Without Consequence

Against my better judgement, I went and saw the new Coen brothers movie, Inside Llewyn Davis. I thought this time might be different, that the Dylan-esque subject matter of the New York folk scene in the 60's would make for an enjoyable movie experience. I was wrong. I had the same feeling I get at the end of every Coen brothers movie, best summarized by the question I asked myself after the final scene: that's it?

Maybe it's just me; maybe my sensibilities aren't as fine-tuned as the rest of the American movie-going public, but I feel the Coen bothers' brand of quiet desperation is wanting substance. Don't get me wrong, it was nicely shot, well acted and well scripted, the music was great and it managed to nicely capture the atmosphere of a time; despite all of that though, the story itself was insipid and unfulfilling. It was like dining at a restaurant with an enticing menu; fine ingredients and excellent presentation, great service and good portions, yet the food arrives and somehow you're unimpressed.

All of the events of the movie seem to occur without consequence. Early in the film Llewyn (Oscar Isaac) loses his friend's cat - aptly named Ulysses - and later it simply returns. Later, Davis discovers he has a two year old son, but it has no bearing on anything that happens thereafter. In another scene he learns he's gotten a friend pregnant, which again has no real significance short of establishing Isaac's character as an asshole via Carey Mulligan's tirade. John Goodman O.D's without consequence; he just takes a nice nap in the backseat, like the cat. I had no interest in any of the characters, well, except for maybe the cat.

I'm still having difficulty figuring out what the message of the film is. The movie didn't even really tell a story, nothing happened. It was like watching a stale episode of Seinfeld.

How Likely Are You to Recommend Your Job to a Friend?

A friend recently asked me if I was satisfied with my job. More specifically, he asked me if I was happy. It's an interesting question, one that seems to ask several other questions at the same time: what do you like about your work; what do you dislike; all things considered, do you feel happy? I think the question of happiness is the most difficult to answer because of its enormous subjectivity, but I'll try. There are many things I enjoy about what I do, but because of the nature of my job I'm not able to enumerate them here. I'll relay them as high-level concepts to protect my employer's identity, and my own.

I enjoy being part of the process of perfecting. Like a good detective, I enjoy the sleuthing, the engagement and necessary creativity it demands. I'm also a medic of sorts, seeking out the wounded and dysfunctional parts of the system that have retreated into the shadows to take refuge in obscurity. I am a white blood cell. I am quality's assuring bodyguard; Cerberus with the head of Humphrey Bogart, Deforest Kelley and Kevin Costner.

To have a voice in the decision-making process of a product used by millions upon millions of people every day is a reward in itself. To have the work you do directly impact the quality and usability of that product gives your job meaning and value - you know that your efforts will improve the daily lives of a lot of people, globally. To work on a team of like-minded people who share the same interests and passion for delivering a quality product is inspiring and helps keep spirits high in the face of an insurmountable workload. I once had a job in New York as a technician - on a team of 100 or so equally passionate technicians - helping to serve (quite literally) a never-ending stream of people, all with unique issues to be solved. For some, that job would have been maddening in its relentlessness if it weren't for the strong sense of camaraderie and pride amongst the team. There was a subtle competition and collective sense of unity that made the difficulty of the position tolerable. My current job is no different.

I've already begun alluding to one of the things I dislike about the role: the hours. I feel like an emergency-room doctor, liable to be called into the office on a sunny Saturday without any notice, subjected to work 60-to-70-hour weeks for months at a time. This has a sickening effect on your soul, because whether you love your job or not, doing anything that much becomes exhausting and somehow manages to strip away all of the pleasure in the thing. It's a job that requires tremendous endurance, the self-denial of relief and gratification. It is a very adult job, with very adult demands. When I say adult I mean we gangbang pornstars from Vivid and strangle prostitutes just to let out steam. Hardcore snuff films play on the televisions near the water cooler.

There is a lot asked of you, the expectations are high and the hours are long. Needless to say, the stress involved is fantastic. There is an inherent fretting in my line of work; the persistent fear that you've missed something. Slipping in during the night through cracked windows and loose doorjambs, it lives inside sweat-stained pillowcases and wrinkled sheets. It's the ineluctable smell of something rotting in your kitchen.

Am I happy? I don't know. I know that I work hard. I know my job is challenging and engaging and the days whir passed with alarming speed. I know that I'm on the forefront of technological change and I have a direct hand in shaping what that future looks like. I know I'm one of the people responsible for its success. It's probably not unlike parenting a child. It requires some self-sacrifice, a relinquishing of things that sustain you. As lovely and amazing as parenthood is, it is still a burdensome responsibility. It is difficult, thankless, scary and stressful. You never quite get the sense that you know what you're doing. You celebrate your small triumphs and bemoan your failings while you wait for someone to reveal you for the impostor that you are. What keeps you moving forward is the desire to help, a belief in the thing you're creating, and then the ability to let it go.

Every day a sand mandala.

Street Fighter

The sun is setting but the night is blooming, bright with possibility. I'm headed to the Mission, to the Make Out Room, where I'll watch women read erotic literature - with piano accompaniment, of course. I happen to know the pianist. The word pianist sounds like a kid with a lisp trying to say penis.

A few friends might meet me there later, to make mayhem. First, I'll need to stop somewhere and find something to eat. Earlier today I tasted three different kinds of home-brewed eggnog and my stomach seems to be planning some subtle subversion, so I'll need to choose my meal wisely, lest he (my stomach) should lay waste to my bowels. This irritable scoundrel, entombed in my abdomen, has been floating idle threats upward toward my nose, each time more heated, more foul. They smell like fallen down angels moving in reverse.

There's traffic. Marvelous. Getting home seems to take longer everyday. It's a terrible thing to have to be subjected to. Especially with your stomach perfuming the recirculated air with its uniquely organic aroma. Mmmmmm.

Speaking of traffic and shuttles, there's been an ongoing controversy in San Francisco as of late, concerning privatized charter buses employed by the bay area's budding tech companies. There's a growing consensus that somehow, the mere presence of these buses in the streets of San Francisco is a blight on our city. There are issues surrounding the legality of said buses utilizing public bus-stops for passenger loading and unloading. While this is a valid concern, it obfuscates the alleged underlying issue, which is class inequality, exacerbated by greedy and opportunistic landowners in San Francisco who seek to capitalize on the steady influx of young tech workers and their disposable incomes, perpetuating rapid displacement of lower income occupants through misuse and abuse of the Ellis Act.

So protesters have gone to the streets, taking matters into their own hands, sticking it to the man by temporarily blocking the transit of randomly targeted tech-buses. Wait, why you ask? Why inconvenience innocent people just trying to get out of the city and get to work? Surely they aren't the problem, they're just trying to live where they want to live and do the jobs they went to school to do, right? Wrong! These goddamned techie bastards deserve every rotten thing they've got coming to them. They're part of the problem; any dolt with half a brain could tell you that. If it weren't for those piss-ant tech-workers, these companies would be nothing! Do you think they could just hire a whole new set of employees? Of course not! Haven't you learned that nobody is replaceable in this world? They sit in their luxury coach buses with leather seats, tinted windows and climate control, protected from all the harsh realities of public transit in San Francisco. I mean only degenerate scum like the lower middle class would be caught dead riding transport lacking some type of air-conditioning. All those poor suckers ride around in hand-me-down cars from the 70's, gas guzzlers limping across the pavement without the modern conveniences or amenities afforded to these elite twenty-something techies careening recklessly around side-streets in their Porches and Ferraris, with an exuberant sense of entitlement and a depraved indifference to human life. Damn them all! They are pushing us out of our homes!

Sadly, this caricature I've painted is a mentality that actually exists in the minds of some misguided but well meaning San Franciscans. The truly sad part though, is that their attempts to gain traction and raise awareness through these public demonstrations merely deepen the divide between the working class and further confuse the real issue by drowning it in deeply entrenched classist overtones. This is not an issue about the proletariat - the haves vs the have nots - it is an issue about the law failing to properly serve its citizenry; failing to protect its people from unlawful and atavistic practices spurred by avarice and apathy.

Take the protest to city hall, not the charter buses. The people on them want to live in this city as much as you do. Everyone has a shared interest here: no one wants to be bankrupted by the absurd cost of housing. Work together and seek reform, strengthen your legal recourse and protect your rights.

-----

As I finished typing the above post I received a text from a friend who alerted me that a Google bus was attacked in Oakland. The windows were smashed and they beat the shit out of it like it was a bonus level in Street Fighter.

There goes any chance of reform.

Now you're terrorists.

New Gear's Resolution

All night I dreamt of camera lenses and beautifully captured images, masterfully composed, with unprecedented sharpness. The Profuser has infiltrated my mind with his incessant prattling about cameras and lenses and megapixels and sensors. He's breached my unconscious, propagating and proliferating throughout it like a pair of horny hamsters.

Soon I'll be looking covetously at $4000 lenses, like the Zeiss Otus 55mm. Fuck, it's already happened. Why couldn't I have developed a less expensive addiction, like comic books or beanie babies? Jesus, for $4000 I could buy a motorcycle or take a nice trip to Europe. How can a manufacturer charge that much money for a piece of glass; something so easily damaged or destroyed by the slightest drop. It's savage, borderline criminal.

Maybe I should just keep my fixed-lens camera and stay away from these wallet-chewing full-frame vampires. I'll make that my New Year's resolution. I don't even remember what my resolution was last year. I think it was to save money; which I actually did manage to do with some success. Buying this camera and corresponding lenses would obliterate those gains, however.

But what is money for, if not for spending, right? I think that for many, it is about having - it affords a strong kind of security. A warm blanket to protect against the chill of dark and odious fortunes. Perhaps symbolically it serves as a reservoir of saved time, stored up and ready to be withdrawn in case of emergency - or extravagance.

No Stopping Any Time

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Getaway

I feel like an abandoned getaway car. Hidden in the bushes with shot-out windows and rusted hubcaps. Run ragged by the chase, pillaged and pilloried by the pursuit of passions. Driven toward fortune by madness and desire. Desperation sitting in the passenger seat, hope blindfolded in the back.

Nearly Noon/It's Nearly Noon/It's Nearly Noon Here/It's Nearly Noon Here in San Francisco/It's Nearly Noon on a Sunny Sunday Here in San Francisco/It's Nearly Noon on a Sunny Sunday Here in San Francisco and the Day is Waiting/It's Nearly Noon on a Sunny Sunday Here in San Francisco and the Day is Waiting for Something/It's Nearly Noon on a Sunny Sunday Here in San Francisco and the Day is Waiting for Something to Happen

It's nearly noon. The sun is shining and my restlessness is beginning to stir. The bell from a nearby church has started to ring, signifying 11 hours have passed this day already. I spent at least 8 of them sleeping and I feel sufficiently rested to pursue whatever adventures await.

I told the Profuser I'd stop by today and give him a crash course in Lightroom, a photo-editing software that he's developed interest in. For some (myself included), the editing process adds an additional layer of dimensionality to photography. Toying with color temperatures, contrast levels, clarity and saturation are ways to build on the originally captured photo, allowing you to add shades of sentimentality that may not have been as apparent upon the first viewing. It's not unlike editing something you've written; you go back and switch out words for more suitable ones, you delete the sentences that are superfluous and you embellish where necessary. Editing is to refine.

That's not to say that there isn't something magical about capturing a complete image straight from the camera, because there is, but it's rare to shoot one that speaks clearly and communicates everything you want it to without wanting a modicum of modification. Often it is only after viewing a photo several times that you see something you'd missed when you'd first taken it in. The true content of a photo sometimes hides camouflaged in the shadows, underexposed and out of focus, like some deep-sea creature trying to avoid detection. Ideally each of us would be skilled enough to consistently photograph our subjects perfectly the first time, but that simply isn't the case. Time doesn't stand still and pose for us like a teenage girl in front of a bathroom mirror, it doesn't allow us to deliberate over the myriad possibilities for framing and composition, or proper exposure values; time waits for no one.

Under Construction

I've stayed in for most of the day editing photos. I tried (but failed) to sleep, and I read. I listened to Wilco, Tom Waits and Chuck Berry while I embraced my cat-like lethargy. At some point earlier this morning, Q called me while I was trying (but failing) to sleep. He told me he was passing through San Francisco, that he wanted to grab something to eat which was both healthy and affordable. When he got here I told him to eat my ass and handed him an unwashed spoon. He said it was pretty shitty. Sensing he was unsatisfied, based on that longing look in his eye, I knew I'd need to assuage his hunger with some meat. So we walked down to Divisadero and ordered sandwiches at Mojo Cafe. They had a sign advertising cauliflower soup, and we ordered one and split it; each of us scalding our mouths on it as we ate it. Do you eat soup or drink it?

After lunch we had a lengthy discussion on life, love and loss; strategies for maximizing happiness and treating others well. That's actually the title of our new book. We came to the conclusion that you cannot change anyone else, nor should you - it isn't your responsibility. For it to have significance to someone, for it to be meaningful - they need to want it. Your role should be that of an enabler, giving them your support in the form of love and encouragement in the hopes that they'll become the person they want to be. Constantly drawing attention to another's shortcomings only serves to build resentment and breed contempt. Don't remind someone of their failings; no one needs you to hold up a mirror to the pus-filled carbuncles decorating their heart - if they're looking, they'll see them in your eyes. Instead, seek understanding and trust them to do what's right. The trust part is hard when you're handing someone your heart, but if they care enough, they'll be the change you both need.

When you get close to someone they'll eventually hurt you, as you will them. It is inevitable. Our imperfections become sharpened edges, nails that jut out of splintered floorboards waiting to catch the skin of our bare feet. Try not to take it so bad, try not to take it so hard, try not to punish yourself for your own failings and try not to punish them for theirs. Pursue restitution, not retribution. Resentment is a pernicious type of poison, one that has no place in love's narrative. Though no one is without flaw, we expect perfection from our partners and scorn them for their indiscretions, as if we somehow deserve better; something more. How arrogantly we assert our self worth.

We're under construction, all of us, always. Remember.

Tweedy

Last night Q and I saw Jeff Tweedy at the Fillmore. It was my 4th time seeing him, and Q's first. I was excited, trying not to oversell Tweedy to Q (if that's even possible) as I ranted and raved, extolling his banter and command of the crowd while we scarfed down sandwiches at a nearby bar. After we ate, I administered a poorly timed fart that sounded out loudly just as the music stopped. The smell was heinous. The bar's patrons snarled with disgust and women looked back at me over their shoulders with dropped jaws. I wondered if they could taste it. We left, mainly to escape the stench, and headed to the show.

The opener, Jeff Tweedy's best friend, sounded like a shittier version of him. He wasn't especially bad and his songs were enjoyable enough, but he didn't excite me. When Tweedy came on the crowd went wild. People began smoking cigarettes. I felt like we went through a time-warp back to the 90's. I went to the bathroom and changed into my JNCO jeans. On my way back I managed to score some good Mitsubishi ecstasy for the Sasha show later; it really was the 90's.

Tweedy's performance was masterful. His willingness to interact with the crowd, take requests and admonish assholes was impressive. He gave the crowd the feeling we were hanging out with him in his living room, telling us stories and playing only the songs we wanted to hear. He played old songs, new songs and covers, as well as some songs I hadn't heard before. One of them, a Handsome Family cover called So Much Wine, was particularly good. The show ended (after what seemed like 50 songs) with Tweedy belting out Dreamer in My Dreams - completely un-micced - while strumming a worn acoustic guitar.

After the show we headed over to Vessel just before Sasha came on. The change in venues was abrupt and radical. We'd left a smoky concert hall and arrived at a packed nightclub near the Tenderloin; a laser-filled basement full of scantily-clad women and beastly looking men with far too much gel in their hair. The lights strobed and the bass thumped loudly as we slowly moved through a sea of people toward the DJ booth. I was introduced to Sasha, who stood exuding a cool insouciance while maintaing a gentle kindness and smooth intrigue. The DJ booth was a nightmare-dream for the claustrophobic. I stood pressed tightly against a wall in front of Sasha and Q, a foot of space between us, while an upright fan blew air in my face. Women with more legs and breasts than Colonel Sanders squeezed by, rubbing their bodies against me unapologetically as they smiled and said they were sorry.

Sasha's set was good but it was mostly lost on me due to fatigue. While Q and I sat in a large leather chair in the DJ booth, numerous drunken and drug-addled women attempted to flirt with us. He told one of them that he was Sasha's father, to which she replied "Who's Sasha?" Ah, to be young. She was attractive enough to invite conversation, so I entertained it. Soon though, I realized she couldn't count..to two. It's amazing how quickly an attractive woman can lose her allure once stupidity rears its head. Another woman, dressed like it was halloween, wearing a short skirt and a kind of sailor's outfit, approached me and commented on my tattoos and T-shirt. She spoke so closely to my mouth I could taste what she said.

Her breath smelled like cum. Or maybe it was mine. 

Gone

Damnit. It's almost ten and I haven't written anything. There aren't enough hours in the day to accomplish everything I'd like to get done.

Tomorrow hasn't yet begun but it's already gone; work all day, a hurried ride home and then two shows - Jeff Tweedy followed by Sasha. I fear I may be awake for 24 hours tomorrow after all is said and done.

I'm a rushing octopus spinning eight plates on tired tentacles.

No rest for the wicked.

Between the Viaducts of Your Dreams

Music is a strange and powerful magic. Going through some playlists on my iPhone I stumbled across one I had made in July two years ago. I remember because I had named it - July.

It's a good playlist, refreshingly so; made up of songs by The Rolling Stones, The Brian Jonestown Massacre, The Velvet Underground, The Jesus and Mary Chain, and Bob Dylan (I almost want to put a The in front) to name a few. The playlist tells a story, affording me a kind of time travel; a brief glimpse into the psyche and circumstance of times passed. It's a snapshot of me at a moment in time, painted through song. I can feel the happiness and readiness for adventure that the music evokes, the excitement.

There's a song on it by the band Real Estate. There was a girl I was seeing at the time, named Amanda, who'd introduced them to me. I even remember the morning I'd first heard them. We laid around her empty apartment on Page Street like cats in front of an open window, sunning ourselves and drinking tea, the cool morning air lazily turning the pages of an open magazine on her coffee table. She played the album on the stereo. We barely spoke that morning, though not out of anger or discontent; quite the contrary. We were enamored, floating in the early stages of affection, happy to be in each other's company. "Not a word was spoke between us, there was little risk involved." We exchanged warm glances and soft, slow smiles. She was a sweet girl, learned and warm. I should've been better about keeping her.

I knew her at a time when I was wrestling with letting go of everything I knew. I had recently moved to San Francisco from New York, where my world was. I'd left family and friends, lovers and safety, everyone I held close, all that was easy and familiar to me. I questioned whether it was the right choice. There's something fearsome and feral that stirs in the heart of a man estranged from himself. He doesn't know what he's capable of. He's blind to and blinded by his limitations. He surprises himself in surprising ways.

I was coming to terms with closing the door on one of my most meaningful relationships while trying to embrace all that was new and blooming with promise around me. I can hear it in these songs now as I listen. There was a belief, a calm resilient expectation that I would triumph over uncertain futures, that everything would be okay.

"It was in another lifetime...
I was burned out from exhaustion,
buried in the hail,
poisoned in the bushes
and blown out on the trail."

The playlist continues as Lou Reed screams, "but anyone who ever had a heart," and Van Morrison asks to "venture in the slipstream." It's a collection of songs that convey a readiness to fall in love, to move on - "to another time, to another place...in another face."

Baby It's Cold Outside

Holy Krishna, my lower back is killing me. Yesterday a friend and I went to yoga for the first time in weeks and Shiva laid waste to my hips and hamstrings. They don't call her The Destroyer for nothing. Now when I move not only are my muscles torn by the thin twisting tendrils of tenderness, but my nerve endings sting like little electric jellyfish tentacles. Namaste.

Tonight the moon hangs like a clipped fingernail adorning a shivering sky. I wonder if it appears to be in the same phase at the same time across the globe. I just checked. The answer is: kind of. There is a difference in appearance - but not in phase - when viewed from the southern hemisphere compared to the northern hemisphere; it's inverted. The romantic in me likes the idea that I could be looking up at the moon thinking of someone and they may be doing the same. Both of us sharing the same moon, the same moment.

There was an eerie kind of stillness in the city tonight. The streets were empty and dark, crowded with cold air. Rushing past with a cold air of self-importance, the wind seemed to chase the warmth, forcing it into hibernation.

I think that's where all of my thoughts went too; hiding under the covers, trying to stay warm.

Truancy

I've spent the last few days reading about writing; for example, I'm now more practiced at detecting run-on sentences, dependent and independent clauses, verbals and verbals phrases, modifiers and completers. I've brushed up on prepositions and conjunctions, predicates and participles, auxiliaries; simple tenses that weren't so simple. The fragments of information on sentence construction are dizzying. I learned things about sentences that I never knew before, or wanted to. As a native speaker of English, it was both humorous and humbling to find myself struggling as I reviewed materials designed for those learning it as a second language. I felt like I was in 3rd grade again, but after 20 years of truancy.

Speaking of truancy, I haven't written a post in days. I had intended to write one this morning, but now the shining sun beckons me. It looks nice outside, almost too nice. Behind a distant cloud some sleeping calamity lies dreaming. I can feel it.

Torched

I thought I had used this photo already, but looking back over my recent posts I realized I was mistaken. When I spoke to Wes Sunday night, telling him about this shot, about how pleased I was with the edit - somehow managing to make it look like a jellyfish made of flames drifting slowly downward inside a darkened sea - I was shocked to see I hadn't actually posted it. My mind has been torched the past few days, overburdened by bullshit and dogged by drudgery, so much so that I'm finding it difficult to write. Come to think of it, it makes perfect sense that I'd forgotten the photo. Right now my mind feels like a giant marshmallow roasting over a campfire, crispy and charred outside, sticky and melted on the inside. 

Even though the brightness on the computer screen is set one notch above zero - normally a relatively soft, easy on the eyes kind of brightness - I feel my eyes drying up, wincing (briefly blurring the letters on the page) and crying out for moist tears. Maybe it's my eyes that are like marshmallows, not my brain. My brain is more like a door with warped and rusted hinges, creaking and popping loudly as it's pushed, unable to fully open or close - unable to let anything in or out or through - it exists as an obstacle instead of an aperture.

f/256

I'm going to bed.

Sweet Jesus!

When I was a kid we used to run around and get ourselves into trouble as often as we could, and with more fervor than most. I grew up in a dirty little town in Queens called College Point, nicknamed Garbage Point by the kids from wealthier families in the neighboring towns of Whitestone and Bayside. It was a predominately poor town, mostly Hispanic, with a strong Asian presence on the south side as it became Flushing. It was quite literally a dead end town, surrounded by water on nearly every side. With only two main roads out and in, it wasn't a place blessed with booming commerce or a large exchange of people on any given day. It existed like an extremity with strangled circulation, slowly suffocating from lack of sufficient blood-flow. The part of town I lived in was sullen and soot stained, populated by countless factories all adorned with half-assed amateur graffiti; even they looked poor.

The youth were drug addled and prone to violence. It wasn't uncommon to see fights break out on the street or watch drug deals go down in the park near the handball courts. It was a place that attracted an eclectic variety of degenerate scum; hustlers, thieves and junkies, lowlives with big ideas. In time I would watch friends succumb to the allure of College Point's deviant charm - the danger, the money and intrigue, rebellion and excitement. Eventually they, like those before them, would be claimed by the seemingly inescapable pull toward drugs and dead futures. But this was way before that grim eventuality and we were all still relatively uncorrupted, enjoying the reckless abandon of youth without consequence.

Before we had licenses we would steal our parents' cars while they slept at night. It was a time of much hurried whispering and premeditated movements in the moonlight; a diversion in the house to mute the sound of the car starting, kinly accomplices conspiring with us to enable an assured escape. Radiohead, Tool and Rage Against the Machine were anthemic to our adventures. We'd drive around with the music loud, causing trouble and picking up girls who'd snuck out of their houses to meet us. Many times alcohol would be involved, as was the case this particular night.

We did it responsibly though, taking care to ensure that the person driving had drank little to nothing, in an effort to mitigate our risk should we be pulled over or crash the car. That night, we were in Bayside, parked at a girl's house whose parents were away. I was in the backseat of the minivan with one girl, and my friend's brother was in the middle with another. Our driver was inside the house with the last girl. Everything was going swimmingly - concentrated adolescent hormones surged as we groped at one another with unadulterated desire - until my phone went off. It was a text that read "start the car, her parents just came home!" Half drunk and fully panicked, I jumped behind the wheel and started the car as my friend came crawling out of the house through what seemed like the doggy-door. "GO GO GO," he shouted, as I threw the car in reverse and gave it a little too much gas. The car lurched backwards, loudly toppling a pair of trashcans that fell into a parked car, setting off a car-alarm. Trembling with exhilaration I put it in drive and we quickly drove off around the corner and away from the scene.

Once we got to a safe distance my friend took the helm and decided we should call it a night. Since it was late and we weren't going to get laid, we plotted the course to drop the girls off. As we turned onto Francis Lewis boulevard - a major avenue that cut through Whitestone and went all the way out toward Long Island - we realized we'd driven straight into a road-block. The stopped cars ahead of us weren't the result of some late night traffic accident, it was a police checkpoint. It was too late to maneuver out of it. Flares, police tape and orange cones blocked off the turnout. The car was dead silent. A wooden Jesus on the dashboard brandished an admonishing smile. From the backseat Nick's brother said "holy shit, a roadblock!?" We were trapped. Like dogs left in a car on a hot day, we peered out through the glass with sad puppy eyes, while the girls whimpered in the back.

"Yep; we're fucked," I said.

I looked at my friend Nick and we both began hysterically laughing. If you can't laugh at your own misfortune you shouldn't laugh at anyone else's. We inched up the line, moving closer and closer to where a group of policemen stood inspecting licenses and vehicle registrations. As we moved closer we quickly collected the beers and hid them under the seat away from view. I rummaged through the glovebox looking for the registration so that we could immediately hand it over, giving them less time to sit and smell the alcohol on our breath. There was now just one car ahead of us.

It seemed like everyone in the car stopped breathing as we pulled up. The officer asked for the license and registration. We all braced ourselves for the cop's inevitable response, "can you step out of the vehicle." Instead, he flashed his light on the ID and paperwork, and then at Nick and myself. Then he handed the documents back to Nick and told us to be careful as he waved us off. We fought with all our might to betray the smiles that tried to twist our lips. "Just a few more seconds; be cool until we drive off," I thought.

"How the fuck...?!" Relief hugged our hearts and we all sighed and laughed. Victorious, we dropped the girls off and headed back home. When we parked the car we stayed out another hour while we questioned our unbelievable luck and wondered how and why we'd gotten away with it.

The next day Nick told me the Jesus statue had vanished. He told me that he tore the car apart trying to find it, but it was gone.

Sweet Jesus...

Wes' Clandestine Kitchen

Not Wes, or his kitchen

I'd heard through word of mouth that there'd be an event tonight from 6-10pm at a closed restaurant in the Mission. Like a rave? No, more like a speakeasy. Intrigued, I saved my appetite and headed toward Mr Pollo, not knowing that when I arrived I would be transported to a time reminiscent of the U.S Prohibition era during the 1920's. Except in this universe it wasn't alcohol that the 18th amendment prohibited: it was burgers.

Approaching the restaurant whose address matched the one I had scrawled onto the piece of paper in my pocket, I got the feeling something was wrong. From outside the lights appeared to be off and large black curtains hung from the windows obscuring the open door. With a bit of trepidation and a few backward glances, I entered the establishment. The space was small, seating perhaps a dozen patrons, none of whom were present. There were 4 empty seats at the counter and two tables on the sides, each able to seat 4 or 5 people. Behind the counter, a man wearing black stood with his back to me, tending to fried onions.

Hello he said, as he invited me to sit at the bar. Are you hungry, he asked. You fucking bet I am, I replied. Good, because have I got some food for you. What luck, I must have guessed the secret phrase! Soon I realized he was Wes, the veritable burger-bootlegger. He told me he was providing two burgers tonight - a breakfast burger, and the Hot Wes, his signature burger. I ordered the Hot Wes and a beer. We began to chat and he revealed himself to be a deft chef and a brilliant bartender. His affable demeanor encouraged effortless conversation and before I knew it we were talking about photography, Thanksgiving familial nudity and Marty Robbins; it was grand.

Then there was the burger. The cow must have lead a just and noble life, because my mouth was in heaven. Lightly seasoned and cooked medium rare, it tasted like happiness. Perhaps baked by a bipolar Pillsbury Doughboy, the bread was perfect; moist yet somehow flaky, soft but also crispy. My mouth morphed into a Dyson vacuum, literally inhaling the burger. I felt like a feral child let out of the basement to feed. I wanted the burger in my stomach as quickly as possible, wondering if it was really necessary to chew it; if I shat it out whole, would it be gross to eat it again? What if no one saw? What if no one knew? I could speed up the process by abruptly leaving the restaurant and grabbing some Metamucil as I hurried home. Or...and a devious smile danced across my face.

I ordered a second burger and a Metamucil milkshake.

That breakfast burger is going to taste so good in the morning!

A Foot

I went shoe shopping the other day, in search of new running shoes. The ones I have are worn and in need of replacement. I walked down to Sports Basement, by the Golden Gate Bridge, just before sunset and regretted not bringing my camera. Dense fog enveloped the base of the bridge giving it the appearance of floating on clouds. The rest of the sky remained clear, made golden by the setting sun. It was something to behold.

When I arrived at Sports Basement I tried on countless pairs of shoes. Some with motion control, some advertised high stability and others were neutral. None of them felt as comfortable as my badly beaten sneakers, now more like slippers. The new shoes were hard and unaccommodating, lacking the pliant familiarity of those on my feet. I really didn't want new shoes - I love the ones I have. They are bad for me now though, causing harm; shin splints; pain in my knees; in my lower back. We've hiked many mountains together, and even more trails. We've been to far away coasts and braved all the elements. We wore each other out with walking. We sacrifice ourselves for ourselves. It is necessary.

But these new shoes just weren't right. Ugly too. Neon green and bright orange, midsoles that looked like rotten chunks of styrofoam. Flat-footed, I need more arch support due to my accursed platypus feet. Naturally, this gives me keen discernment concerning comfortable footwear. Soon though, I felt trapped in one of Goldilocks' nightmares. My choices weren't simply too hot, too cold and just right, they were myriad and every one of them wrong. Deeply discouraged I frantically started trying on shoes at random; one of them had to be right...right? Wrong.

I left dejected, with alienated feet unfit to be fitted. If ever there was a more tragic Cinderella, it was me.