bay turn golden and light. The sensation when I first get in the water, and my hands and feet and face ache until they go numb. I love the smell and the taste of the salt water in my mouth. The feel of slicing through the water. On occasion there are seals. Other swimmers pass by in the opposite direction, old men wearing nothing but trunks, and movement their only source of warmth. Beneath the surface you can only see a few feet in front of your face. The water is dark and mysterious and older than nations. When I get out of the water I stumble up on the beach with unfeeling legs and feet, and peel down my wetsuit to my waist. And there's nothing like it, that walk back up to the car with the San Francisco air on my bare chest and back. Hot and cold at once from exercise, cold water, and morning fog. When I get to the car, I strip down to my swim trunks and shiver. My wetsuit and squid lid and goggles go in a plastic bin in the back. And then I wrap a towel around my waist, and pull off my shorts. Standing naked in the parking lot except for a thin bolt of fabric. Fog thick in the air. The warm and nervous feeling of finally tugging on my sweatshirt, and gingerly stepping into my track pants, while trying not to let my towel drop or pull up too high. (They cannot see me naked. These things they go away.) And then I'm in the car and the heat's turned on and so is Morning Edition, but quietly, more of a comforting ambient sound, a reminder of humanity, than news. And on the way home I stop in and get a strong espresso drink and a bite to eat, still in my track pants and hoodie. Hair wet with flip flops.

Torched! Or: How I Saw The Torch A Whole Bunch Of Times Even Though Gavin Newsom Told Me Not To Look

The Chronicle has an editorial criticizing the torch switcheroo:
Run ... for cover / Torch relay turns into keep-away game.

Everyone who turned out should feel cheated. Along the Embarcadero route, Beijing's backers and the groups opposed to China's policies in Tibet, Burma and Darfur didn't get a glimpse of the flaming torch. Casual observers who wanted to take in the torch's only North American stop were likewise left out. In effect, the event was canceled.

This was San Francisco's chance to show how it respects and handles vigorous political dissent. It is also the hub of a region with great pride in its Olympic alliances. Thousands gathered to see the torch and express their passions, positive and negative, about the upcoming Games. Regrettably, our city leaders chose to run away from them.

I agree with that, but I'm also realistic. I hadn't been sure if I was going to go, and the mayhem in London and Paris had left me leaning towards not. But at the last moment I thought to myself that I was about to miss an amazing spectacle, and figured I could stay out of trouble. Although I was busy, I thought I could take off at 11, and be back by 2:30. Besides, Harper was there. And so I changed out of my ironic-shirt-du-jour, jumped on my bike and headed down Market Street.

It was a gorgeous day in the city, and it felt like falling in love to ride through the middle of it at mid-day.

But when I got to Justin Herman Plaza, it was a circus. Harper and I (amazingly) found each other right away, and within minutes were approached/harassed by some Fox News clown with an agenda. We split, heading south towards the ballpark.

Years ago, when I was sad, I would go sit out on the Embarcadero at lunchtime all by myself and eat a burrito.

Today, there were thousands of emotional people with flags along the water. Thousands. I saw so many confrontations between pro and anti China groups and individuals that I find it hard to believe you could have run the torch up Embarcadero and not had very bad things happen. I was right there during The Bussing that's been cited repeatedly on the news. It actually was pretty alarming. One woman was trampled, several protesters were nearly run over, and then the crowd went apeshit on the vehicle.

This wasn't your average protest where you've got, say, 30,000 protesters who are against the war in Iraq and 2,000 cops who are against those protesters fucking too much shit up. There were two distinct and very pissed off sides (and I don't mean China vs. Tibet; there were all kinds of anti-China factions) and both were out in force. It would be a pretty reasonable assumption that something could go wrong.

And, plus, let's face it, it's San Francisco. You can't really predict it.

So they switched up the torch route, and left everyone guessing. The misdirection was fantastic. Was it on the water? Heading up 3rd Street? Taking the N Judah? All the sudden there was a rumor it was on Van Ness.

It was like a challenge. A game. Us vs The Olympics.

But we had bikes, and an "Eye in the Sky" (a friend was watching on teevee and updating via d messages on Twitter.) All they had was a plan. And so we were off, hauling ass through the city.

We caught up with the torch at Van Ness and Bay, we actually arrived at the intersection just moments ahead of it. The Eye confirmed the torch was on the way. Harper busted out her Tibetan flag. I got my camera. We had different priorities. I only saw one or two protesters there, definitely a lot more in the pro-China camp. And then it took a left on Bay.

We didn't follow, as it was a madhouse right behind the torch procession. I was thinking of heading back home. But then we decided to go for it again, and we were off, heading towards the helicopters.

We pedaled hard up the steep hill from the Warf into Fort Mason, and cut across over to catch it again as it rolled by Marina Green. There were several police and other law enforcement kinda boats heading towards Ft. Baker, and we thought maybe the torch was going to head under the bridge then get on a boat back to the Ferry Plaza--it's intended destination.

And we caught it again at Marina Green. This time it was under constant harassment from anti-China protesters. But the torch was fine. Nobody was doing anything to go after the torchbearers or to put it out. (I did yell at some punk kid to get off my lawn when he tossed a water ballon, but it looked incident-free) Not that it wasn't nuts. It was:

But it was peaceful nuts. And I was close. I got eyeball-to-eyeball with those creepy special agent secret service double super duper commandos-in-grandpa's-travelin'-clothes guys. I was actually eyeing the torch. I couldn't help it. "Could I grab that shit?" Yes, yes I could.

But I didn't. Nor did anyone else, and when the torch headed West, we pursued. I thought it was headed to Ft. Point. The gate. Some sort of watery exit. All that. But then rumors went around that it was headed to the bridge. So we beat it there.

Foiled again. We stood around for a while, getting bad intel from our Eye (thanks for nothing, Eye!) who eventually clued us in that the torch was headed to the airport. Then we got a text from the SF Team Tibet folks telling everyone to head to SFO.

And then we were besieged by the remaining media on the bridge. We were surprised to learn we'd seen more of the torch than they had. Harper was interviewed by a passel of journalists. She made the Chronicle, at least online.

And then it was really late in the day, so we left and rode home. We stopped and had a beer and Taytos on the way.

Come On San Francisco: We Can Do Better!

So the torch passed through London? How did that go?

The torch completed a seven-hour journey from the new Wembley soccer stadium in northwest London to the principal site for the 2012 Summer Olympics in Stratford on the city’s east side. Along the way, numerous protesters seeking to reach the torch were wrestled to the ground by police officers. One man carrying a fire extinguisher narrowly failed to reach the person carrying the torch, but he set off the extinguisher anyway, dousing police officers with foam.

(snipped)

But for all the safeguards, the organizers had many tense moments when the denouement many had feared — the torch’s being seized or extinguished — was only narrowly avoided.

By God, that sounds like a contest to me! San Francisco, London may have beaten us out for the 2012 Olympics, but when it comes to irrational-beyond-all-measure protests, they can't even carry our gasmasks. (Well, at least not since Thatcher.)

So come on, San Francisco! We can do this! Are we going to let London beat us when it counts? Hell no. We've got something to prove now. West Coast, baby. Let's show them what Democrazy is all about.

Seriously, does anyone know where I can get a fire extinguisher? A big one? It's for, um, the kitchen.

update Er... After what happened in Paris yesterday, I feel compelled to point out the above is sarcasm

San Francisco is Like a Dream to Me

Driving over the bridge this weekend with Harper, the sun was setting into the Pacific as we listened to Bob Dylan playing on our car stereo. We watched drop down towards the ocean through the Gate as we drove over the bridge, then we pulled off at a vista in the Presidio and shared a beer as it sunk into the water below the horizon. You could smell the cedar and the sea. We'd spent the afternoon mountain biking in the Headlands, rolling over hills and out to the ocean beyond. We were both tired, in that deeply satisfied way you can be tired when you've had just enough of a good thing. It was one of the most beautiful moments I've ever had in my life.

Crazy Glow!

Years ago, I was in a band called Hamotam and I had an enormous beard like Sam Beam and a homemade mohawk. Our motto was never the same song twice, and we essentially would all take the stage with no set plan, and start jamming on various instruments none of knew how to play led by semi-maniacal front man, mr. matthew rampage. Real time improvisation. Non-musicians making music. It was all very puzzling, and ended badly in a cocaine and methamphetamine-fueled cycle of self-destruction that sent two of the founding members off packing, homeward bound to live with parents. Harper and I had skipped out long before that. We didn't like to snort things up our nose, and the madness was just too much. There was talk of touring Europe, for example, a preposterous notion. Of becoming famous, and playing at The Greek, even more ludicrous. The "music" wasn't even bad, it was utterly unlistenable. An assault on your ears and senses. Completely horrifying. It was the kind of premise only someone mired deep in a dark black hole of addiction could possibly entertain. At some point, the actors forgot they were engaging in a joke, in guerilla theater of sorts, and began to actually believe that it was a band. That what we were making was music. It was grotesque, and I felt betrayed by my friends. I began to hate them and their antics. Although I had left already, the madness still followed. There were angry phone calls. Threats. I owned hamotam.org, our domain, and when one of the principals discovered this, he threatened to sue me. He left obscene comments all over my blog. By this point it was just he and one other guy, and I couldn't be bothered anymore. Cocaine, it's a hell of a drug. Methamphetamine too.

Not long afterwards, we left for Asia. The fellas all went their separate ways, and each in his own time got his head straight. One remains one of my best friends whom I see all the time. Another is still a close, close friend, although we rarely talk. The third, well, things happen. Sometimes you say things you can't take back. When I came home again, after six months abroad, I was, quite honestly, glad they were gone. Glad it was over. Glad everyone, finally, seemed to have their shit together. And I didn't miss it. At all.

But now, I look back on that period. We were all blogging and writing and making music and art. Hanging out constantly in a tight-knight circle of friends. And, despite the drama and the madness, I miss it. I miss that creative rush. That buzz.

And every once in a while, I get hit right in the forehead with a reminder. A couple of weeks ago, one of my friends sent me this file. A relic from that era. It's our frontman, rampage, who after some voice talent failed to show, was pressed into the service of pitching Crazy Glow. I smiled when I saw it, and dropped it into iTunes, then promptly forgot about it.

And then yesterday morning, while I was working, it came on in the shufffle. And I thought of Hamotam, and Matthew and Jeff and Ezra and Harper and me. Onstage at the Hotel Utah. In front of a crowd at the Cafe International. Playing astride the Mckinley Statue in the panhandle. Playing in the sun in Golden Gate Park. At parties and on street corners.

It was madness, it was madness, it was madness. And, oh, how I miss it so.

01 crazy glow!

rampage!

Howdy, Neighbor

Like all good San Franciscans, we spy on our neighbors. Well, spy may be a bit strong. But we are familiar with them. We have nicknames, even. The nicknames started when Harper hurt her back and was largely confined to bed for a year. The neighbors became like her TV show, there being no TV in the bedroom. She was living Rear Window. Complete with our own cast of characters: the couple, comic book store guy neighbor, the girl who is always at home, the big oaf, and, our favorite, the boy. The boy started off as a normal college-age boy. He played guitar. He drank beer with friends, and grilled on his porch. One night, he almost got into a fight with The Big Oaf outside on the sidewalk. (I broke this up, by yelling out the window. "Shut up!" I didn't really care about he noise at all, truth be told. I did it to forestall a fight, re-directing their mutual aggression at me, rather than each other. The Boy would have gotten his ass kicked, and that would have made me sad.)

But then, at some point, The Boy quit being a boy, and started being a user. I'm not quite sure when that was, but it was certainly when Harper's back was still hurt to the point she was largely confined to bed, so at least a year and a half. He quit going out. He quit having friends over, and more and more of the time, he just sat motionless in front of his computer, for hours on end. Not typing. Just staring straight ahead, holding a mouse in one hand. I took the picture below on the left in March. The one on the right was taken last night.

He sits like that for hours on end. Typically, he's there from the afternoon at some point until the early morning hours. I wake up pretty early, it's often still dark out when I get going for the day. And repeatedly, time after time, I've woken up and seen The Boy sitting there. Obviously after a long night of staring straight ahead.

Sometimes, I like to think that he's not just wasting his life. That he's working on some super-important project. Some sort of code that's going to change everything. That will make us all honest and enlightened and happy and free. A comprehensive system, a unified theory.

But that, I suspect, would require typing.

The Boy makes me sad, and maybe he shouldn't. But there have been times when I've wanted to intervene. To throw rocks across the street at his window and say, "Hey, you, Boy! Look around you! You live in a great neighborhood, in a great city, in a great region, in a great state! No matter what you are into, you can find it here! There is all kinds of life happening, just over your shoulders."

And then I think it's none of my business, and I just go on about my day or evening or night. And I tell Harper, "The Boy is at his computer again." And she replies "All is right with the world."

Originally posted on mat.vox.com

Shifting gears: the honesty room

Disaster!, originally uploaded by Mat Honan.

I'm really pounding them out today, but I want to take a minute and be sincere. I'm really glad I went to training last night to clean up the oil spill. Training was remarkably easy (you just sit there and listen) and there will be several more training sessions to come if you missed this one.

See you at the beach this weekend.

Oil Spill Volunteer Certification Tonight

Cleanup Crews, originally uploaded by Anna L Conti.

There's a quick four hour certification this evening from 6 - 10 PM at the County Fair Building in Golden Gate Park. This is part of the Kill The Spill group I wrote about earlier. It's probably the easiest way for you to get some training to get out on the beaches and start cleaning up.

Why, are you looking for something to do in San Francisco?

Because if you are, this gentleman seems interesting.

San Fran by Segway

Nnnneeeeeerrrrrrrrrrds!!!, originally uploaded by Mat Honan.

Harper and I went swimming together this morning at Aquatic Park. It's our seventh anniversary today. she had never swum the Bay before, and it was a glorious way to start the day off.

As we swam, I looked back on shore, and saw this group go Segging by. I didn't really know what was up, but it made me chuckle. After we finished swimming, we were changing in the parking lot when they Segged past again, this time right by the car. It was some sort of tour group--the woman in front was speaking over a walkie talkie that broadcast over each Segway. They each wore a safety vest and helmet--because, as everyone knows, riding along on the sidewalk at three miles per hour can be quite dangerous.

It was, quite possibly, the nerdiest thing I've ever seen in my life. And not in a good way.

Anti-Social Networking

All my life, I've had, on occasions, profoundly anti-social urges; sudden whims to defy the unspoken social contracts that bind peoples together moreso than any document, law, or border ever might. I have never acted on them, not once, not ever. Never really even considered it. But on occasion, there they are.

For the past three weeks, I've been working at Wired's office, downtown. I rarely do this, typically I work at home. It's meant I've been commuting again for the first time since late 2001. Riding the 71 or the N every day, packed in like a prisoner in a lurching vehicle churtling down (or below) Market Street. Everyone swaying together.

Those dark desires come most frequently in these moments, when I'm trapped in a closely-packed and silent crowd. A few days ago, Big Black was the trigger. I was listening to Songs about Fucking, and suddenly, I had the urge to start throwing elbows. To skank up and down the aisle, knocking businessmen and the homeless alike tumbling over onto the seats. The Power of Independent Trucking. Believe it.

Yesterday, it was a little different. There I was, standing towards the back. There was an empty seat next to me, but it was one of those sideways facers. I don't dig those seats: they're too crowded and people are always side-swaying over onto you. So I just stood there. And then, a disheveled red-headed corduroy kid came galumphing on the bus via the backdoor, squeezing his way through the scrum, hunched over with elbows out, and plopped down into the empty seat. He then began digging through the largest, most overstuffed Timbuk2 bag ever carried, his elbow maybe an inch from the chin of the woman beside him. In true big city commuter fashion, she was unfazed, perhaps did not even notice. And from the depths of that giant, filthy messenger bag, he plucked out the latest Harry Potter, and opened it to page 38. (I looked.) Then I noticed the woman behind me--in the middle seat in the very back, the one that has no seat in front of it--was also reading Harry Potter. As was another man just in front of me and to my left. Perhaps more were, even, but these three were all I could spy. I was completely surrounded by Potterses. And just then, I found myself wanting to scream, at the top of my lungs, "Potter dies!"

Instead, I just sent a text message to Twitter, and queued up another track.

2007 Wired Rave Awards

Once again, I had a great time at the Rave Awards. Once again, I became as unto a ridiculously drunk person.

Bonus Six Apart / Typepad/ Voxery trivia: I saw the esteemed Mr. Anil Dash there (Look! There's Anil Dash), but could not talk to him due to loud Girltalkery. And I believe I saw a glimpse of the Trotts, but I'm not positive about that one as I didn't say hello and then never saw them again.

St. Regis Lobby

Rebecca, Danny, Harper

The Open Bar

GirlTalk

Angele and Adrienne get crazy onstage with Girltalk

Papasan

Steal Your Face Right off of your Head

Station 12 - The Haight
Originally uploaded by honan.

It's interesting how different the culture is in different parts of the country.

I used to have a Grateful Dead sticker in the back window of my truck. I put it there my senior year in high school in Alabama, and immediately began getting pulled over. I suspected the sticker, but didn't know for sure.

But then one day one of my parents (I forget which one) was driving my car, and got pulled over. The cop, realizing it was a kid's car, more or less told my mom or dad that he had pulled him/her over because of the Dead sticker.

..........

One thing I miss about Alabama, and to a lesser extent a lot of the South, was the way that different people from different cliques would hang out together. My friends saw nothing wrong with listening to The Grateful Dead and the Dead Kennedys. Goths, deadheads, punks, skaters, and any other kind of outsider, all ran together, largely because we were all different and all aware of it. And there just weren't enough weirdos for us to divide ourselves up into camps.

In Atlanta, things were different. By and large, the deadheads didn't talk to the punks, who didn't talk to the skins who didn't talk to the goths who didn't talk to the ravers who didn't talk to the mods and on and on and so it goes. I think, to a real extent, growing up like that made me more accepting of different styles of music, and more broadly, different lifestyles. It was Us against Them: they told us so. I was just a kid with shaggy hair who didn't play football and didn't like the music on the radio. I never really thought of myself as opting out; I felt like I was forced out.

..........

I have digressed. But my point being: the act of putting a Grateful Dead sticker on my car--there were also Jane's, REM, Pixies, and other circa 1990 mainstay band stickers on there--made me an outsider, and suspect. It was oficially discouraged. Different is bad, you dumb fuck, and don't you forget it.

And so the other day, when we walked over to check out a housefire in our neighborhood, I noticed for the first time that all the firetrucks from our station have a certain familiar logo on them. These are city vehicles.

I wasn't born here in San Francisco. I miss my family; they are so very far away. I seldom listen to the Grateful Dead anymore (not out of animosity, I would if they recorded something new and it was good. I just get tired of listening to the same stuff over and over). But this made me really happy. When I see things like this, here in the city that I love, I feel like I'm at home. Finally, at home.

Three Threads In Search of a Knot

Uno
This morning I woke up before dawn, dressed quietly, and drove off into the cold dark city, blue and green lights shining from my dash. NPR. At the terminus of Van Ness, where you can go no further without driving into the deep green drink, I parked and shuffled down to the concrete bleachers in flip flops, my toes cold as joggers and cyclists passed me by going the other way. It's getting light now, but the city is still asleep, and shrouded. There I met Nate, Maria, Dave and Melanie, they are already dressed and have their blood up to get it on. I told them to go on ahead; I'd catch up. I take off my shirt and warmup pants, and shiver in the fog as I pull on my wetsuit. A runner stops and asks me the water temperature. I tell him I don't know, but that two weeks ago it was 53 degrees. He asks me if I'm training for a triathlon, and I point to The Rock off in the distance, floating in the Bay. Then I ran down the beach and plunged in. No fucking around this time, I tell myself. I threw myself under the water and swam holding my breath for as long as I could stand it, trying to use brute force to acclimate to the temperature.

Mind over body.

Fuck it's still cold. But I'm prepared for it this time, and I plugged away. No allowances for gasping. No floating on my back. When I try to look around I feel slightly dizzy from the motion and temperature of the water. At the end of the first length I stop and rest, adrift in the current. I breathe through a cramp and swim again. On my third length, I hear a shout ahead of me and pop up to peep. There's a seal just in front of me, facing Dave, just feet from his face. No. No. It's not a seal. My goggles are foggy, and I'm slightly disoriented. But I realize it's a dog, a yellow Labrador. Everything shifts into surrealism for a moment, as I try to understand. It's cold. My brain is cold. And I realize the dog is swimming with his master; one of several people out swimming in nothing but trunks. I'm impressed, and I start swimming again.

A half hour later I swim up on the beach. Nobody else is here yet, I needed to leave a little early to pick up Harper who has worked the overnight shift. I peel off my wetsuit, and strip down naked under my towel. I stand for a moment and look out over the Bay, enjoying the sensation of being cold and feeling the air across my skin. I pull on my pants and sweatshirt, and take a deep breath.

My body feels so good, so alive. Have I ever been this alive? Yes. But I am reminded of life all over again. Fresh. Anew. It is Springtime, and I am strong and alive.

Dos
I am 34 years old. I will be 35 this year. I have already taken half of my threescore and ten. To what end? To what meaning? What have I done?

When I was younger, there was so much I wanted to accomplish. I was going to write and publish a book by 30. I was going to be a famous-in-certain-circles author. (But not widely! I was to be Bukowski, not Grisham.) I wanted to be lazy and to get wasted and lay around the house watching TV. I wanted money. Money, money, money. I wanted so many things that seem very trivial to me now.

Instead, today, I want to be a good husband and citizen. I want my life to be an adventure, to be exciting. I want to love my work, and to feel fulfilled by it. I want to be healthy and strong, mentally and physically.

I don't want to live my life in front of a television, nor do I care to be on television. I simply want to live as long as I can, as healthy as I can, in the great company of my wife and best friend.

Tres
When I was about six years old, in our new house, in a new city, a new state, a new nation, I was playing in the backyard when I met the neighborhood. They yelled over the fence at me, hello, hello, and then came climbing-swarming over. Boys, four or five of them, American boys. I had never been friends with any American boys up until that point, only girls, as that's all there were in our apartment building in Tehran. There was some sort of antagonistic air about them that I felt. Or maybe I just thought I did. I don't remember how things started, but at some point I decided to show off my plastic Spiderman handcuffs.

I put one boy's wrists in the cuffs, and locked his arms around the pole that held up the awning. I told him to try to get out. With a quick yank, he was free, the broken plastic cuffs dangling from a single wrist. Everyone laughed, and I told my father, who was working in the back yard. I think I was crying. He told me, more or less, that I had told the other boy to try and get out, and that's what he had done, and that I needed to work it out for myself. This was good advice, though at the time it only made me angry. If I had taken it to heart, I would have had a much easier go of it for years to come in Alabama. But I did not. Instead, I was a sissy. I wanted my parents.

The other kids laughed at me. When my back was turned, one of them hit me with a tennis ball. I spun around, really pissed now, and they laughed more. One of them, the boy, Benji, who lived in the neighboring home, called me a helicopter and they all went swarming back over the fence, mocking me, while I wailed at the sight of my broken plastic handcuffs. Benji was a year older than me, and for the remainder of my childhood he would be my nemesis, though I doubt that he ever saw it that way, or gave me much thought. Years later, when I was 15, we would become friends while working together in a warehouse over the summer.

He liked Hank Williams Jr., and I listened to The Sex Pistols. We never talked about the handcuffs.