oscar v. spirit

with each year that passes, i lose more and more faith in the oscars. while the public cares about the academy awards 10x more than all the other awards shows combined, i'm of the opinion that the academy membership has shown a penchant for doing is choosing the wrong movie. i suspect their track record with actors is probably better, but let's not exaggerate their competence in this regard either. julia roberts, best actress for erin brockovich. unbelievably, that is no joke.

so with that in mind, i've decided to test whether the oscars even deserve the label best movie award, let alone best award overall (not that there's much competition outside of film, the grammys, are you fucking with me?). i'd say the last 11 years of best pictures should provide a rough indicator of recent performance.

Year	Oscars	ISPs	Winner
2007	The Departed	Little Miss Sunshine	Oscars
2006	Crash	Brokeback Mountain	Spirits
2005	Million Dollar Baby	Sideways	Spirits
2004	LOTR: The Return of the King	Lost in Translation	Spirits
2003	Chicago	Far from Heaven	TBD
2002	A Beautiful Mind	Memento	Spirits
2001	Gladiator	Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon	Spirits
2000	American Beauty	Election	Oscars
1999	Shakespeare in Love	Gods and Monsters	TBD
1998	Titanic	The Apostle	TBD
1997	The English Patient	Fargo	TBD

by my count, that makes the score 5-2, spirits. i suppose the oscars could sweep the four undecided and earn the narrow victory, but the academy needs to be worried. after all, titanic would have been an all-time flub as a nominee, let alone a winner, and chicago wasn't exactly an inspired selection either. losing either of those matchups clinches the academy's loss.

the projected tally looks to end up 7-4 spirits. ouch, that's a drubbing.

on sequels

that sequels suck is one of those immutable rules of thumb for film, and though music doesn't adhere to the tenet quite as closely, it is by no means exempt.

just this year, a couple cases illustrate this point nicely:

bloc party: silent alarm (excellent), a weekend in the city (basura)
clap your hands, self-titled debut (among the best albums of the year), some loud thunder (three listens and i have no use for it now or anytime in the future).

on the other hand, the most worshipped indie band of its time -- the arcade fire -- has escpaed the sophomore jinx. in fact, i would venture, though many fans would likely find the statement sacreligious, that neon bible outshines their much glorified debut lp, funeral.

i'll admit i didn't love their first album, at least not the way everybody else did. but i do agree wholeheartedly that the uniqueness of its sound clearly distinguished it from its brethren. i don't think this album matches its predecessor in that way. what neon bible does have going for it is that it's infinitely more listen-able. it's bigger, brighter, and while not bolder, it is more energetic.

when and if arcade fire takes their place in the annals of music, i think funeral will be what they are exemplified by. but my concern is not their place in history, it's simply what i like. and i prefer the immediacy of neon bible to their harder-shelled debut.

my new yorker "subscription"

upon my return to sf, i took over the apartment of friends who upgraded in space to accommodate them living together as a couple. i wouldn't call my place luxurious, and certainly not commodius, but it's cute, and i have no real complaints (except the bathroom sucks -- i can barely sit straight on the toilet without my knees hitting the bathtub. and it holds moisture like a ziploc bag, meaning i have to keep the window propped open, which makes for naked, chilly moments each morning as i wait for shower steam to fill the room).

but the best thing about my place has nothing to do with the structure itself. the day i took the keys, a copy of the new yorker awaited me. i confess i let a month go by before telling my friend that her subscription was still being delivered to her old address, but when i finally came clean, i discovered she was receiving copies too.

after a couple months though, the honeymoon ended. i approached the front door each evening imagining that the mailman had slipped the newest edition through the mail slot, but as i opened the door all i found were catalogs and credit card offers. each morning as i rode the streetcar to work and each evening as i rode it home, i scanned the car with green eyes looking for fellow passengers enjoying the magazine by which all magazines are measured.

misery ensued over those next weeks so with my mental health in mind, i decided to purchase my own subscription. but as fate would have it, an issue showed up the next morning. and the following week, the next issue appeared as well. i spoke to my friend and she confirmed all was still well with her subscription.

elation returned. the commute emerged as the highlight of my day. 30 minutes to and for where i could stand, read, learn, and listen to music.

but on a return ride one evening, something happened. i stood without reading material as i'd finished every article of the current issue on the trip to work. so without occupation, my eyes wandered coming to a pause at a young lady's magazine: the new yorker, one with a cover i'd not yet seen. i stealthily checked the date and indeed it was the next issue.

i scurried home from the train stop eager to pick up the newest issue only to be confronted by coupon books and paper copies of bank statements. sure i was dismayed, but i could wait one more day for it to arrive. but one more day turned into a week and still no magazine showed up. and the same the following week. and such has been the pattern since. a new yorker arrives, then a hiatus where nothing shows up for the next week or two.

and so i'm stuck. missing issues of what i love to read more than anything else, yet feeling like the freeness of my partial subscription is just enough to justify me assuming the full yearly cost.

oh, what to do?

out of red ribbons

some strange things happen when you work in the world of online gaming (the kind that involves money, not mages). especially with proprietors who partake in their product (apparently they haven't listened to big's ten crack commandments "never get high on your own supply").

in my experience of the normal corporate world, when things go pear-shaped, they examine how their business operates (good) and look down for peons they can point to as not pulling their weight (not necessarily good). but with gambling types, their thought processes don't quite meet the smell test when it comes to rationality. instead of delving into their books or their processes, they look to karma, luck, energy, and whatever else a gambler might depend on to beat the house at their own game.

in our case, they looked to feng shui. and when that didn't work, the answer was once again, feng shui. after all, if business is slow, what better way to attract more customers than rearranging the desks and throwing a bonzai tree on a few desks.

so one monday, i arrived in the office to find cream-colored gourds hanging from the water pipes running along the celings. apparently business remained sour though, because a few weeks later, we had another feng shui expert do the walk-through.

no, no, no. gourds were all wrong for this place. we need to hang red ribbons. oh, and here's the check for $3600. i'll send over that crimson tape as soon as i get that payment.

but this past evening, as the last to leave for the day from my floor, while walking around shutting off the lights, i noticed something pecuilar. we still had gourds, while all the offices had ribbons.

where's my positive energy? don't we get some too?

i've seen god...he's called adam gopnik

in the world of magazine journalism, there's the new yorker and everything else. simply to appear in the magazine indicates a mastery of the writing craft. but even among this distinguished company, adam gopnik emerges as special. everything you wish you could have observed, he observes for you. no point goes unaddressed, no angle unexplored and the eloquence with which he spells these ideas out, unmatched.

there's an old story which gets repeated at the beginning of every journalism class across the country. during an interview for a lofty editorial position, the managing editor of a revered journalism organziation asks the interviewee about his qualifications. the interviewee boasts that he can walk into the newsroom and without exchanging a single word with the writers pick out the finest of the bunch.

sure enough, the two of them step out of the office, the writer takes a sweeping glance of the room, and picks out the star wordsmiths. dumbfounded, the ME asks how he did it. simple, the writer says, just look for those whose lips move as they write.

great writing engages your senses. though letters are just curved marks on paper (or computer screen) they somehow become much more in the hands of a skilled practitioner. entire scenes are painted in one's mind, each sentence another brush stroke bringing the picture one step closer to completion. yet simultaneously, each word seems whispered in your ear, as intimate as that first great conversation with a future partner.

it's the rhythm of the words that really captivates me. the picture is great, but without the audio seeems hollow. and here adam gopnik excels. for anyone who doubts that, they simply need to read the opening paragraph of his latest contribution, shootings. the topic is familar: the virginia tech massacre. but to not hear, or more accurately, be haunted by his words, you'd need to be dead yourself.

if i could do it again

every vacation i've ever taken out of the country (my last trip to puerto rico counts) has left me with at least one memory i'll take with me forever. which is not to say every trip's been perfect.

but unlike most places i've visited, i could get puerto rico dead right the next time around.

arrive in san juan on friday night and blast off that jet lag with a long night of drinking and carousing with the locals. get a decent night's rest (4-5 hours), recharge with a cafe con leche, and wander around old san juan for the day. clean up, watch the cockfights, clean up, and use your winnings from picking the winning chicken to have a nice dinner on calle fortaleza. then repeat friday night with one difference: don't stop till the sun's fuly risen, head straight to the airport and catch a puddle jumper to one of the islands (vieques or culebra).

wash off in the salty ocean and pass out on the beach. alternate the following for the next three days: swimming, snorkeling, scuba diving, sunbathing, drinking, eating, kayaking, the biobay, sport fishing, and sleeping (preferably outdoors, after applying strong bug repellant). mix activities when possible. catch the charter plane back to san juan and for tuesday night's galleria.

if you have another day or two go walk through the rain forest.

if not, go home and revel in a great trip.

congratulations leslie

sure, other distinctions exist, but do any really outweigh being the first artist listed on my audible list twice? i reckon nay.

last night as i surfed the internet, i decided to steal her new album (temporarily, i'll buy it when it comes out). technically, it's not even released and won't be until may 1 stateside. but that has no bearing on it being available on various p2p sites, my preferred one being soulseek. and just as i suspected, a slew of individuals had already posted it on the network.

so this morning as i sauntered down to the muni station, i took a listen. my first thought was negative: god damn it, these stupid white earbuds that come with ipods suck. they perfectly reproduce what the music would sound like if your studio were a tunnel on a winter day in chicago.

but as soon as i got over that fact, her songs absorbed me. unlike her previous (and also great) album let it die, these songs all come from feist herself -- with the exception of one nina simone cover. and she displays true variety, varying the pace from the bright and danceable i feel it all to the sultry and bass-laden my moon my man all the way down to the melancholy and contemplative the water. mix this with the sexiest voice in the biz and, well, there's not much else to say except that feist has about three weeks left before achieving international pop stardom.

oh, and that first listen has turned into half a dozen going on seven.

you're short? better work hard

i don't think it's much of a secret that women prefer taller men. but now it's been quantified just how much they prefer them. and the news isn't so good for me.

apparently, the average annual income for a man in the united states is $62,500. i make more than that, but not $150,000 more, which is what i'd have to do to offset my disadvantage versus an identically-qualified six-foot version of myself according to a study done on the preferences of men and women using matchmaking services. read about it in john tierney's article in the nyt.

fortunately, i have my sterling good looks, incisive wit, and impeccable taste to fall back on. that's got to be worth, oh let's say two inches. now where am i going to find the other $50,000? hehe.

my three month checkup

here's what i pledged to do for 2007. let's see how i'm doing.

* stop biting my nails
a rousing success, though one slightly marred by the replacement of one bad habit with another questionable one. kind of like people who quit smoking and get fat, i've quit biting my nails and have started filing them with a four-surface emory board (though i only use two, no buffing for me!)

* dinner party once a month (starting february)
only failure to report. i began the year at zero, and remain there.

* cook one real meal per week (multiple pots and courses)
a mixed bag. i've cooked several real meals, but nothing that i would consider impressive. i continue to disappoint myself by the way i cook. still, my goal here was partly economic, and i've probably saved something.

* one month cycle
failure!

* stay with the gym (add ten pounds of muscle and lose five pounds of fat)
i'm pretty sure i've added ten pounds. unfortunately, it's not all muscle. just reupped at the gym though. of course paying's the easy part, now i have to start going.

* 20k invested
i've modified this goal to having 50k across all my investment vehicles. that includes two 401k accounts from old jobs, a brokerage account, and an online savings account. with the $4000 of excelsior funds i just purchased, that brings me to ~ $30k. since i started the year with around 20k, that puts me roughly on schedule.

* 2 international trips
well i'm still at zero, but i think there's a reasonable chance i could get to four if i include work trips. ireland for my birthday, southern europe for new year's, and then montreal and manila for work.

* remember how much i like my friends (keeping in touch, visiting, gifts)
i've found it offputting to give gifts to friends. so far i've purchased two of them, and delivered one after a long deliberation. this may just be me being me, but there's always something to feel weird about. if she is single -- or even worse if she's not -- will she misinterpret it as a play? if the friend is a he, well, guys exchanging gifts is just weird, right? i have a gift sitting at my house and am actually waiting for a reason to give it. of course, this kinda defeats the purpose of random gift-giving, which is what i set out to do.

* keep chin high (six days so far)
haven't been able to sustain this, and have tried to replace it by keeping myself busy. i've taken freelance assignments so that i wouldn't have to sit and think about things i shouldn't be thinking about. and when there have been other free moments, i'll play cards. hell, if you're not going to be happy now, at least set aside something for the future when you might. well at least that's my thought process.

honestly, it's been a tough year, and nothing close to what i had envisioned at the beginning. i feel like i've done some good things, but it still feels like i'm coming up short. i guess the silver lining's that i still have nine months to correct that.

illegible

a couple weeks ago, i added a sidebar to my blog called legible, where i could list all the things i read that truly moved, relaxed, fascinated, uplifted, or inspired me. i am a bit afraid everything is going to come from the new yorker and ny times -- more or less the required reading for anyone who considers themselves informed -- but hopefully that will motivate me to broaden my reading habits.

normally, they make terrific diversions, enriching my time on a crowded streetcar or breaking up a monotonous work day of writing sop documents for our customer support team. but today, the times failed. failed miserably.

starting as i often do in the most emailed box, i clicked on the most written about story, For Girls, It’s Be Yourself, and Be Perfect, Too.

it's long, especially for a newspaper article. it requires you to click six times to reach the end, and the only thing that got me through it was the knowledge that i was going to rail about it on my blog.

basically, it's a woe is me piece about rich girls, who have to balance being rich and the rigors of making sure that they're going to stay that way. yes, the horror of having to take honors and ap classes so they can go to the ivy league school that their parents are alma maters of, all while trying to be pretty.

yes, i understand college is competitive these days. but my sympathy doesn't extend to crying adolescents who didn't make the grade for williams and will have to settle for smith. and call me a snob, but when i read about the huge sigh of relief that came when one student received her acceptance letter from usc (who knew the university of spoiled children had those? i always assumed parents just sent in the first semester's tuition with the "application".), what little credibility that had survived for the first five pages of the story instantly vanished.

so to the "amazing girls" of newton high, i say good luck.

not that you'll need it, since you're rich already.

everybody loves (long) blondes

normally when i travel, i travel to eat. but with a tentative plan to head over to the uk at the beginning of july, i decided to see if my current favorite band happened to be playing somewhere on the island. as it turns out they're on the summer festival circuit with stops at oxegen and t in the park. too bad they're sold out (three months in advance?), which means the only times they'll be within a 5000 mile radius of my location in the foreseeable future will pass me by.

i love the long blondes album, somewhere to drive you home, and basically loop it on my ipod. and to the detriment of my connectedness to the world, their cd has replaced npr as my automobile listening. in fact, i'm so enamored with their music, that i've developed a crush on lead singer kate jackson, despite not finding her remotely attractive physically. kinda like feist (though she's still #1).

and the axe fell

today reminded me of those gloomy days at the tail end of the dot-com era, morale dropping to a seemingly impossible low after a few more people said their goodbyes. these days played a significant role in why i left the uncorporate corporate world of the startup.

so it saddened me, though i knew it was happening, that a couple people were asked to stop showing up. one person, i consider a friend, albeit not a close one. not much of a worker, but a pleasant fellow. the office will be a bit more somber in his absence. the other, i have little fondness for. he hasn't taken particularly well to my delegations of responsibility and a sense of resentment emanated from him constantly. still, i don't wish joblessness on him either, especially after hearing that he splits time between his sister's and a friend's couch already.

all that said, the layoffs were deserved, and for that matter, tardy. i'll be taking over their duties, which look to be minimal. and i guess i should feel good that i negotiated them a modest severance package, two weeks paid notice and delayed their dismissal for a week. from what i've heard about the man above, none of those things would have happened normally.

but it still doesn't make me all that much happier. those looks of resignation on their faces as they were called into the one-on-ones, understanding their inevitable fate -- they're difficult to forget.

time to drink it off.

feng shui me

i spent a day out of the office this week in order to interview some people for a piece i'm writing on a peer coaching program they've launched at the haas business school. and upon my return the next day, i discovered several bulbous objects hanging from the exposed piping that runs along the ceiling. intrigued, i crept up close to inspect these hanging oddities which resemble a headless snowman.

i flicked one with my finger and it reacted much like a ping-pong ball might, flying away quickly and emitting an unsatisfying and hollow tapping sound. "we had a feng shui guy come in yesterday," my coworker said.

"you're full of shit," i replied instinctively, thinking that a company this far in the red could not afford to spend money on such new age gobbledygook.

but indeed, my coworker told the truth. the hanging objects were gourds and had been strategically placed around the office in order to improve the energy, or flow, or some other descriptor normally associated with yoga. apparently, a red welcome mat has been placed at the door as well. obviously, another key component of achieving whatever it is that feng shui sets out to achieve.

i'm no expert on feng shui, so i do have one question about it: how much did it cost us?

a strange thing about ms word

as a sometimes freelancer, i've become accustomed to using the word count feature of ms word. since i'm always writing on word count, it's the last thing i do before saving the file and submitting it to my editor.

here's what i've noticed though. there's (at least) two ways to do a word count in ms word, and they consistently give you different results. using the word count feature in the tools menu on the profile i'm writing about the founders of a nice little company called revolution foods, i get a count of 418 words. on the other hand, according to the readability statistics feature (which i use to make sure i'm not using the passive voice excessively, 10% is the acceptable limit in my book) the count is 415 words.

in the whole scheme of things, this clearly doesn't mean shit, but as a former computer scientist this bothers me. why would you use two different routines to accomplish the same task? after all, even if you chose the one that calculated the result wrong, i wouldn't have noticed.

by the way, i have to get down to 400. i'm close, but finding words to excise has become real difficult. not surprising considering i started at 625 (or was it 628?).

absence makes the heart grow fond

correction: chef paul bertolli is no longer affiliated with oliveto. bad (i should say no) fact checking on my part. he is the founder and curemaster for a company called fra' mani salami, whose products i shall be trying with all due expedience. paul canales, previously the chef de cuisine for oliveto, has taken over as oliveto's chef.

i considered the idea as i sat down in the cafe area of oliveto, rockridge's renowned italian restaurant.

nearly ten years ago, as a starving college student, i had dined in the restaurant, sitting just two tables away from where i sat now. i can't recall the faces who crowded around the small square table that evening, but i do remember the incessant complaining. their main gripe, and a common one for people that age, accustomed to the mammoth portions at culinary meccas such as tgi fridays and bennigan's, was that serving sizes were too small.

now let me be clear. the portions were small, primarily because the pasta dishes we ordered weren't intended as entrees. the meal had been set up in the traditional, and frankly, far superior (i understand that now), manner, where pasta is but a small dish bookended by the antipasti and main.

but the portions weren't just small, they were heavenly. as i consumed the last bite, i was awestruck: pasta never tasted like this before. and to be honest, it never has since. chef paul bertolli makes all his pasta on the premises and does it better than anyone else. it's a bold statement and one that i stand by.

oliveto was my first great meal, the one that i look back upon as the turning point in how i viewed eating. it was no longer just an activity, it was an experience, and a visceral and sensual one at that.

as the years passed though, i wondered. was oliveto's greatness a product of the dismal food i had experienced up to that point? would it still tantalize me, after a decade of dining at some of the world's finest restaurants?

yes.

for starters, my two dining companions and i split the salami plate. like the pasta, all the salami served at the restaurant are created by the chef. once again, it shows. all five varieties shine, with the soppressata particularly memorable.

the real test was yet to arrive though. the pasta had its previous greatness, as well as ten years of absence, to live up to, but sailed well beyond my expectations. the tagliatelle, a wide flat noodle, was served in a light sauce, with the flavor supplied by shaved fish eggs. the dish captured the best qualities of food, even ones that would seem to contradict. subtle, yet somehow rich. simple, yet unlike any other pasta i had come across.

in fact, all that held the meal short of greatness was the lack of a dessert to cap the meal. not the restaurant's fault, of course, but simply because my dining companion (and ride back to sf) needed to depart.

in hindsight, however, should i have just taken bart?

the shins must read my blog

since they heeded my call for a trip to the bay area. they'll be stopping at the warfield on the 16th and 17th of the coming month.

i won't be going though. not because i hold a grudge, but becuase i don't think much of their latest album, wincing the night away. song two, australia, however may be their single-best song yet. that's saying something.

performance update

a bit of time has passed and my little sony vaio has been chugging away over the past couple of weeks datamining hands from full tilt. since my first update, the number of hands in my db has more than tripled and now numbers more than three-quarters of a million hands.

from an absolute standpoint, i haven't had a lot of luck recently and my actual win rate per hand has dropped more than 10%. but with this more statistically relevant sample of data, let's see how i fare relatively to my competition.

> 100 hands played: 1814 0f 5377, 66th percentile
> 1000 hands played: 263 of 736, 64th percentile
> 2500 hands played: 80 of 266, 70th percentile
> 5000 hands played: 29 of 114, 74th percentile
> 10,000 hands played: 8 of 30, 73rd percentile

what i find interesting about these numbers is that my relative rank rises as the minimum-hand requirement increases even though the percentage of winning players in the group grows as well -- at 100 hands played 59% of the players are losers; at 10,000 hands played 83% are winners.

$200 and a sprained wrist

for two years, i avoided the slopes. after a six months in lake tahoe, my daily routine consisiting of strapping into a snowboard and riding the chairlift, the snow-capped mountains lost some of their allure.

at least that was my story when people asked.

it was only partly true.

yes, i no longer possessed the motivation of a few years back, when i would wake at 4:30 a.m. call in sick from my car on interstate 80 as i sped towards the hill. but equally responsible for my absence, i didn't relish the idea of sucking. not compared to the average winter warrior, but relative to myself. and with each passing day, i knew i'd drifted a step further from my prime.

it started the following year. i met a bunch of friends i'd worked with at the resort for a week of boarding. they had spent the past season in telluride. i recovered from a car accident then wrote film reviews for a website in san francisco. and it was pretty obvious.

by the end of the first day, they ahd showed off numerous aerial maneuvers and hazardous rail slides. all i had to show were a pair of tired legs that could barely keep myself upright during a high-speed heel side turn. my friends, who i had matched spin for spin less than a year ago, were now a completely different class of rider.

so i stayed away.

but i did miss it sometimes -- the liberation that comes from floating two stories above the ground as you clear a 40-foot tabletop jump and the coarse swoosh that accompanies a carved toe-side turn. so after some prodding from a friend, i relented, and accepted an invitation for some president's day boarding.

the evening before, as i dusted off my snowboarding bag and unzipped it to make sure all my equipment still resided inside, my mood suddenly elevated. perhaps, all the skill would rush back, i thought to myself. buoyed by this unexpected elation, i began imagining, then acting out, the impressive spins i would toss as i sped down the hill. the glory days of my 24th year, when i cruised into the terrain park and threw a switch five and built a ramp taller than myself on the hill in back of my house to huck inverted spins, would all be revisited tomorrow. sure there would be signs of rust. i wouldn't be quite the same caliber rider -- it would be foolish to expect that after so long away -- but the magic would start to show a bit more with each passing run.

the day's beginning seemed auspcious. the first run was shaky, but each moment on my board increased my comfort level, and after 90 minutes i felt poised to make the previous night's visualizations reality.

half an hour later, i didn't hit the wall, i hit a building. the legs turned to jello and my only motivation for turning was to balance the pain between two different muscle groups. a lunch break didn't help. neither did taking a run off. and finally, as if there hadn't been sufficient disappointment already, i took a nasty tumble on a large patch of ice on the day's last run, -- literally five feet from the parking lot -- and sprained my wrist.

so that's what i have to show for my glorous return to winter sports. $56 for a lift ticket , $35 for gas and rental car, and $15 for a dessicated slab of tri-tip and two bottles of water. quite the aching muscles today as well, for which i'll be spending $90 for a massage on thursday to try and alleviate.

sure was fun though. no joke.

and the grammy goes to...nobody gives a shit

to my surprise this morning while reading the ny times, the grammys took place yesterday. now i talk a lot of shit about the oscars, but at least they have some credibility. the grammys, well they rank somewhere behind the academy, golden globes, independent spirit awards, top ten lists from notable critics, tonys, emmys...well, you get the idea.

ah, but you say, what evidence do you have to substantiate your view? and i say, the winner of the pop performance by a duo or group with a vocal, my humps by the black eyed peas.

ironically, despite being one of the ten worst songs ever forced upon human ears (hopefully dogs with their higher listening frequencies are spared), a cogent argument could be made that it is only the third worst song fergie has been involved with (fergielicious and london bridge were inexplicably shut out).

My hump, my hump, my hump, my hump,
My hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump.
My lovely lady lumps (lumps)
My lovely lady lumps (lumps)
My lovely lady lumps (lumps)
In the back and in the front (lumps)
My lovin' got you

without context, i might confuse this for the work of a retard with a serious stutter. but hey, i guess that's why i'm not a judge.

finally, some housekeeping. is this not the worst fucking name for an award ever concocted. i lose interest in hearing the winner before the announcer gets through the title. should any award really include two prepositional phrases? would the grammy nominating board be unsure if they could nominate a duo if the award were renamed best vocal performance by a pop group (maybe since the nominees were obviously chosen by those with sparse brain activity)?

perhaps, the people who named the award also chose the winner of it.

fuck the shins

living in palo for a year, i missed the easy access to shows in san francisco more than just about anything else.

well at least i thought.

turns out, san francisco gets skipped over more often than it should. now, the shins have blown up, despite their most recent album being their weakest by many orders of magnitude (song 2, australia, however, is one of their five best songs). yet in their previous pass through the bay area, the closest they came to san francisco was santa cruz. and now, they're shunning the bay area enitrely, opting for stops in seattle (twice), portland and los angeles as their big west coast stops.

what the fuck?

man rule

never go to a strip club without lining something up for after

frankly, i've never understood the appeal. they're expensive, and worse, provide little hope of an interesting end to the evening.

yet, i seem to be the minority in this position. a group ventures out for a big night, and when some start to lag, a suggestion is made for a trip to the titty bar, generally to the ovation of others. as if this somehow turns to the night into a rousing success.

i found myself at a bar. saturday night, so no surprise. but the group was not a regular one. obligation lead me, as this was a sendoff of sorts to an old friend moving out of the bay area. revelry was to ensue.

but to my chagrin, only two shots were purchased (one fernet for me, one fernet for him). and without the contribution of others the night spiraled downward, first to mediocrity, then twenty minutes later, to abject boredom (* i was having an on night, hence i entertained, but reciprocation, absent).

i prodded the guest of honor, putting him in postion for a free drink from our six-foot blonde bartender recently transported from seattle. he declined. she offered water instead. he accepted.

"i'm such a bad bartender," she said. "i'm supposed to be selling drinks."

uh, yeah. dance on the bar. get us drunk. something to make my trek through the sheets of rain falling on san francisco worthwhile.

and then the inevitable. one person called it a night. like dominoes in a row, others announced their fall. i resisted, saying no going away party should be ending at 12:30 a.m. the word club was tossed out. my heart sank. then the words gold club. my heart sank a bit further.

so there i was, sitting three rows back from the stage, debating whether i needed a seven dollar pint of bud light to make this bearable. i handed a stack of ones to my friend and he moved toward the stage area. a few mediocre talents took their turns on stage, shed their tops, scaled the silver pole in the center of the stage, then rotated their bodies around the pole till gravity returned them to the floor. (side note, do strip clubs have poles for phallic reasons or just to show off the artistic ability of their employees?)

for their efforts, a gaggle of onlookers stuffed their g-strings with dollar bills.

but really, where does the enjoyment coming from? i've never used the services of a professional woman, but at least i understand the draw. strippers, that's like paying thomas keller to cook a meal, then leaving before your first bite. at least, no one's stupid enough to do that.

now you know

few things in life can really be measured.

that's probably a good thing. for chances are, there would be a lot of damaged egos if the truth came out. everyone secretly thinks they're a top dog. and the ones that don't you never see anyways. they're depressed, holed up in their parent's basement with the light switch down.

but there are exceptions. one of the world's leading researchers in video game culture once told me world of warcraft -- just look at the level of your character -- and a big reason why people loved the game so much. poker's another.

using a piece of software called poker tracker you can record nearly fifty thousand hands a day. it's remarkable, really. run a few simple arithmetic calculations and there you have it, the wheat separated from the chaff -- and which one you are.

so here it is, my rank after almost 200,000 (35,000 of which i played) hands of $200 buyin no limit.

all players: 2295 out of 6927, 66th percentile
players with at least 100 hands: 621 out of 1854, 66th percentile
players with at least 500 hands: 121 out of 395, 69th percentile
players with at least 1000 hands: 58 out of 186, 68th percentile
players with at least 2000 hands: 14 out of 58, 76th percentile

since i'm a statistics retard, i don't know which is the most meaningful sample. but the results look pretty conclusive to me.

apparently, i'm signficantly better than average, but well within one standard deviation of the mean. if this were an iq test, an equivalent score would be about 110.

ouch.

buy my friendship, it's cheap

i describe myself as selective about the people i keep company with, so i was shocked to find this to be true. once could be luck, twice could be coincidence, but three times? that's a pattern.

case 1: i strolled down to haight street to meet a friend at a local bookstore. for me, it was a pause before the bar. for her, she needed a book, not to read, but to give. she was headed to a birthday party at a bar. someone she knew, but not a resident of the inner circle.

like any normal person, i've been to many birthday parties for acquaintances where a group of friends meet at a bar. and in all those times, i've always given the honored guest the same gift: liquor. usually in a shot glass.

so i wondered silently. how would i feel if a young lady i didn't expect a gift from came bearing one? i'd think of her much more highly, that's for certain. even if i didn't like the gift.

cost -- $12.95(?) for a compilation of essays and critiques on music.

case 2: while washing my hands at a friend's house, i suddenly found myself rapt by a romantic scent that filled the air. it was soft and sweet and recalled those moments when a waft of air escaped from a bakery while you passed by.

i sniffed the air several times, pausing briefly in between each inhalation to shift my head toward where the fragrance was strongest. it was my hands. or rather the soap i had used to wash them. mango and white sugar.

as i exited the bathroom, i simply commented "i love the soap in your bathroom". the next time i ventured to the apartment, i had a gift waiting for me. and i think ever more highly of that person with each wash of my hands (at least until the bottle runs out).

cost -- $10 (?) for a bottle of archipelago sugar hand wash.

case 3: in the cooking class i'm taking at city college, a classmate said he'd be missing class the coming week and asked if i could pick up an extra copy of the handouts. the following friday he emailed me asking when would be a convenient time to swing by and pick them up. and since i would be waiting for the cable guy to show from 6-8, i told him to just come by after work.

he did. and brought a creme puff to show his thanks. now ignoring the inherent awkwardness that ensues when one straight man brings another straight man a pastry, i was taken aback by the thoughtfulness of this person i barely knew. especially since my favor was no more than common courtesy.

cost -- $1.95 for a beard papa caramel creme puff.

in conclusion (i haven't used that prepositional phrase to start a paragraph since english class, sophmore year in high school), all it takes to win me over is a gift, small or big, as long as it's unannounced and unexpected.

it's the chocolate stupid

i had mixed feelings as a child when my mother used to return from the chinese grocery store. she always returned with goodies: pickled cucumbers, fried gluten, sticky rice, pork buns, egg custards, and sweet rice cakes.

but soy milk too.

invariably, when i saw her unload groceries, she'd pull a half gallon of soy milk out of those pink plastic bags and place it in the refrigerator. once in a while she'd tell me to drink some or without asking just bring me a glass of it. i'd anticipate a glass of fresh squeezed oj (out of the carton, but still good) then look down and find the translucent white liquid and realize how wrong i had been.

the dreaded beverage even made an appearance in a recurring nightmare of mine. now it wasn't on the level of my earthquake nightmare -- at least until high school, but probably till i moved to california, i thought people died in earthquakes by a crevasse opening up in the earth and them falling into the bottomless hole (i was never sure whether they plummeted all the way to the magma) . hey, that's how it happened in my dreams (i woke up before reaching the magma). no, the soymilk dream was more of a mild night terror. my mom would tell me to drink the soymilk and i'd refuse. she'd insist politely and i'd start pouting. then she'd get angry and start yelling. to my credit, i don't recall ever criying despite the verbal abuse. yes, i remained strong until waking in a cold sweat.

but this past week, having fallen sick and with my car in the shop, my only access to non-delivery food came from one of the local markets. and because i'd always thought it looked charming from the outside, i elected to try the natural food store, aptly named the natural food store. as i wandered through its narrow isles, i came upon the shelf displaying all varieties of soymilk. and as fate would have it, the vitasoy brand was discounted to just $1.99 for a quart.

the idea of giving soymilk another try began to rattle around inside my skull. well, i did like tofu quite a bit now, which i wasn't fond of as a child. and like soymilk, tofu also comes from the soybean. perhaps my soy tastebuds had changed from a hatred to a love during my transition from child to adult. so i pulled one of the rectangular cartons off the shelf and placed it in my blue shopping basket.

when i returned home, i was excited by my purchase. i let it chill in the refrigerator, then popped the plastic tab and poured myself half a mug. i took a sip and was shocked, not because it tasted terrible, not becuase it tasted good: because it tasted great. as i swished the liquid around my mouth and then swallowed, the beverage leaving behind a smooth memory of sweet cream, i wondered, could this really be the same thing that had disturbed my nights as a child?

but of course it wasn't the same. the box i had pulled off the shelf was chocolate soymilk. and when i returned the next evening to purchase another basketfull of groceries, the carton i pulled off was vanilla soymilk.

three days later, i ventured out again to fetch a carton of the delicous and healthy treat known as soymilk. but this time i elected for another market, one that did not carry the vitasoy brand. so instead i took home a carton of silk vanilla soymilk, this time in the half-gallon variety. as soon as i reached my home i pulled off the plastic tab and poured myself a hearty glass. i raised the cup to my lips, my mind already anticpating its delicious reward. with my mouth wrapped around the brim of the glass, i took a full gulp and then another. come sugary richness.

but it never arrived. i looked down into the glass for answers. i couldn't understand what had happened. i turned to the counter where the carton rested. i reread the copy on the box. it still said vanila. then i turned to the nutritional ingredients. there the answer lied. only 3.5g of sugar per serving in silk instead of the 7g in vitasoy. i could barely taste the vanilla and i didn't like it. and if i couldn't taste the chocolate i wouldn't like that either.

oh soymilk, i thought you a friend for life. but no, my old friends, chocolate, vanilla and sugar simply made you beautiful for those two blissful nights. at least i'll have them forever.

my car's hobson choice

i've always loved this term. apparently it refers to a stable owner thomas hobson who lived in the 16th century that made the following offer to his patrons. take the horse in the stall closest to the door or take no horse at all.

it's all about the illusion of free choice. technically, hobson gave his customers a choice. but if you're in a rush to deliver fresh ahi tuna to the trendy, new sushi joint and 100 miles from the closest town, not taking a horse isn't much of an option. over time, the meaning has expanded somewhat and now often refers to the choice of two bad options.

which brings us to my car, or as i like to call it, my retarded stepson (not related, but only a father could still love it). those who call themselves friends of mine know the laundry list of problems that i've had over our seven years together, the most notable being the subframe of the car detaching.

now i have a different problem: the headlights blink, but stop when the turn signal's on. so should i be an asshole and annoy the hell out of anyone with the misfortune of driving in front of me by continuing to flash them with my xenons or have them think i'm an idiot who always thinks his turn is coming up?

well it sounded cool at first

once in a while, i'll let someone in on my pseudo-secret. i've played cards as my job. then i show'em my rolex. that gets the maximum reaction. shows how baller i am.

just kidding of course -- not about playing cards for a living or having the rolex, just showing it off.

on those occasions i do tell, i always get a favorable reaction. simply put, playing cards seems cooler than what most people do. you can only have the following conversation so many times (1) before it grows tiresome:

me: what do you do?
boring person: i'm a lawyer/banker/trader/equity analyst.
me: you like it?
boring person: not really.
me: cool.

you don't meet a poker player every day and their interest becomes obvious when they say "really?", showing their shock that someone uncorporate might still cavort with the yuppies. this interest is a manifestation of their optimism: they might actually have a conversation that interests them.

i need 10 seconds to kill it.

invariably the second or third question in their line of inquiry goes "what makes you so good?". and if i had even a little stomach for pretentiousness, i'd say something like "i don't know. i guess i can just look into people's souls and find their fear." that would probably go over really well -- if i could keep from puking on myself after expelling that load of shit.

i've actually spent time trying to figure a good answer. i came up with this:

"you know, cards is no different than any other battle between two men. and no matter how strong someone is, if you keep pounding them over and over, sooner or later they break. they see you coming and they wince. (pause for effect) then they're yours."

now unless the woman (you know it's a woman becuase you wouldn't spend this much time chatting with someone of the same sex) is hiding a membership to gamblers anonymous, she'll have no idea what you are talking about. but who cares, that sounds hot and alpha. but again, puke. or at least some uncontrolled laughing about how ridiculous i sound.

so instead i say the truth. i'm not actually great. i have no special skill. unless you count not having an emotional breakdown at the table after taking a bad beat a special skill. it is unbelievable often people will give away their next three months of rent money while trying go kill bill on someone who caught a lucky card on them.

that's it. i've never been great at cards, and never will be. but i never suck either. and my good is usually just good enough.

farmer brown

it's 3 a.m. and i feel like writing a blog entry. what i don't feel like is trying to come up with a catchy title for the entry to describe my visit to farmer brown.

i heard about the restaurant a few months ago, but it never made it close to the top of my restaurant list. it's a nice concept though. they buy all their produce from local black farmers. that sounds socially responsible, but when i mull over the concept, it leaves me with a couple of questions. do other restaurants discrminate against black farmers? because if they're not, i'm not sure this policy accomplishes anything. and secondly, is there any sacrfice in quality by only buying from black farmers. i'm sure there are black farmers who are doing great things, but what happens if there are no black farmers who specialize in certain strains of mushrooms? do they use inferior mushrooms, or not use mushrooms at all?

i don't have any answers and these thoughts would never have arisen if everything had been perfect. alas, it was not. we started with the handcut kennebeck fries and oysters fried in cornbread. the cornbread crust gave the oysters a hearty crunch, and its slight sweetness played well with the brininess of the mollusk. on the other hand, the fries disappointed. the dish had two varieties -- regular and sweet -- and about half of each were served lukewarm, as if they'd been sitting out for a few minutes.

overall, the entrees were a step up. the catfish and shrimp jambalaya had a nice spice to it, but was a bit of a one-note song. once the spiciness subsided, there weren't any other flavors to savor. on the other hand, the crisp, light batter of the fried chicken kept the meat moist while infusing it with a rich flavor. served with a side of dirty rice, the dish probably could have benefited from a slight reduction of sodium, but was strong overall. we only sampled one dessert -- lemon layer cake -- which should be avoided unless one finds dryness and density desirable in their final course. prices for all dishes are reasonable -- starters under $10, mains generally under $20.

what i was happy to see was a mixed crowd. this probably sounds racist, but it's pretty rare in san francisco to see a high percentage of black and filipino diners. but that certainly makes up a large part of the clientele at farmer brown. i hope that trend spreads to other restaurants, including those that don't have a soul food bent to them.

try, try again

just about one year ago, i posted the following as my new year's resolutions:

i will update this daily.
i will update this daily.
i will update this daily.

oh yeah, and i'm going back to the gym.

well that failed miserably.

thanks to the handy counter on the side of my blog, i see that i posted a grand total of 38 entries in 2006. that falls a bit short of my goal of 365. i did go back to the gym but then i went back to not going to the gym for most of the year.

but what would life be if one gave up every time they failed (answer: short). so for 2007, here goes.

• stop biting my nails (several weeks of success to report already)
• dinner party once a month (starting february)
• cook one real meal per week (multiple pots and courses)
• one month cycle
  
• stay with the gym (add ten pounds of muscle and lose five pounds of fat)
• 20k invested
  
• 2 trips
  
• remember how much i like my friends (keeping in touch, visiting, gifts)
  
• keep chin high (six days so far)

that's all for now -- or should i say all for 2007

a slight modification to the theory of humor

as proponents of democracy know, ideas great in theory can turn to disaster when confronted by the test that is the real world. so as thomas jefferson asserted in the federalist papers, i could not say with certainty that my theory on women not being funny held up until subjected to the rigor of outside examination by women.

and after some drunken debate over new year's dinner, i am happy to report that my theory held up beautifully to its first test. however, the contribution of others' ideas has showed me that even the finest theories can use several iterations of revisionism, the way of reasonable men. so without further due, i unveil the new, improved version of my theory.

men can make men laugh and women can make women laugh -- but men alone make both sexes laugh.

and to be honest, i'm not sure the things that women say to make other women laugh really qualifies as humor. rather it may just be idle chatter, which because of some unexplainable natural phenomenon causes giggling to ensue in half the world's inhabitants.

i'm sexist

but i'm right: women are not funny.

now some feminista might counter with the ellen degenereses and tina feys of the world. but remember, we're not talking about women who are funnier than the average woman, we're talking about women who are genuinely, laugh out loud, belly aching, bladder distracting funny. say dave chapelle, chris rock, jerry seinfeld, jon stewart etc.

so if and when you're lucky enough to find some girl who really has it, she's a keeper.

being that it is christmas, try this at home. ask your siblings about the funniest female person in their life (for accurate results, female significant others should not be present). then look around and observe the confounded looks that appear on the faces of those around you as they desperately search their memories for someone that even somewhat fits the charge.

maybe i should consider myself lucky. i have ran across the rare breed that is the humor-producing woman. and as chance had it, she shared her sensible theory to explain the scarcity. humor, unlike femininity, big tits and a hemispherical backside, is not valued in women. hence it goes unnurtured. and once females find they are unrewarded for the trait, they fail to incorporate it into their personality.

now, in my mind, this is unquestionably true. on the other hand, it doesn't constitute a complete explanation either. if it were, we wouldn't know what polonium or radium was. but of course madame curie did indeed identify these two elements, which leads us to the question of why there hasn't been a truly funny woman to emerge from the woodwork. in the end, it's only intellectually honest to conclude that there must be another factor, biological being the most obvious, that contributes to the female disposition for humorlessness.

i leave you with this statistic: 2.25. that is how many funny women i've run across in my short 29 and one-half years. whether that makes me lucky or not, i've yet to determine.

the panhandle's shining star

a short while back, i debated with a friend of mine where the good restaurants in san francisco were located and which neighborhoods played the haves and have nots. we didn't agree on everything (i dissed his home neighborhood, north beach, while giving props to the mission and marina), but there was little argument that the panhandle was severely lacking.

one restaurant can't change that fact, but the opening of nopa at hayes and divisadero certainly marks an effective first step. pick day of the week and one will still find the restaurant teeming with patrons, nearly all of whom seem to be chatting enthusiastically over a glass of wine. all the chatter means private conversations have to occur at raised vocal levels, but it also lends a festive ambience to the restaurant ideal for combatting the malaise that follows a mundane work day. the wide open space and exposed kitchen only add to this fact.

however, not all was perfect with the meal. The dishes generally shined, but the service ranged from curt to downright icy. the hostess nearly left my friend and i behind as she weaved through the crowds as if there were an unannounced race to our table. and the gelid blonde couldn't even manage a smile as she handed us our menus before skirting away. and though the service never lagged, at times it felt like we were being prodded through our meal in order to free our table for other patrons. our server gave terse explanations to my inquiries about the wine list and left the check halfway through dessert without ever asking if i desired a cup of coffee or a glass of port to accompany my sorbet.

still, the shortcomings of the service did little to detract from enjoyment of entrees like the mediterranean fish stew, which comes heaped with baby golden potatoes, squid and served in a hearty rouille. however, the real star of the meal is the seared black cod, a generous cut that your fork slides right through served with a crispy skin that adds a richness to the white fish. it's only the beef carpaccio with which i have qualms over the preparation. the meat is exceptionally fresh and with its topping creme fraiche achieved a buttery richness. however, the beef was sliced so thin it degenerated into a pile of mush while trying to extract it from the plate's surface.

even before i dined at nopa, i'll admit to being a fan. as much as the panhandle needs good restaurants, but the city of san francisco needs quality dining options that stay open past midnight (nopa serves until 1 a.m. daily) all the more. the food itself virtually guaranteed a return visit, but the extended hours means it earns a spot in the regular rotation.

13, 12, 11...all good things come to an end

over the past year, i've made a point of mentioning the wire every time the subject of tv arises in conversation. i do so because no other piece of viewing entertainment, whether on the big or small screen, even approaches the greatness of the series. it's the best thing on television. sadly it's also the best show on television no one watches. so i do my best to spread my word, because others deserve to share in that quality. and also in the hopes, faint as they may be, that a season six may somehow come to bear if a few more people start tuning in or buying the dvds.

and like i say to those i hope to convert, i wish i still had four seasons to catch up on.

the king of all liars

up till now, the best one i'd heard was on a shuttle from the atlantic city airport where a fellow rider claimed to have built an automobile that ran on used vegetable oil. he'd taken it cross country once too, though he'd have to stop at mcdonalds ever couple hundred miles and ask the fry cook for a bottle of their used oil. apparently, that made the car leave a trail of french fry fragrance.

well that all changed at the 21st amendment this past evening. i met a friend for a beer before the giants game and found him conversing with an older gentleman. as i approached him, he excused himself to the bathroom, but not before introducing me to bobby. i asked if he was also headed to the giants game. he said no. and i believe that to be the last truthful statement he uttered.

now with my fleeting memory, i'll never be able to do justice to the whoppers he dropped, but here goes.

- professional craps gambler, or "whale" as he likes to call himself, who travels the world, but spends a lot of time in vegas, mostly in comped suites at the belaggio.
- bigtime sports bettor, i mean to the tune of 2k-3k per game. that is all 16 nfl games every week. but he never uses a book. being italian, you just bet person to person.
- godson of frank sinatra
- and my personal favorite, fucked playmates with whitey bulger, reputed boston mob boss

the gayest thing i've ever done

other than suck that biker's dude cock (just kidding). well it has to be shopping at the container store. and not just shopping, but examining the various opening mechanisms to garbage cans; comparing the aesthetics of an enamel paint versus stainless steel; wondering if an 8 gallon capacity would be enough, even for a single "man".

as i wandered through the 2(!) expansive floors of every goody ever conceived that could hold other goodies, i wondered, perhaps out loud, whether i was actually one of those dudes who gets married, has kids, and on their 42nd birthday finally gets the whole guys in uniforms thing.

and this suspicion only grew with each moment i weighed the merits of whether a dual-direction drip tray warranted an extra $20 for a dish rack. i determined it did. well it had to be -- the red sticker pasted onto each box said so. so i was relieved to see another man pushing a well-stocked shopping cart past my aisle; at least until he greeted his boyfriend (the top) in a voice i could only imagine on a man if a monkey had been trying to juice an alto tenor's balls.

so as i stood waiting to checkout, i resolved to watch some porn or use my hammer to do something as soon as i got home.

well just as soon as i set up the dish caddy.

the business model of outlets

everyone loves getting a deal. it makes you feel smart, as if you've somehow outsmarted the system such that your money is doing more for you than the next guy's money is doing for him.

the outlet mall depends on this sort of thinking. fancy brand names set up shops, take in the past season's (and sometimes many seasons before that) ugliest designs, reduce their markup by some impressive percentage, and hope their brand will blind the shopper's aesthetic instinct. not to say that one cannot find worthwhile purchases, but one has to look mighty hard. and i can only guess what great proportion of shoppers feel the tinge of buyer's remorse on the drive back home.

all of this makes sense for the hugo bosses, calvin kleins, and kenneth coles of the world. but as i strolled through the 100-degree heat of the gilroy premium outlets, a store caught my eye. not because i thought i might find the one piece of attractive clothing, but because i could barely fathom how an outlet for this particular vendor came to be: jelly belly.

would a jelly belly outlet sell all the flavors that no one cared to purchase, i.e. tasted like shit? and if so, what would possess someone to patronize the store? granted there are plenty of fat people moving (or not) around gilroy but would they not opt for the flavors that actually taste good. after all, i can't imagine the candy to be prohibitively expensive. i mean, they do sell them at safeway.

light bulb. how about a gummi bear outlet. we can sell bulk packages of the yellow ones that even half the fat little 8-year olds who get picked last in kickball leave in the bag.

know your audience

through my year of j school, one theme always arose in discussions of the media: they don't write for the people who read them. it's why there's a business section in the paper, but not a social welfare section. it's why the silicon valley gets big coverage while oakland is largely ignored.

these thoughts occurred to me as i was picking up a few slices at arizmendi for my saturday lunch. as i ambled down ninth avenue, i noticed a banner hanging across the front of andy's, one of the local chinese joints. it boasted that asian weekly had bestowed the honor of best kung pao chicken (presumably for either sf or the bay area).

now i am not here to uphold or debunk asian weekly's claim. in fact, i am completely unqualified to do so, for i have never tasted andy's kung pao chicken, nor have i ever ordered it elsewhere. furthermore, i have never ate at a chinese restaurant where any of my companions to do so. this leads to me believe, that asian people don't really order that dish.

which brings us to the original point. why would a newspaper written for an asian audience have a best of category that is irrelevant to an asian audience?

the davis reduction

of the select group of guys who i consider true friends, one seems to do exceptionally well with the opposite sex -- with one caveat. he's got terrible taste in women. he thinks asian girls are overrated -- fine, i agree -- but he also digs the trashy look as well. the around-the-block but i clean up well thing. if i didn't know him and saw a photo album of his exes, i'd have pegged him for italian with an affinity for gold necklaces and earrings.

so to no suprise, the conversation lead to the discussion of handling women. the techniques, so to speak. his #1 ploy: the davis reduction. now i'd never heard mention of this particular tactic, so i asked him to explain. apparently, reduction is the term doctors use for mending broken bones. davis is his physician colleague who has transplanted this method to the male-female relationship.

apparently, davis, like so many others, has a difficult girlfriend, one whose psychosis seems to arise at regular intervals. and so when one of her moods shows, it's time to cut off the face time. ignore her, then reestablish the connection a few days later (say five) as if nothing out of the ordinary has taken place.

subtle, yes. without words you have communicated to the female who has control over the relationship. yet you were not mean, and in fact she has nothing to even accuse you of, since nothing out of the ordinary has even transpired. at least she thinks that's what you think.

i was of two minds while listening to my friend elaborate on the practice. one, i've always done this, though i never came up with a clever name for it. and two, it's retarded that this is how relationships have to work. because my friend was right. and so despite my approaching true adulthood (30) and him on the fast track to a career in orthodpedics, this is the idiocy that all people deal with. all for a little love; and a little more sex.

0 for 2

it's pretty rare for people to flake on me. i think it's because people like me. it might be because i make plans with so little time in advance there's no way to weasel out. nonetheless, on each of the last two evenings, i've had people cancel on me. goddamn planning.

but it's worked out. sort of. instead of drinks and dinner, i "decided" to work. and by work, i mean play cards. i think that sounds terribly pretentious -- when you refer to playing a game as work -- but when you're counting on the money to pay your apartment and nourishment, it is what it is.

i've been running a little salty recently; it may have something to do with my karma being shit right now. so instead of pushing things, i've pretty much stayed away from the (virtual) table. but my "diligence" paid off during the unexpected open spots in my schedule. a few fortunate cards, some horrendous play by my fellow players, and the last two days have given me rent and a token for my orange savings account.

all the same, i'd like to avoid the flaking moving forward. the good luck can stay though.

that looks mighty heavy, sir

make a list of the most loathesome activities and moving surely makes an appearance somewhere near the top. i can say that to be true, both personally and for all those individuals who populate the p2p review sites, like gayot, tribe and yelp. there you find dozens of posts entitled 'best money i've ever spent' or 'absolutely worth it'.

heeding the advice of those experienced with movers and the voice inside my head saying hard labor is better left to others, i secured an appointment with the local faves, delancey street movers. in three hours -- including an unpaid lunch break -- they moved my stuff from my one bedroom in palo alto to the same in san francisco. i'm not sure they broke much of a sweat.

and therein lies the rub. while i loafed in a lawn chair basking in the peninsula sun, phoning my other bourgeosie friends to extol the virutes of hired muscle, i began to feel, well, a wave of femininity. and the feeling was only exacerbated when the most diminutive of the three movers tossed my dresser -- which i nearly slipped a disc trying to move in -- over his shoulder and walked, seemingly on a layer or air, down the stairs and to the moving truck.

"strong, isn't he," another of the movers mouthed to me. yes, he was. but something made me suspect something between the lines. i found a silent, "weak, aren't you" there.

yes i was happy to not be scuffing my hands while fumbling box after box, item after item of furniture. hell, i might get a splinter. still, what does it say about a man who, through hours of work where the only thing he moves are numbers around a spreadsheet, has sissified to the point where he cannot even move his own possessions?

all these thoughts crossed my mind as i sipped a glass of bordeaux while unpacking my belongings from the boxes -- so neatly stacked by those three blue collar fellows.

attractive people don't like the homeless

i recently attended a charity art auction sponsored by an organization called the coalition to end homelessness, a name that more or less explains what the org considers its mission.

taking place at the somarts center on brannan, i figured it would attract a young and cultured, yet still profoundly hipster crowd. hence, even if i didn't take a liking to the art -- which i didn't -- i would still have plenty of pleasing things to look at. and not that i'm superficial, but this is was a profoundly unattractive crowd. and not that stylish to boot.

recently returning from a one year exile on the peninsula, i'm easily impressed by even a hint of urbanity (i.e., vintage jeans, you must be cool) on this night though, i may have secured the title of most metropolitan at this gathering. at least i had a hood.

fool me once, shame on you. fool me twice...

well shame on me of course. apparently some lessons are difficult to learn. and so i found myself once again dining in a tapas restaurant, hoping that small plates would finally fulfill their big promise.

this time the culprit was iluna basque, a somewhat trendy eatery on the corner of union and powell in north beach. as you walk inside, the interior designer's fondness for maroon becomes immediately apparent. the walls wear that color, as do the accoutrements selected to hang from it. but despite the bordello-esque hue of the restaurant, the corner location and long windows spanning 180 degrees of the exterior chase all possible feelings of claustraphobia.

and now to the downside; the dining experience. the first inkling comes just as you take a seat at your table. you unroll your place setting and spread the napkin across your lap, only to realize there is paper in your hand. it takes audacity to put seared foie gras on the menu and then ask patrons to dab their mouths with the product of a recycled notebook, but iluna basque does just that. if only they had demonstrated such boldness in other aspects, say the cooking.

between the three of us, we selected nine small plates, including a butter lettuce salad, seared scallops, a duck empanada, a petite ribeye and the aforemention foie gras. the only thing that stood out was the salinity. each bite elicited the expression of one who had inadverently swallowed a mouthful of atlantic ocean water. in fact, the saline flavor was so overpowering that you could taste nothing of the ingredients themselves. the only relief from this sodium infusion came from the wine, an excessively sweet and hollow grenache.

the one dish of the nine that i cannot speak for would be the cheese plate, which we ordered yet never arrived, except on the bill. upon mentioning to our server that he had overcharged us, he felt no need to apologize for the omission or to ask if we would still like to have the dish brought. without a word, he snatched up the bill walked back to the kitchen and made the correction. i'm not even certain he said a word -- not then or during our entire meal, since he felt no need to make a visit, other than the mandatory ones where he was dropping off food.

it's too bad, i mean for iluna basque. my two dining companions are recent transplants to north beach, and have plenty of money to spend. and i happened to know they were on the lookout for a regular neighborhood spot. somewhere to spend their money 3 or 4 times a month. the restaurant certainly lost them. and me along with it.

bar tartine: it's no tartine

if you live in san francisco, you are either well acquainted with tartine bakery or severely deprived. i suppose you could also be vegan, hence not able to enjoy their delectable baked goods, but there again you fall into the category of severely deprived. some doubt tartine's perfection, calling their bread pudding excessively eggy; those people would be mistaken. a more appropriate manner to describe the dish, and everything else they serve, would be the finest way to start a day.

despite the occasional complaint, however, the acclaim for tartine bakery is nearly universal. initially though, bar tartine -- same people, full restaurant -- failed to garner the same level of praise. inconsistency permeated the menu and the service lacked the attentiveness and precision of formal dining and the warmth and care of the best neighborhood establishments. or so the reviews said. but as the months passed, so did the critics. the dishes, which previously lacked imagination and suffered from flawed execution, had been fixed. now everything they served matched the quality of their bakery sister. allegedly.

i beg to differ. nothing on the menu was priced exorbitantly, nor did anything deserve to be. along with one of my regular dining partners, we split two each of starters, appetizers and desserts. i confess to never having any sort of confit except duck, so i was intrigued by the tuna confit salad. now i'm aware that tuna confit is just an alias for starkist. the fact that the greens were horrendously over-dressed in italian vinagerette only exacerbated the situation. my companions watermelon and radicchio salad was a significant upgrade, but still short of remarkable.

sadly, the entrees brought little relief. the sweet corn risotto was slightly undercooked, leaving the center of the risotto slightly chewy. but the pan-roasted quail didn't make me feel i had erred in my selection. the green salad the quail was served with actually overshadowed the bland prepartation of the fowl.

even the desserts, which would seem almost guaranteed to approach perfection given their relationship with the bakery, didn't quite meet expectations. the warm chocolate cake with chili flakes finished with a suprising kick, but it was notable primarily for its novelty. even their signature dessert -- muscato soaked nectarine served with a scoop of basil sorbet -- though excellent, brought little glee. the peel of the nectarine made it such that even when slicing with a knife, the fruit was ground into a pulp-like form. plus my knowledge that just a few short blocks away at range, a nearly identical, but superior version of this dessert was being served, simply made me wish i had chosen another dining location.

i'm sure i'll check back in a year or so. by then, maybe they will have actually sorted through their problems.

bocadillos, or how i learned to kick the tapas trend

i love the idea of tapas. but slowly and sadly, i am arriving at the realization that they don't work well in practice. sort of like marxism. in manifesto form, everyone involved is happy and well fed. in execution, not so much (see: ussr, late 20th century).

well tapas too. is it not every visit to a restaurant that after looking at the menu, you are faced with many more options than you could possibly try? not with tapas. instead, you get a taste of all the dishes that strike your fancy. mix it with a pitcher of sangria, a fex kalimutxos and a cafe con leche after dinner, and not only has your yearning for food been satisifed, but you're just caffeinated and inebriated enough for a night of socialization (and further revelry).

at least in theory. i've given tapas a fair chance. more than fair some would say. in addition to bocadillos, i've frequented esperpento, ramblas, picaro, alegrias, thirsty bear, cesar, cha cha cha and others i'm sure i've forgotten. i'm still waiting to be overwhelmed.

bocadillos has its high points, the foie gras roll and the grilled shrimp with pepper flakes most notably. but it has its low notes as well. the calamari was oversalted and the short ribs didn't fall from the bone when my knife and fork nudged them as they should. considering bocadillos represents the finest tapas san francisco offers, well, perhaps it's best to just stay away. the portions grow smaller, yet the price not to the same extent. the service seems rushed and uneven and the kitchen's execution inevitably tends toward inconsistency. maybe they're just asked to handle too many dishes at once. or possibly, the unshakable hipness of small plates these days means attention to cuisine just doesn't matter much.

whatever the reason though, i think i've finally learned to stay away. let the young urban professionals who populate the in-crowds fill the tapas restaurants; i've got other places to squander my paltry salary.

bad neighbor, part 2

so i knocked on the door (as the complaining party should have done) the two neighbors who may have been the culprits in the porch-light-tattling situation and both parties denied being the snitch. fishy.

although i'm certainly not the confrontational type, i'm a bit disappointed i didn't get to tell somebody off. at least the guilty party has been informed that their behavior is unacceptable -- even if he or she didn't have the backbone to own up to it.

stanford, a world class university

as i'll be moving out of palo alto and back to sf, and paying for the movers, i decided to do something out of character for me. instead of keeping my textbooks or giving them away to friends who are taking the class this coming term, in the interest of time, i sold my used books back to the bookstore.

so i tossed my thirty odd books into my big roller bag and rolled them to the bookstore. i piled them up on the cashier's desk in two large stacks and she took the top one off the right-hand stack and began to process the transaction. but then i heard something dreaded, she asked her co-worker how to scan it and the co-worker said we have to enter the isbn's my hand.

so i ran the coffee shop picked up a water and a pastry and had a makeshift breakfast at the cashier's desk while she painfully entered each book into the system. then i made a couple more calls afterwards. then i waited for another 15 minutes for them to finish. world class university my ass.

and my reward, 25 books sold and a big $63.50 in my pocket, almost 15% of the retail price! that's what you call being violated academically.

in range

not often can you authoritatively say this thing or that thing is the best. well here's not one, but two things that can be added to that list. the best thing about living (back in one month, after a 10 month exile in palo alto) in san francisco is the food and the best restaurant for your money is range.

range is a petite eatery, though not quite as petite as it appears from the outside. the front third of the restaurant has a bar and a handful of tables that they keep open for drop-in guests. but if you walk toward the rear, there is a back room decorated in a modern classic theme, both with its artwork and other rectlinear accountrements. the room is dimly lit and somewhat sparse so it lacks the formality of true four-star dining. and while that also extends to the prices, it does not for the quality of cuisine.

it should be said that the cuisine is new american, so unlike fine french brasseries the descriptions of menu items won't be littered with ingredients you can neither pronounce nor identify. and for some, that foreigness may be part of the fun for splurging on a meal out. it's not for me.

i've spent the past two friday evenings at range so between what my dining companions and i have ordered i've sampled a majority of the menu. however it should be said that in that one week time frame, the entire dessert menu has changed (bring back the plum upside down cake please) and they offer a daily specialty cocktail so there was no way to get bored. the bavette steak (similar to a skirt i was told) was very good, cooked to a perfect medium rare with an encrusting that bursted with flavor. however, i thought the horseradish cream sauce could have been applied with more moderation. the steak stood fine on its own, and about halfway through the meal i began to clean the sauce off the slices of steak with my fork as best i could.

essentially, that was the kitchen's only misstep. the brown sugar glazed chicken served with a nearly molten spoon bread rivaled the famous chicken of zuni. and the slow-cooked pork chop ranks so close to perfection that it makes one completely rethink their stance on the meat. i could rattle off a list of things on the menu that were also terrific, but i'll just mention one dessert: a muscato-soaked nectarine served with a dollop of mascarpone and a scoop of blackberry sorbet and a lemon-pudding cake. in fact, the only thing more remarkable than the food may be the price. starters never cross $15, entrees $20, desserts $8.

over the last six weeks, i've spent my dining dollars at bacar, zuni, plouf, globe, acme chophouse, and three seasons. and while all are at the same or a higher price point, none of them come remotely close to matching range.

dress code

on a lazy weekday afternoon, i found myself at the stanford gym pumping a little iron, some andrew bird playing in my ears courtesy of my iPod nano. i stood waiting for an enormous -- and flamingly homosexual -- samoan man to finish on the chest fly machine. likely, i was contemplating how embarrassed i should be that i'd have to remove about 75% of the weight if i hoped not to tear my arms from their sockets while performing the exercise. but my thoughts were interrupted by a tap on my shoulder.

a stocky black man introduced himself, identifying himself as the assistant general manager of the gym. now he was a bit too big to have a napoelon complex, but nonetheless, he seemed to take his position of power with great seriousness as if he were in charge of homeland security or national intelligence. in my mind, assistant manager of a gym is sort of like a junior cashier at mcdonalds, but that's beside the point. still, i think mr. manager enjoyed his pseudo alpha position.

he said (paraphrase):

"you're in violation of the dress code. we don't allow cargo shorts. but I'll let you slide this time."

gee thanks, that was magnanimous of you. sainthood in your future perhaps, mr. manager, for such acts of unmatched kindness. being the curious soul that i am, i decided to inquire. it turns out the buttons, allegedly, ruin "our upholstery".

yes, he referred to that sticky, pleather-esque substance as upholstery. funny, i thought the bodily excretions of the hundreds of profusely sweating women and men seeping into the upholstery, making it about as virulent as mutated anthrax and fragrant as an unwiped ass after a night of spicy indian food, was the real problem.

silly me.

bad neighbor

my landlord sent me an email the other day informing me that one of my neighbors had complained to her about some of my behavior during the late night. no, i wasn't having some wild kegger where some frat boys passed out on their lawn and puked on their stoop. and it wasn't me blasting music in the wee hours in the morning. my transgression: leaving the porch light on overnight a few times.

apparently, the blinding light rays emanating from the 60-watt fluorescent bulb is disturbing the beauty sleep of my millionaire neighbors. they didn't pay a million and a half for their two bedroom, one bath so they could be disturbed by some punk student who disturbs the complete blackness of their suburban night. i can't believe they've put up with my antics for this long. good thing, they're so understanding.

my prefontaine moment

suffering from a moderate hangover this past sunday, i decided on the traditional remedy: sit on the couch with the television on. and after the completion of the day's second world cup match, i started flipping channels and came to a track and field meet. normally, the steeplechase is about the least interesting race to me, but one of the competitors' names caught my ear: steve slattery, reigning national champion.

using the power of google, i got the relevant info on him. yes, it was the same steve slattery that i ran against in a state sectional cross country meet while in high school.

nowadays, i struggle jogging to the mailbox and almost collapsed last week after an hour of banging around the tennis ball with my kid brother. but back then, as a senior in high school, i had just cruised through a 16-minute 5k a couple weeks earlier and in the best shape of my life (including the next 50-odd years). slattery was just a fresman then, but was already being timed sub-4:30 in the mile. he had talent, but i had experience and the drive to go out on top.

slattery opened the race with his typical sprint, racing out to the lead while i took it out at my normal measured pace. i knew my strategy, run even splits, and pick off the runners one by one. halfway through the race, the plan unfolded to perfection. i had moved into the top-10 and could see the runners in front of me starting to break down. steadily, i gained ground on the few remaining competitors in front of me until slattery was squarely in my sites.

a moment later, i spotted my coach who exhorted me keep moving up. "slattery's 10 yards away. get him"! he screamed. then i said "slattery, you're mine" either out loud or chanted in my head.

by this point, we were all alone. everyone else must have been 30 seconds back with less than a mile to go. i could easily let slattery pull me along to the finish line and try to outkick him in the quarter mile. second place would be guaranteed that way.

but if we ran hundred races and left it to the last 400 meters, he'd win 100 of them. slattery had too much speed. if i wanted to win, i had to break him over this final mile. make the move now and decide the race before finishing speed came into play. so that's what i did.

i put in a burst and caught slattery seeing if the kid could hang with the upperclassman. i kept pushing the pace, pressuring him to break.

he didn't. i did. i went the way of prefontaine.

even casual track fans know the story of prefontaine's 5k race in the '72 olympics. he had the silver medal in hand with a lap to go and did something either foolish or brave. he went after the gold by challenging lasse virren early knowing he couldn't outrun him late. the reward for his ambition was a big pile of nothing: a 4th place finish and no medal.

my story was infinitely less dramatic, but thematically similar. i knew slattery was a better runner at that point than i could ever be. i knew i couldn't beat him in a sprint. i probably couldn't beat him in the mile either. but there was, however small, a chance -- at least in my mind, and that made it worth the risk.

it didn't pay off. i completely fell apart. two people probably made up 200m on me in the last quarter mile. by then, my coach was just urging me to finish the race. it barely happened. i tripped over the finish line and a couple people who i'll never know carried me out of the finishing chute and lay me in a grassy area. i remember closing my eyes, apparently i didn't move for about 45 minutes.

like pre i finished fourth. it sure would have been nice to say i beat a national champion, but at least i tried.

body control

while sitting outside arizmendi bakery enjoying the sun and a couple of slices of their designer pizza, a woman who looked to be in her mid-20s exited the bakery and went running up the street.

since she was just average looking and not in possession of any special gluteal qualities, i normally would have shifted my gaze to other things. however, in the crotch area of her jeans i noticed that there was a somewhat round area darker than the rest of her jeans.

now it's possible that she chose an unfortunate wash for her jeans; or that she bought something off the irregular rack at marshalls and didn't notice where the irregularity took place

or that she lost urination control in the bakery and was now rushing home to change out of her piss soaked jeans and panties, hoping to avoid the notice of any percpetive onlookers.

mission failed.

disclosures update and irony

well, i've now spoken to 20 newspaper ombudsman for my story and Mike Needs is still the only one to support the idea of an online webpage for reporters, which provides details about their backgrounds and involvements that affect the perspective -- not bias! -- they bring to all their stories.

i've found one thing so ironic about all the interviewing i've done with newsroom employees. over and over i've been told the reporter's job is to listen to all the sides and then make a judgment on the facts -- that's what makes them a professional. no argument there. apparently though, a majority had the earplugs in because som many were clearly not considering one question i raised.

makes you wonder how well this whole professionalism works in practice...

un-star struck

a friend and i were debating the fashion merits of tapered jeans at the boy least likely to show last week. my friend took the position that no one could succed being stylish while wearing a pair of jeans that ended tight as they approached the ankles. i countered the arg, but was envisioning females as the rare exception. regarding tapered jeans, they can never work for men.

this all reminded me of when i was in nyc over christmas. after dinner, i happened to cross paths with matt dillon. lo and behold he was sporting the tapered jean, and true to the rule he looked straight outta the 80s. my theory is he was trying to relive the outsiders glory days.

the white bomber jacket and black sneakers provide a bit more proof.

changing people's minds, one story at a time.

for anyone who stumbles upon this blog, you'll have no idea that i'm working on my journalism master's project. and if you've read some of the writing on this site, you might be wondering what they're teaching me in the program. that's beside the point.

the point is that the big minds of academia (read: me) are having an impact on the real world out there. and don't worry, i got evidence.

this past friday i spoke to mike needs, the ombudsman for the akron beacon journal, about his feelings toward creating bio pages for reporters that listed all sorts of background info, such as organizational affiliations, educational background, community involvements etc.

and to my surprise he said yes. at that point i had spoken to nine ombudsman, and none thought this was a good idea. since then, i've interviewed seven more. so far, he still the only one who advocates taking this step (karen hunter, the ombudsman for the hartford courant, was ambivalent).

two days later, needs wrote about the very topic in his weekly column that appears on sundays. here's the article. i'm the stanford student.

http://www.ohio.com/mld/ohio/news/columnists/mike_needs/14738618.htm

it even made it onto romenesko.

http://www.poynter.org/column.asp?id=45&aid=102368

one small correction to needs' article though: a newspaper, the greensboro news record, is planning on taking this step. and for the record, i agree with needs, which might suprise you given my reaction in the article. but i'm aware that it could backfire too. so what i'd like to see is some midsize newspapers like the akron paper plunge forward and see what the results are.

i'm guessing that the conspiracy theorists and media bashers out there wouldn't change one bit -- they might get even louder if that's possible (michelle malkin is already pretty loud). but a few skeptics would change their minds for the better, and the ones who are grateful for the work that reporters do, myself included, would grow closer. i'm also certain that it would help journalists figure out where their biases and conflicts of interests lie.

source crushes

a girl i know who works for the la times was telling me about someone she worked with at a small paper with. her friend had taken a personality test and the results had been definitive: she wasn't going to make it far in the journalism business.

now i've never taken that particular personality test, but as someone who knows myself pretty well, i'm fairly certain i'd fare similarly. ironic, because like this hopeless soul i'm aspiring to break into the same business. here are the facts.

it's hard for me to cold call sources. sometimes i feel the need to reach down and make sure my body hasn't sucked up my balls like a frightened dog. then i dial. approaching strangers at an event for comments isn't exactly my forte either. for that matter, i'm not a great writer either. pretty good compared to just about everyone i meet, but not exactly a standout around people trying to do the same thing i am for a living.

yet i try. and it's because even i have those occasional days where interviews will stop being uncomfortable and the interviewee just keeps saying interesting things. i still trip over questions, but they don't seem to mind and send something witty, insightful or both back anyways.

that i enjoy. i want to tell friends about the great conversation i just had. and yes, if i were a 12-year old girl i'd probably draw a big heart with an arrow through it with my name and the sources printed inside.

so courtesy of a story i am reporting about publid disclosures of conflicts of interest, here's who i heart right now:

i called geneva overholser because she's more or less the most qualified source in the world for writing stories about the media. she's been a foreign correspondent on two continents, editor of the des moines register when the paper won a pulitzer for overall excellence, editorial board member of the nyt, ombudsman for the post, and now teaches at missouri. i could list all her credentials but that might exceed whatever memory blogger allocates my humble blog. oh, and she's smart as hell and seems to formulate well thought-out ideas in the time average people need to decide their next word. at one point, she said i haven't considered the issue before so this is off the top of my mind than went ahead and said about five things where i immediately thought to myself, how can i work that into the story? next time i'm hard up for something to write, i may just call her and say what's on the tip of your tongue?

cassandra tate, you may have never heard of. i hadn't either, though she was pretty successful as a journalist, and wrote for cjr and was a nieman fellow before she left the biz to get a ph.d in history. but admittedly, while i was chatting with her, i felt a tinge of envy toward her husband (ombudsman for the seattle pi) who i had spoken to a day earlier. i can't imagine how many great conversations took place in their house. she spoke as if you needed to turn a painting into your editor. i wasn't in lewiston, idaho in april of 1978 but it sure sounded great.

if you haven't spoken to jay rosen about old-school journalists, then you're missing out on many good laughs. rosen's blog, press think, is mandatory for anyone looking to think critically about the media. and he's more or less the guy in civic journalism. to date, he's the only source i've encountered who goes in to character on the phone. without warning when talking about journalists, he goes into the act, a sort of whiny crowing voice paraphrasing the usual complaints about who's going to pay for this or that or how are we going to do the important stories. his message: stop being a bitch and start trying to figure things out. yet, he's not condescending about it, he's right.