Ravi's Place

Bookend with the low-end

2011-07-11T20:31:00.000-07:00

My recent trip to try some of the world's great restaurants began and ended with two other restaurants I'd never tried before: Chick-fil-a and Wendy's.

For some reason, airport pricing confounds me. If it's more expensive, I won't buy it. Why would I pay $5 for 5 chicken McNuggets if I wouldn't normally pay $1? If, like the Philadelphia airport, it's "street pricing" (the same price they charge on the street), it feels like a great value to me, and I'll buy two of whatever they're selling.

So, with that in mind, I started with Chick-fil-a on my departure. The chicken sandwich was surprisingly chicken-like. I suppose I was expecting ground chicken, but I should've trusted the God-fearing folks in charge would serve a full filet (probably the way God intended). It was also, however, somewhat plain. Not bad, but basically fried chicken between a hamburger bun.

On my return flight, I gave Wendy's a try. As a child, the square patties seemed unnatural and freakish. As an adult, it still seems odd, but maybe not murderous. That said, the "natural cut" fries with sea salt were probably cut naturally (I hate those unnaturally cut fries), but arrived soggy. And the burger had more mayonaise than an episode of Doug.

I probably won't go back to either, but I'm glad I gave them both a try. Now I can be smug and justified in my smugness.

Bathroom Blunders

2011-07-07T14:01:00.000-07:00

A friend recently explained that, from a woman's point of view, unisex bathrooms just mean they're getting the raw end of the deal. It's been widely confirmed that men's restrooms are just dirtier, unfortunately. It's a plight I face every single day. Is that liquid on the floor urine or water? Does it matter?

I encountered a rather messy bathroom in a rather unexpected place recently: a restaurant considered by critics and chefs alike to be one of the top ten in the world. Certainly, they weren't factoring the bathroom, or it'd rank slightly above a highway rest stop (points would be given, I assume, for the high end Aesop soaps and lotions on offer in this entirely hypothetical ranking).

There was pee on the toilet seat. Not a problem for me-- didn't interfere with my business at all. But, see, it's not that simple. Someone would be in the bathroom after me (there was, after all, only one bathroom for the entire restaurant): would they think I made that mess?

So this leaves me with two choices, really:

1) Channel my inner boy scout (which doesn't really exist, since I never was one) and try to leave the bathroom cleaner than when I found it.

2) Tell the lady coming in next that the mess wasn't made by me; I'm a civilized type of guy who can bother to lift the seat, if only she knew me (would she like some references? I can provide people willing to testify that I'm generally a hygienic person!).

Fortunately, I chose the third option (in some ways more cowardly but, if you look at it at just the right angle, probably the more socially appropriate response that doesn't require me to touch someone else's pee): I decided to do nothing, and not worry about whether or not she thought the mess was mine, since I'll never see her ever again, and who cares what she thinks of me?

After all, the most important thing is that I know I didn't urinate all over a toilet seat in a fancy restaurant. That has to count for something.

Luck me

2011-06-21T22:57:00.000-07:00

There's a pretty blurry line, sometimes, between good luck and bad luck.

My car recently broke down (some battery cells, uh, sold out). Good luck that it happened at the Trader Joe's three blocks from my house, also two blocks from the Toyota dealer? Or bad luck that it happened at all?

Bad luck that the battery is backordered, so I won't have my car back for a month, or good luck that it happened at a time when I don't really need my car anyway?

Most likely, it's a matter of perspective. The moment the car broke down, I was on my way to a dinner party -- at a microcosmic level, terrible timing. But after I learned that my car would be at the dealer for a month roughly corresponding to a trip I'm taking, I reconsidered. At a macrocosmic level, if it was going to happen anyway, this is the best possible time.

I should add another crucial detail: as it happens, the fix will be covered by Toyota. Perhaps this would've been unequivocally bad news had I been concerned about the cost.

Still, it makes me wonder if, given time and a somewhat forgiving memory, streaks of bad luck can be seen as good.

That's not ok, cupid.

2011-06-14T21:31:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I get bored. Generally, I take the opportunity to watch some TV, try a new recipe, or start a project. This time, I tried OkCupid.

And I'll start by saying there's a reason they don't call it "GreatCupid!"

Perhaps I should've seen the most memorable date coming. The signs were all there. On our first date, she had four drinks -- a lot for me on a weeknight, and certainly stumble-worthy for a fairly petite lady. (Here, I'd planned a meet-up at a grilled cheese spot, but she wanted the sauce.)

Date two comes around -- and, as a boost to my ego, the invitation comes before the end of even the first date. She says two magic words: "open bar" (admittedly, less compelling than my two favorite words, "free dessert," but I'll take what I can get). So we go to this party her employer is throwing that happens to include all the vodka you can pour down your gullet.

I suppose I should've asked if her plan was to bankrupt the bar, but she ordered drinks two at a time (one mixed and one shot). I was taken aback. A note to the ladies out there: ordering a ton of drinks at a bar isn't necessarily your most attractive trait to exhibit on a date; it isn't a deal-breaker, but it also doesn't inspire confidence in the potential longevity of the relationship.

After four rounds, and eight drinks, she was ready to go home. I was relieved.

I figured, hey: I'll walk her to the BART stop and maybe, if the timing is right, try for a kiss.

Oh, if only. My social engineering plans ran awry. She tripped, she fell and, eventually, she passed out on the street.

This, for me, was the twist. I found myself thrilled that I live in a large house full of wonderful girls (read: reliable witnesses for the defense), so I could offer her my couch.

So I warned my roommates; called my best character reference to assure her that it'd be a very safe night on the couch; and drove home.

After causing some ruckus, she woke up the next morning, before I did, and left my life with only a text: "I left my hat at your house."

True, but people drink to forget, so I'm sure she won't miss it much.

Don't "put it my mouth"

2011-06-13T22:31:00.000-07:00

I cherish my five senses. I hate how they're constantly under assault, sense memories being challenged needlessly, because I guess that's the cool thing to do now.

Salty-sweet: sure, I'll have me some salted caramel ice cream or some kettle corn. I can get behind that.

Lavender-flavored foods: nope, not for me. The soap people appropriated that one first. Now honey lavender ice cream makes me think I'm eating a cleaning product. For other people, though, I won't judge. Eat all you want (don't worry about saving any for me).

Things that aren't food that smell like foods: the worst. At work, we have strawberry-scented urinal cakes. Terrible idea followed by terrible execution.

There are, somewhat inexplicably, two exceptions: lemon and mint. Go figure.

Hello Again

2011-06-13T22:24:00.001-07:00

I think I'm going to give this a try once more.

I left because:

I sit in front of a computer all day, sometimes writing, and so it's rarely something I want to do at home.
I was busy. (But, for now, it looks like I'll always be searching -- for a home, for a job, or for a companion. Hopefully just one at a time, though. That's all I can handle.)

I'm coming back because:

It's good to practice writing about what you want to write.
It turns out that, sometimes, I do have things I want to say.

The cold confection conundrum

2009-12-30T21:44:00.000-08:00

Haagen-Dazs, why are you so mysterious?

Your made-up name should grant you enough street cred to last a lifetime, even though your ice creams are made by Dreyers. And you're delicious. So, so delicious.

Here's the problem: you currently market a line of ice creams under the brand "Five" which promise to contain only five ingredients. In some cases, you take a loose definition of the number "five," but I won't begrudge you that-- if you need six ingredients to do God's work, I won't get in your way.

I'll even look past the fact that most of your plain-flavored ice creams include only five ingredients regardless of whether or not they're marketed under the "Five" brand. Since you charge the same no matter what, why should I care?

My problem-- the thing I can't figure out-- is why you use the same five ingredients for your "Five" brand as your regular brand, but you reorder the ingredients. In the "Five" chocolate, you've got skim milk, cream, sugar, egg yolks and chocolate listed in that order. For the regular chocolate, you've got cream, skim milk, sugar, egg yolks and chocolate listed in that order. And the nutrition facts are different, reflecting a different ingredient mix and thereby ruling out the possibility that we're dealing with a typo here.

You just did something to be different, and you didn't tell me why. It hurts. I thought we were friends, but I guess you're just my dealer and I'm just your user.

(And, as a side note, why do you only offer dark chocolate as a "limited edition" flavor between March and January of every year? Why can't dark chocolate lovers-- and, okay, I like milk better anyway-- get some of your super-premium ice cream in February?

I'm going to let everyone make their own Black History Month joke there, and I hope it's culturally sensitive.)

Blu with envy

2009-12-08T23:42:00.000-08:00

I don't have much to say, except that it's pretty embarrassing that my parents-- the ones that still record shows on a VCR, though they did own a TiVo for awhile when I begged-- own a Blu-Ray player before I do.

The Costco Conundrum

2009-12-07T23:09:00.000-08:00

Today, and for the past month, it's been Brita filters. Before that, it was shampoo. My list of things I want to buy, but then ultimately don't, at Costco always seems steady at 1-2 items.

The problem is that a Costco trip isn't worth the trouble if you're just buying one or two items. And I typically only need one or two items, because I'm not supporting a family of twelve like everyone else that shops there must.

So I wait until I need more than one thing, but by the time I need two things, that first thing has already been on the list a long time. In most cases, retrospectively, it wasn't worth waiting that long to save a couple of bucks. Frequently, I break down and buy the good at a conventional retailer.

This really only ends one way: I never go to Costco, despite having a reason to go for most of the year.

The Conversation of the Future

2009-10-26T22:06:00.000-07:00

One of the perils of growing up is that people start to talk to you like an adult. Normally, this would be a welcome gesture, I suppose, but with strangers I prefer the child-adult conversation dynamic. Anything else may lead to disaster.

So there I was, eating dinner in a large group, sitting across from a man and his wife I'd never met before (and next to my friends). It's impossible bordering on rude to sit across from someone and not make an effort at conversation, so we did. And we happened to be at Disneyland, so we had a fair amount of fodder.

He was probably in his early 50s, so eventually he started talking about the old days at Disneyland. Because I probably know more about The Walt Disney Company than any well-adjusted young adult should, I was able to keep up. He forgot the name of an attraction so, based on his description, I helped him fill in the blanks:

Me: "Oh, the Monsanto House of the Future?"

Him, with a look of shock: "You remember that?"

Me, realizing that he doesn't know my age and must now think I'm some sort of real life Benjamin Button: "Oh, no... I read about it?"

That's pretty much where the conversation ended. I didn't want to make him feel old by laughing in his face and saying, "Of course not. That attraction left Disneyland before my parents had even met." He knew it too.

So we were back to square one. Me, a kid. He, an adult.

career advice

2009-10-15T22:57:00.000-07:00

In my months (years?) of trying to figure out what I want to do with my life, most people tend to agree on a few principles to ensure future career contentment:

Figure out what you're good at
Turn that skill into something you can make money doing

(For the purposes of this entry, let's assume that they're undecided on ending clauses with prepositions.)

Now I just need to find a job that pays me to pick the most expensive thing on a restaurant menu without seeing the prices.

Oh Really, O'Reilly?

2009-09-28T23:17:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, in the gym, I like to watch The O'Reilly Factor. It gets me all fired up.

At the end of his show a few days ago, he said that the word of the day was "diabolical," and claimed that "you think you know what that means, but you don't. Look it up. And don't be diabolical."

So there I was, on the whatever machine, thinking, "hmm... I do think I know what diabolical means. Have I been wrong this whole time? Is Bill right about something? Is my English degree from a respectable university truly worthless?"

But then, after my workout, I went and looked it up. Sure enough, I did know the correct definition of diabolical and, though I can't say the word rolls off my tongue with any frequency, I've been using it correctly for years.

What this says about the intelligence of Bill's regular viewers, or Bill himself, I can't say. But at least I know I'm not a moron.

Ravi in Mathemagic Land

2009-09-15T22:12:00.001-07:00

(The title of this blog post references one of my favorite childhood movies. That the Walt Disney Company decided to stop producing those edutainment films saddens me.)

My relationship with numbers has always been tumultuous at best. But boy oh boy, things are looking up for me.

I haven't written in this blog for awhile, but since my last entry, I turned 24. This is an important birthday for several reasons: namely, the number is divisible by 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 8, 12, and 24, which is pretty impressive unto itself, but it's also my second (and very likely last) factorial birthday (the first was at 6 years old. The next, if I make it that long, will be at 120 years old).

Both reasonable consolation prizes for a guy who exited the prime of his life (23) for the next six years.

Then there's my phone number. A friend recently pointed out to me that it ends in the Fibonacci sequence-- 2, 3, 5, and 8.

Though I'm not terribly superstitious, some might argue (successfully) that I have a minor case of obsessive-compulsive disorder.

The OCD in me has done the math, and things are certainly looking up.

Perhaps this would've been appropriate on Olympic Blvd.

2009-07-28T23:46:00.001-07:00

So there I am, crossing the street at the intersection of Santa Monica Blvd. and Bundy Dr.

I know what you're thinking: why didn't you drive across the intersection like everyone else? I like to infuse a little Bay Area flavor into my LA trips. I walk (sometimes), talk about the cuisines of Alice Waters and Thomas Keller, and gripe about the heat. It's what I do.

Turns out I'm not the only one (who walks). Crossing the street, I come across this tasty (Mc)nugget:

I'm not quite sure what the intent here is: are they expecting that Olympic hopefuls will cross the street, see this ad, and give up steroids (or decline them in the first place)? Perhaps they should've placed these ads near The Home Depot (because, according to the old commercials, every Olympic athlete works there while training).

Are there not more pressing issues facing this country? Did they run out of slogans encouraging me to recycle my old newspapers or exercise? (Note: it's not an either/or. No ads say: "Please either recycle or exercise.")

I don't expect that you have the answers to this little conundrum. Only that, if you're an athlete, you take heed of this message.

cookie monster

2009-06-30T23:18:00.000-07:00

I love cookies.

It's entirely possible that, if you decided to offer me a cauliflower cookie (a cookie somehow incorporating that vile vegetable), I'd eat it.

Chocolate chip is number one, of course. And, okay, generally I like the dough even more.

Sometimes I get cookie dough ice cream and wait for it to melt so that I can fish out the doughy bits.

Sometimes I get so excited when I'm making cookie dough that I go ahead and combine all of the wet and dry ingredients as I go along, rather than at the end. It probably makes for an inferior cookie, but it also means I have fewer dishes to do later.

Nowadays, I like it when the cookie has a little sea salt sprinkled on top (thanks for the idea, NY Times).

Generally, though, I prefer to buy my cookies, rather than bake them myself. It prevents me from eating more than a couple, and I also avoid confronting how much butter one actually needs to produce a soft cookie.

I know I'm not alone, and I bet ABC News reporter Cokie Roberts' parents liked cookies enough to name their daughter after them.

I really, really love cookies.

How Sarah Palin ruined my life

2009-06-29T23:28:00.000-07:00

Sometime, about 9 months ago, she said: "also, too" in the same sentence, as though the words complemented each other. As though they weren't redundant.

And I myself (see what I did there?) haven't been able to stop since. I say it in meetings. I say it at home. It's the preeminent buy-one-get-one-free deal of the English language. Also, too.

Undoubtedly, it's hampering my career development. My verbal tick of 2009, and one that requires constant assurances that, yes, I did graduate from a fairly reputable institution of higher learning and, yes, I studied English.

SLO down a second there

2009-06-23T23:26:00.000-07:00

This Sunday my parents told me they're leaving Davis and moving to San Luis Obispo.

It's weird, but I suppose I'll get over it eventually. We only lived in Davis for 11 years, and I was away for 6 of them, so it's not like the house is full of marks on the wall that measured my growing height, or crayon marks from that time I decided to dabble in graffiti art.

Moving away from Davis does mean that I need to stop deluding myself into thinking there are people there I may reconnect with at some point. That's hard. Like most people, I like to keep options open. And there's a bevy of people in Davis with whom I'm friendly, if not exactly friends anymore, but the option was always open. Maybe some weekend I'd head down, visit my parents, and reconnect. It hasn't happened in the two years since I moved back from LA but, hey, it could.

And now it won't.

The Corrections

2009-06-06T23:49:00.000-07:00

This is good. (Though the rest of the blog is pretty random.)

And I highly recommend the first minute and a half of this video. Ira Glass hits it on the head. He also says "like" way more than I would expect from an experienced orator.

It's tough writing here. And over the past five years that I've been writing here with some regularity (though the earliest archives are hidden away in a dark corner of the Internet where you can't judge me), it's only gotten harder.

I can't write about my friends, because things can get misconstrued.

I can't write about work because they don't want me to and, even if I did, no one would care (neither would I).

Still, I'm going to keep trying.

I guess this must be the best gift ever.

2009-06-03T23:50:00.000-07:00

[The PowerPoint Album]

To follow up on yesterday's note, today my package of overpriced grains did arrive.

Unfortunately, they arrived in a small box-- one perfectly fitting the contents.

I don't know what I was expecting, but I was expecting something I'd have to lug home. Something monstrous. Something overbearing and awkward. Instead, the box was about one cubic foot.

I don't think there's anything more disappointing than receiving a smaller box than you expected.

Here's to hoping the contents better meet my expectations.

When the pithyness rains, it pours.

2009-06-02T23:20:00.001-07:00

Today at the gym I found myself watching a CNBC special on McDonald's. I'm going to go ahead and cling to that last little bit of Republican left in me that the Bay Area hasn't already tried to root out.

But there's this:

[via designformankind.com]

Also, my friend's Russian professor told her to: "work someplace where you're happy coming in in the morning, and you're just as happy to leave in the evening."

Last week, I spent way too much money ordering grains from this farm. Right now, they're sitting at the UPS warehouse, where they've been for two days (approximately 45 miles from their destination).

Is package delivery a hobby for you people, or IS IT YOUR JOB?

Is Botox covered by my insurance?

2009-06-01T23:31:00.000-07:00

I've been in a bit of a slump lately.

For a lot of reasons, really, but it didn't help when I saw the high school graduation pictures of a family friend.

See, I remember when his mom found out she was pregnant (I was 6), when he stayed over because his grandmother passed away and he was too young to deal with it (I was probably 12), and when we went to see Elf, even though I thought I was a little too old for it.

I remember when we couldn't excite him too much, because then he'd get nauseous. Or when we tricked him into thinking that facial tissues were meant for your face, but there were separate tissues for your nose.

And now he's going to college. And this blog is 5 years old. And he's probably going to friend me on Facebook.

blah blah blah

2009-05-28T00:10:00.000-07:00

Perpetually at the top of my to-do list: figure out what I want to do with my life.

It also happens to be perpetually unchecked. I suppose, in about a decade or so, I'll find myself pigeonholed into one career or another and, when I realize there's no turning back, I'll go ahead and check the box.

Tonight I also looked into the California minimum wage, for no good reason. On the state website, there are two answers: $8.00/hour, or $1422/month for sheepherders.

You're probably as bewildered as I am.

Oh, Newman

2009-05-21T22:44:00.000-07:00

You need to know something first: Newman's Own and Newman's Own Organics are actually separate and independent companies. The Organics company is run by Paul Newman's daughter.

You also need to know that Newman's Own Organics Peanut Butter Cups are not very delicious. From a company that usually exceeds my expectations (see their balsamic vinaigrette salad dressing), these candies are a let down. In fact, they serve as a rare example of a candy I know I can actually make better myself.

The chocolate to peanut butter ratio skews heavily chocolate, and the peanut butter itself has a weird grainy texture that, if I didn't trust Newman's Own wholeheartedly, would make me wonder if it ever came from the namesake legumes.

Still, I eat them, because sometimes there aren't other desserts to be had at work (well, there are, they're just weird sometimes). So take my warning at face value. Newman's Own Organic Peanut Butter Cups may not be super delicious, but they're still delicious enough.

tidbits

2009-05-19T23:24:00.000-07:00

Admittedly, I'm jealous of people who either know what they want to do with their lives or at least know where they want to do it.

Me, I'm directionless.

And sometimes people, trying to comfort, say that, well, at least you can figure out what you don't want to do. That's true, except that list is infinite, whereas I might actually want to do less than half a dozen things (and would be lucky to do even one of those well enough to have a career). It's like saying I can figure out what I want to eat for dinner by tasting every food ever created.

Sort of.

Naturally, I blame my parents. Tell a kid he can be whatever he wants to be, and he starts to think that maybe he can be anything. But not any one thing, because then he'd actually have to choose.

Don't know if I'm buying what you're celling

2009-05-12T23:27:00.000-07:00

Every so often, I find myself waffling hopelessly on an issue where I should plant myself as firmly "for" or "against."

Today, it's femtocells, the miniature cell phone networks you can deploy in your home. Basically, they connect to the Internet and envelope the nearest 5,000 square feet with the comforting glow of possibly cancer-causing wireless signals. Most cell phone carriers will launch these devices this year, and some already have.

The tricky part is the money part. Some people say that it's ridiculous that you should buy these devices (generally $250 and/or a double-digit monthly fee) to boost the providers' networks. Others say it's the best thing ever, price be damned.

I've thought about this for a few days now, and I can't decide how I feel about it. On the one hand, you're paying for better service, and that seems reasonable. On the other hand, isn't it the company's responsibility to make sure they provide you with the service you already pay for? (Obviously, no one is arguing about basements and the like, where you couldn't reasonably expect a signal.)

And if I can't decide how I feel about something as trivial as this, well, imagine the biggies.

Hello, Libertarianism.

2009-05-05T00:05:00.000-07:00

I pay my taxes (more than my fair share, I'd argue), and I thought that was enough. Apparently not.

See, you need a front license plate in California (nothing new there), so that the red light cameras can catch you. In virtually all cases, red light cameras are owned by private companies that split the revenue generated with the participating cities (that's why there are so many all of a sudden, and the fines are so disproportionally high). Not that you care, but Redflex is one of the largest companies.

Ok, so I went a few weeks without a front license plate. Eventually I got a ticket. I replaced both license plates ($30), and now I have to pay a fee for a police officer to sign off on the fix (between $10 and $25, depending on the city I visit). After that, I'll mail in the completed form along with the court fine (probably $50).

In all, I'll spend probably $100 so that I'll be eligible for $100+ red light tickets.

Thanks, Governor Schwarzenegger, and mayors across the state.

repeat defeat

2009-05-03T23:54:00.000-07:00

Here's the thing.

Sitting at Chipotle today, eating the $6.16 chicken burrito that used to be $4.89, in faceless strip mall that lacks the charm of the custom-designed stores the chain used to build, drinking water because they no longer offer free drinks, it seemed that, at least sometimes, things get worse more than they get better.

Okay, so Chipotle now offers naturally raised meats (or at least most of them do). And there are more of them now, so that's good too.

But this really isn't about Chipotle specifically. It's about how the second time rarely lives up to the first (and, in the rare instance that the second impression bests the first, it's unlikely I'll forgive and forget). So it's also about how I'm going to try more things for the first time, and go back less often for seconds.

Or, well, that's the plan.

The Pleasure of Re-Reading

2009-04-29T23:18:00.000-07:00

Generally, I eschew repeat reads of books because I'm mostly overwhelmed by the number of books out there to read. (It's the same reason I don't often re-watch movies or TV shows.)

Why force yourself through a rerun when there's original programming somewhere?

I'll tell you why. Because, eventually, you forget to go to the library, Amazon.com doesn't get here fast enough, and you can't stand the thought of paying cover price at a local bookstore.

This confluence of events (increasingly common) led me to reread my all-time favorite book, Steve Martin's The Pleasure of My Company.

And, surprisingly, it was even better than I remembered it.

muni money

2009-04-09T22:40:00.000-07:00

My favorite news of the day: San Francisco's Municipal Railway, the agency in charge of the buses and trains in the city, reported that it costs them $1.93 everytime someone calls them for help using 311.

For reference, Muni fares top out at $1.50.

happy jetlagging

2009-04-06T21:02:00.001-07:00

Ok, I get the concept of product placement. Sometimes I even like it, because it always stands out to me when characters in a show populate their kitchens with fake products. Sometimes I hate it, like when everything in Friday Night Lights takes place in an Applebee's.

But then there's 24. For as long as I've been watching, they've prominently featured Cisco products in their show-- notably the above phone and the now-famous ringtone. Last week, they even used a Cisco product, WebEx, to deliver a relatively key plot point. For the life of me, though, I can't figure out why. Cisco products, like WebEx, are really targeted for the business-to-business market. And, ok, maybe there's a handful of IT decision-makers that watch the show, see how well these Cisco products perform under pressure, and now want to order them for their office, but does that make it worth the trouble?

Devil-opment

2009-03-18T22:31:00.000-07:00

I'm posting this so that I no longer have to see that I have "666 posts" in this blog. I'm not superstitious, really, but still.

I recently finished I Am Charlotte Simmons, after I decided that I needed to read longer books. The problem with reading longer books, I find, is that you're more invested, and the ending needs to be that much better to make it worthwhile. They rarely are.

I'm also packing for my trip tonight. Traveling reminds me how eventful my normal life actually is when I think about the things and people I'll miss while I'm away.

Why I love the Internet

2009-03-16T22:26:00.000-07:00

This is completely unrelated to anything.

http://la.eater.com/archives/2009/03/16/tendergreens.php#reader_comments

Start with the blog post-- it's funny enough, even though I disagree about LA's health department competence.

Then watch in the (5 or so) comments as things degrade into a completely unrelated and nonsensical argument.

Everyone is qualified to opine on the Internet!

plate setting the stage

2009-03-15T23:20:00.000-07:00

With age comes self-awareness, and I've recently become aware that some of my restaurant behavior may be considered uncouth.

Generally, when people sit down at the table, they tend to immediately rest their napkins on their laps and unbundle their silverware. I don't.

It's not that I'm rude, it's just that I don't like my silverware touching the table. In instances where I need to go through the whole rigmarole, I'm left with two choices:

1) Put the silverware on the small plate. 60% of the time, the waiter will take this small plate at the end of the appetizer course, and I'll be left utensil-less.

2) Delicately balance the fork on top of the knife. Knives are designed such that the handle is the widest, so it can rest easily without the part touching my food touching the table. Then, I can balance the fork on top of the knife so that it, too, doesn't have to touch anything grimy. It's a winner, but I think it also makes me look strange to my dining companions.

Bottom line: sometimes it's not easy being me.

get with the program

2009-03-11T00:00:00.000-07:00

Let's talk about NCIS.

I've never seen NCIS, and I've never wanted to see NCIS. I have no idea when it's on, and I don't know a single person who watches it. I don't even know what it's about, except maybe something like CSI+Navy, with the letters rearranged a bit.

Somehow, though, NCIS does decently as CBS' sleeper hit. An average of 18 million viewers tune in every week, making it the 5th most popular show this season.

But no one talks about it.

I have friends who watch far more embarrassing shows, like Gossip Girl, and plenty of people talk about that, though it gets 1/6th the number of viewers.

What gives? Either Neilsen is way off in their calculations, or old people watch too much TV.

questionable questions

2009-03-08T23:02:00.000-07:00

High on the list of questions I don't know how to answer:

"How's work going?"

Um, it's fine.

I'm still employed.

What answer could be both satisfying and not excruciatingly boring?

Tomorrow

2009-03-06T00:10:00.000-08:00

To this day, every time I spell out "tomorrow," I remember my 7th-grade teacher's suggestion that we remember it as "Tom or row," because lots of kids weren't sure which letter got the double-down treatment.

That's an aside, though.

Sometimes something unexpectedly fantastic will happen. And I'm happy but, at the same time, wary: I know that something bad is just down the road. Things have a way of mostly evening out. And the reckoning tends to happen swiftly but unpredictably. Getting a windfall of cash doesn't necessarily mean you'll encounter an unexpected expense. It just means you'd better be ready for something.

gullible's travels

2009-03-04T23:15:00.001-08:00

A frequent question that comes up during job interviews, for me at least, has been: "What are some words your friends would use to describe you?"

There's really one biggie that I tend to leave off: gullible. I prefer to think of it as "trusting" but, really, it goes beyond.

You'd think people would feel bad. Maybe they would take extra caution to tell me only truths, because they don't want me to get lied to so frequently that I become jaded and cynical. Perhaps I make bad social choices, but those aren't my friends. They relish it.

When I was ten or eleven years old, I went to a Red Lobster. We opened the door to the restaurant and my mom's friend pointed to the "We Recycle" sticker on the door:

"You know what that means, don't you, Ravi? It means that if you don't finish your food, they serve it again to someone else."

This was likely part of some ploy by my parents to prevent me from ordering off the adult menu. Regardless, it worked. I stuck to the (delicious!) cheesy biscuits that time.

On the way home, we saw some bright lights off the freeway. "Mom, stop there! It looks fun!"

My mom: "Oh, honey, that's a nightclub."

Me: "Oh, okay."

(we pass it)

Me: "Mom, I don't think nightclubs have Ferris wheels."

Caught in her lie, she had no choice but to backtrack. What we found that night was probably the most amazing miniature golf + arcade + carnival complex ever.

Bottom line: I can't always be fooled. Eventually the preponderance of evidence catches up with you.

an impaled snail

2009-03-03T23:45:00.000-08:00

I stepped on a snail today,

and it kind of ruined my day.

I can still hear the crunch,

and nearly vomited my lunch.

superghost

2009-03-03T00:00:00.000-08:00

Logically, the answer is no.

No, ghosts don't exist.

But sometimes I'll open a box that I haven't opened in years, or see a book I read that spring break of my senior year, and I'll be transported back there.

It makes throwing things away very hard (but still necessary-- I'm no pack rat).

quote of note

2009-02-28T22:24:00.000-08:00

This morning, I finished John Dufresne's Love Warps the Mind a Little. It was a close call, because the book was due back at the library today.

I knew I wanted to read one of his books, but I settled on this one because it had one of the higher Amazon.com ratings.

My favorite sentence: "Pretending you're not in love is like pretending you're not afraid."

Roberto at your service

2009-02-25T00:14:00.000-08:00

Because my mom used to be a teacher, I generally don't subscribe to the witticism that "those who can do, and those who can't teach." It just seems disrespectful.

But Spanish teachers are definitely the exception. Their universal incompetence-- at least within California public schools-- is well known, and they tend to deserve their lackadaisical reputation. They are both charged with teaching people too old to learn a language a new language and teaching them about a culture. It's within this broad mission statement, I suppose, that watching Shrek in English (but with Spanish subtitles!) can be rationalized.

No harm no foul, though. I never really expected to use my Spanish for anything except to get me into college, which it did.

It also helped me at work today.

For the past few days, a strange international dialer rang my phone. Sometimes it was dead air. Once or twice I heard an "Hola!" I generally ignored the calls and deleted the voicemails, but today the calls started coming in less than ten minutes apart. Something had to be done.

I decided to reply. In Spanish this time, because my English "you have the wrong number!" protestations were clearly ineffective.

[dead air. Normally, I'd say "Hello" and he'd hang up.]

Me: Hola? No puedo hablar espaniol.

Him: Es Julio?

Me: No. Yo estoy Ravi.

Him: Oh.

Me: No conozco Julio.

Him: Oh.

Me: You have the wrong number. [Note: I only made it to Spanish 3.]

[I hang up on him.]

[My coworkers erupt in laughter. I am, after all, in the middle of my office, yelling at someone in a foreign language from my desk phone, and certainly not exhibiting exemplary customer service skills that would pride my employer.]

Thank you, Senor Brown and Senorita Scanlan (but not enough, apparently, for me to dive into the Character Map and get you your tildes). You helped a very confused man realize that Julio totally gave him a fake phone number.

glued to the gluten, or a gluten glutton

2009-02-23T23:29:00.000-08:00

I'll admit, I'm not entirely sure what gluten is, and I'm not interested enough to digest the overly technical explanation surely contained within the bounds of Wikipedia (and probably only half is true anyway).

What I do know about gluten is quite simple: gluten is delicious.

Every so often, out of desperation or curiosity, I stray from my monogamous relationship with the protein, and with disastrous results. Tonight it was a gluten-free chocolate chip cookie. Months ago, it was gluten-free pancake batter.

After my first gluten-free adventure, I became so fervently attached to gluten that I consciously avoided gluten-free products, even if they weren't supposed to include it in the first place. Sprinkle some gluten on those apples, would you?

I strayed again tonight and, one bite in, I regretted it. So I'm writing this here now as a perpetual reminder to myself: eat gluten. You'll love it.

Dracula's Spatula

2009-02-22T23:34:00.000-08:00

There are moments when, reflected in the way your parents treat you now, you see more objectively how you behaved when you were younger.

My brother had, apparently, asked my mom for recommendations on a sturdy spatula (I bet you wish you were a fly on the wall for that conversation). When he came home to visit, she said that she'd looked everywhere, but couldn't find a spatula that met his needs. Instead, she'd give him her favorite, and work to find herself a replacement.

She pulled it out of the drawer, handed it to him, and then asked: "It's red. Is that okay?"

The answer, of course, was "yes." No one really cares about the color of his spatula. But something prompted her to ask the question-- as though he'd be so insecure about his bright red spatula that it may never leave the utensil drawer, forever doomed to live in darkness next to his other shameful and not-entirely-masculine-in-hue kitchen tools.

I wonder if she thinks we really care. Or, even scarier, that we did care about things as trivial just a few years ago.

Pass the Pasta

2009-02-16T22:28:00.000-08:00

It's the little things.

I always smile whenever I make pasta because the cooking directions always say: "Please don't overcook."

So polite. So desperate.

Obviously, this direction could apply to a myriad of foods. Probably all of them, actually. But I've only seen the messaging on pasta.

Please don't overcook.

It works, too. I always watch my pasta carefully. I don't want it to overcook, because apparently the consequences are disastrous enough to warrant a specific warning against overcooking. Maybe they suspect that people that overcook their pasta are also unwilling to accept responsibility for their culinary shortcomings and will, instead, blame the pasta maker.

But don't you worry, Trader Joe's. You took the time to warn me, and that's more than most.

air-line fracture

2009-02-10T23:22:00.000-08:00

If I were on the Yellow Brick Road (the real fake one, not the fake fake one they used to have at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas, though that was wondrous and those were magical times), I think I'd be headed to The Wizard to ask for decisiveness.

oh hello there

2009-02-09T22:10:00.001-08:00

That last post was, admittedly, fairly nonsensical. But I stick with my prejudice against plain unglazed donuts, because they lack any appeal. Why not save yourself the fat and eat a bagel?

I haven't written here recently because I haven't had much to write about (go figure), and because I recently picked up too many books at the library. The pressure to read them makes it hard to breathe, but I suppose I can simply renew when necessary. And reading is better than watching, right?

If you're curious, the list of books appears in the column on the left. I'm trying to branch out from the rather narrow genre of disaffected twentysomething trying to figure out what to do with his life. Possibly because I think I've read everything worth reading in that space.

Reading for me highlights how life is sometimes ever-so-slightly more awkward than portrayed in the movies. The tricky part for me is that I only have one light switch in my room, so putting a lamp on my nightstand seems pointless (I'd have to turn off the main light and turn on the nightstand light anyway). So I read with my ceiling light, but rather than putting my book on the nightstand and then turning off the lamp (and immediately falling into a slumber, as in the movies), I have to get up and switch it off.

Then again, I'd have to get up anyway, because I need to wash my hands after reading/touching a library book. So maybe it isn't life so much as me that's ever-so-slightly more awkward than portrayed in the movies.

Do Nor, Donur

2009-02-01T01:51:00.000-08:00

Ok, I'm the first to admit it: I'm inebriated, and I greatly appreciate the area's public transportation grid. And I had a multi-vitamin.

ANYWAY. This has bothered me for two days, and it's the real point of this post:

I try to respect other points of view. In high school, I joined the debate team. I respect that, in most cases, there are two sides to every issue.

BUT I WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND why people enjoy plain donuts.

They are not glazed.

They are not sugary. (They are not glazed.)

They are boring.

But people eat them! And that is boring and bland.

That is not okay.

ambien and ambition both start with the same prefix.

2009-01-27T00:19:00.000-08:00

I'd like to think that it reflects well on me that I have ambitious and successful friends. It probably doesn't, but every little bit counts.

I have friends who will be the next Don Draper and Peggy, the next Ugly Betty (but much prettier!), the next Andy Sipowitz (what, NYPD Blue isn't cool anymore? Oh, it never was?), and, hell, the complete cast of ER.

I could go on, but you get the point (well, two: I'm irrationally attached to television and use it as a crutch to relate to real-life people and social interactions, and I have friends that are going places. (And let's not forget the two architects, four lawyers, five doctors, and two scientists I hang out with pretty regularly too, not to mention all those in various advanced-degree programs.)

I'm incredibly proud of them.

But it certainly does make me feel pretty unaccomplished. Okay, sure, my employer isn't exactly, as Kevin Spacey said in 21, on par with working at Sizzler. And I'm quite happy there.

Still, there's no TV character for me, and no long-term plan. I literally have no idea what I want to do more than in the immediate term. Sure, other people say that, but usually they really just mean: "I know exactly what I want to do, I just have no idea how to get there." Fair enough.

That's a challenge, but here I'm dealing with an impending disaster.

Mostly, though, I just want my own TV character to whom I can relate. Are you listening, David E. Kelley?

My top 5 favorite soups

2009-01-23T00:01:00.000-08:00

You never asked, but I'm going to tell you anyway. These are my top 5 favorite soups:

1) Chicken Posole
2) Butternut Squash
3) Chicken Noodle
4) Chicken and Rice
5) Ramen (beef flavored)

Yesterday on the Food Network (on a TV screen at Japanese restaurant) the on-screen graphics claimed that Oreos are America's most-consumed cookie, followed by chocolate chip.

I haven't made any public New Year Resolutions, but I'm going to make one now: I personally vow to double my chocolate chip cookie production in 2009, in hopes of restoring that variety's rightful place at the top of the cookie heap.

not the simpsons character. the other one.

2009-01-15T00:01:00.000-08:00

Rodney King it certainly ain't.

A BART officer, charged today with murder, shot a man on New Years. Sad, certainly. But the following "civil unrest?" Pointless. Pretty much everyone is against unnecessary violence, so no need to protest that. And the police officer was charged with murder, so you can't really protest that the government is doing nothing or protecting this guy. Everyone likes a good party (protest?), though.

But let's talk about me, shall we? Glad you agree, empty text box and accompanying blinking cursor.

For the second time in a row, such "civil unrest" has disrupted my commute. I'm not saying I'd know what to do if people came to my house angry, but BART closes stations whenever the wind changes directions. Several months ago, they closed stations because kids were jumping the turnstiles to get to an immigration rally in SF. Illegal, yes, but silly nonetheless, as though BART doesn't realize that people actually take the trains to get to work, not just to visit the Old Money in the City for tea time. All for, what, $300 in missed fares. Good call.

Today, though, was a little more interesting. I got on the train, and the conductor said the train would pass through the next station without stopping because of a "civil disturbance" at the street level above. Ok, fine. Then we get to the next station, disembark, and are told to get right back on the train, because said civil unrest has migrated the seven blocks over, and now they're closing this station too.

Eventually, I make it home. Three stations too late. But I'm alive, and I suppose not everyone can say that after riding BART.

the bearable lightness of being

2009-01-13T23:55:00.000-08:00

It's a good book, the Unbearable Lightness, and you should read it.

That book, like many others, slipped into my Reading Master Plan completely unintentionally (and wholly out of order). I have ideas of what I want to read next, and yet I always seem to divert. Books are lent, or books are borrowed, and all of a sudden here I am reading Michael Chabon's Pittsburgh, though I hadn't heard of it a week ago.

It's been a fantastic few days, which will undoubtedly mean this entry will be numbingly dull. That's what happens: if I'm in a bad mood (see all of the academic year 2006-2007, where I wrote here maybe a dozen times in all), I don't write at all. And if I'm in a good mood, it's because I have nothing to write about.

Tonight I made mushroom risotto, and I'm quite pleased with the results. I'm fortunate that my employer frequently provides me with all three meals a day. I rarely cook, and it's rarer still that I actually cook something I crave, and it ends up satisfying the craving completely. I was wary at the Safeway (as I always am-- and feeling a little guilty, too, because I know I should shop locally and seasonally) when I piled in those Mexican jalapenos (I do my best, at the very least, to buy only American produce-- to support my compatriots, yes, but also because I fear international food safety standards and the Department of Agriculture's thoroughness in inspecting those imports). I was confused by the chicken broth-- at Safeway, as at Trader Joe's down the street (and every other one I've seen), organic free range chicken broth is exactly the same price as the "regular" variety, which begs the question: why sell the other kind at all? Are there people who hate for their chickens to roam ranges freely? Who prefer the antibiotics, when all else is equal? Who are these people, and why are they living in the bay area, probably in the shadows?

The world may never know.

On an unrelated note: I'm no Bush-hater, though I feel it's a testament to the powerlessness of his office that we aren't in a worse position than we are now. Still, is it necessary for you to do one more prime-time televised address, Mr. President? Can't you exit gracefully, silently acknowledging that few people approve of the job you've done (for your country or your political party), without cutting in to Ugly Betty?

I guess this entry is just filled with unanswered questions.

Starved for Bucks

2009-01-08T23:08:00.000-08:00

I used to like Starbucks. Not a lot, mind you, and they certainly didn't have the best coffee I'd ever tasted, but it was passable. And, importantly, it was consistent. City to city, I knew I wasn't going to get an awful cup of coffee though, really, I don't get coffee all that often.

And, okay, I can't really tell the difference between good coffee and great coffee, though I'd like to think that I know a cup of bad coffee. At Starbucks I could generally avoid the latter. It was a good place to go when I couldn't think of a better place to go get some coffee.

But then I went to the Starbucks in San Jose (well, not "the," since I'm sure the city supports thousands of Starbucks outlets). I overlooked the strange puddles of water on the floor. Even the awkward layout (shared by several stores, I now know), designed such that you walked past the barista to get to the register. The bare shelves didn't bother me because I never buy anything there.

Then I ordered.

Her: Can I get a drink started for you?

Me: Yes, please. The peppermint latte.

Her: The peppermint latte or the peppermint twist latte?

Me: [blank stare]

Her: [impatience]

Me: Ummm, what's the difference?

Her: The regular has peppermint on it. The twist has peppermint in it.

Me: Oh... I guess I'll have the twist then.

At that moment, I decided to switch to Peet's. Or Coffee Bean. Anything, really, but a store that would offer two nearly identical products And not once, but at least twice: they have both "hot chocolate" and "signature hot chocolate" on the menu. I inquired about the difference here as well, and I was told that the "signature" version includes seven--7!-- different kinds of chocolate.

An impossibility, I contend, given that there's really only dark, white, and milk, unless the ole' Bucks has gotten haute with their hot chocolate, and are now blending different percentages (which, again, makes no sense, since you'd really just end up with the average).

Perhaps it was always this way, and now I'm just older more of a curmudgeon.

But I suppose it doesn't matter. Full healthcare benefits for part-time workers or not, dear roaster, you've fallen out of my favor. Maybe I'll come back when you've returned to your roots-- the days when parents would get confused at the assortment of coffee, lattes, espressos, and americanos on the menu.

200-ate it

2009-01-07T23:49:00.000-08:00

It's time for the obligatory 2008 recap post, because I'm nothing if not unoriginal (and horribly late to the party).

2008 was notable for me in that it was completely unremarkable. And for that it was remarkable. Which may make no sense. But, really, when it seems like everything else is crumbling around me, I'd say I'm pretty lucky that nothing quite that dramatic happened to me.

And now it's time to move onward to 2009.

odds and ends

2008-12-29T23:22:00.000-08:00

It's disconcerting to me when I find orphaned screws on my desk. I'm not a "builder," and this isn't my workshop. Those pieces of hardware belong somewhere. They're meant to hold something together. Something that I probably took apart, to be fair. Something that will forever after wobble or bother me with its clanking sound. Oh well.

I read an interesting blog entry today from the owner of Doughboys Bakery in Los Angeles on the demise of that restaurant. I only went once, and only heard of the drama peripherally, since I don't pay too much attention to the LA dining scene anymore. But it's sad. Only one side of the story, of course, but sad nonetheless.

http://www.doughboys.net/whathappened.php

(It's sort of long for the awful formatting he's using.)

Is it strange that I remember exactly what I ate there (strawberry french toast), who I went with (Daniel L.), and what time we went (around 10pm), even though it was four years ago? Probably. Some remembered details are best kept to oneself, because they freak people out. Also, it probably goes without saying since I only went once, but the food wasn't that great. The red velvet cake, though, was apparently fantastic (or so says Oprah).

Strange how successful business leaders seem out-of-reach and almost deified. Failed business leaders are shockingly ordinary and human, even if they were once successful.

qualm-ified

2008-12-18T23:46:00.000-08:00

It's always a nice pick-me-up when you see how very wrong supposed experts are about things that supposedly fall within their areas of expertise.

People who, for example, said gas would never fall below three dollars a gallon. Wrong. People who thought housing prices would continue to climb: also wrong (in the short term, at least). People who, year after year, say this is the best time to buy that big screen TV. Not quite.

It makes me feel wholly qualified for anything, because I'm a purported expert at nothing. And if the experts can get it so wrong, I can too. (And, oh, I do.)

too inebriated for a punny title

2008-12-13T00:45:00.000-08:00

It's true that I've had too much to drink. Too much for a company party, so I ran away before (?) I made a fool of myself.

And, sitting here, it's obvious. A good day is a day when you're faced with the same decision you were faced with before (years or months ago), but you make a different decision.

You realize you've grown as a person. Or at least learned from your mistakes.

Hopefully.

Let's get series... finale

2008-12-09T22:58:00.000-08:00

The first and only Friends episode I've ever seen was the series finale.

There's some morbid curiosity that compels me to watch the last episode of shows I had, at best, a passing interest in before I knew they'd be ending.

I'm not entirely sure why I do this, because the shows are rarely very enjoyable. They're meant to tie up loose ends for fans, but I take the opportunity to get to know the characters for the first time. Predictably, I've never fallen in love with a show after watching the series finale.

Shows that I already love, though, rarely disappoint me during their final hour. I suppose I have low standards for entertainment.

I'm not sure where I'm going with this, except to say that if you ever want to get me to do something, just tell me it's the last chance I ever have to do it. I'm there.

selection

2008-12-07T22:52:00.000-08:00

Some days I wonder: is the third rail really electric? I'm skeptical, but I'm not about to find out.

I was more likely to test my theory during election season. Fortunately, that's over, and now we're knee-deep in hope and change because lots of people decided to vote. It's a good thing, but kind of puzzling nonetheless.

I did vote, of course, and if you're wondering: for the high speed rail (that may never get properly funded), against the chicken coop standards, against the children's hospital money, for more police officers, for lighter criminal sentences, and so on.

But, as always, I was stumped on the local stuff. I could, of course, make my opinion known on local measures (like when I voted for maintaining or increasing property taxes on pretty much anything, because I rent), but I couldn't choose one person over the other for a particular position.

The sad truth is that I have only a vaguely bad impression of my local government, though I have no idea who they are (besides the mayor, Ron Dellums, who looks a little like a crazy old man and acts much more like one). I just have this feeling that they know I don't know who they are, so they get away with doing very little for lots of money. This may or may not be true.

I really should find out, though, and perhaps that's my first resolution for 2009. Look at President Bush: no one likes him, but other than longer waits at the airport, my day-to-day life hasn't changed dramatically since he started on his 8-year tour of duty (and I, of course, am lucky for that; many others face a starkly different reality despite or because of his leadership). And, really, my only hope is that my life doesn't change dramatically under Obama's presidency.

But the likelihood that I get robbed or murdered on the street? Or that there's a train that actually takes me where I want to go waiting at the station? Or that the library has books I actually want to read?

That falls under my local government's jurisdiction. And, to some degree, I get to choose those decision-makers.

So, really, I need to do a better job deciding myself.

Starting next year.

Outstanding in the field trips

2008-11-19T00:11:00.000-08:00

Going to a California public school generally means that, somewhere along the way (and usually multiple times along the way), you were treated to some rather "innovative" educational methods likely dreamt up as a way to stop the rapidly deteriorating quality of schooling after the state froze property taxes.

I can think of a few examples. One outshines them all.

Keep in mind that I went to a public school in the country-- there were no buildings around it, and I likely am the way I am because I was dusted with pesticides aimed for the nearby fields. That said, I think my elementary school education was among the best I could have received, and wouldn't trade that experience for anything.

Nonetheless, there were weak spots. Like the time my third grade (was it 2nd grade?) teacher decided to take a class field trip.

To the soon-to-open Centinela State Prison.

You might ask why. Indeed, this question wracks my brain far more than it probably should nearly 15 years later. I still don't really know. Was it a "scared straight" sort of intervention? Simple boredom? The fact that it was free?

Did the prison approach the school, or did the school approach the prison?

I could speculate till the sun comes up, but I can't read the minds of educators and administrators at McCabe Elementary School. Like the number of licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop, the world may simply never know.

I'd like to go into detail about the trip and what I saw, but I can't; this field trip was the only one my parents ever declined. So now, like most well-adjusted people my age, I can safely say that I've never seen the inside of a prison.

neigh-bores

2008-11-10T00:01:00.000-08:00

It's hard to resist the urge to make assumptions about people. But then, every once in awhile, you find yourself so wrong that you need to step back and reevaluate how you judge people.

After seeing my neighbor talk on the phone almost incessantly throughout high school, I assumed he must be some sort of day trader or involved in the seedy "import/export" business. Or perhaps a telephone psychic, but he lacked that big Jamaican woman physique I've come to associate with remote psychics.

At any rate, really, I assumed it was something mundane. I always do-- concocting far-flung fantasies for strangers seems to me a lot less comforting than hoping that everyone leads a life as boring as mine.

And then, yesterday, I saw it. A coffin.

As it turns out, he builds coffins. From home. For a living.

You just can't guess occupations like that, so why bother even trying?

Dear Bay Area Tanker Truck Drivers,

2008-10-24T00:55:00.000-07:00

Please stop overturning, jack-knifing, and bursting into flames. In general, but especially on routes I'm traveling. Twice in two days? Those are odds I should take to Vegas.

And I only feel comfortable saying this because you didn't get hurt.

Broken Safety Netflix

2008-10-22T00:16:00.000-07:00

Netflix, what happened?

In February, I wrote you a love letter. It's still floating around this blog somewhere.

Soon thereafter, I ran out of Tier 1 movies-- those movies I actually wanted to see as soon as possible and couldn't wait to receive in the mail.

Eventually, I decided to trust your ratings system blindly as a way to find new movies I might enjoy. What a mistake.

You suggested War, Inc. You said I'd "love" it. A movie that, I believe, no one loved. A movie that, I'm certain, Hillary Duff headlined.

So either you think I have tastes inverse to the general population, or you're just mean. I don't know which, but I do know that you've hurt the relationship we built on trust.

Dutifully, I watched the movie. It took me three sittings over the span of four days to stomach it, but I kept wanting to believe it'd get better. Because I thought you knew me better than anyone else, Netflix. And you knew I'd love this movie.

But you were wrong. And I suppose it makes me a fool for trusting you.

the anatomy of a YouTube share

2008-10-15T23:28:00.000-07:00

(Ok, as a disclaimer, I should say upfront that I completely understand that what I write about on my blog is trivial. Despite contrary popular opinion, I don't actually obsess about these things constantly, and I'm fully aware that the world has bigger problems that should be prioritized over the ones I present here. That said...)

Few things cause anxiety for me in the workplace nearly as much as a coworker sharing a YouTube video with me. I just don't know what to do, and I can't think of a plausible task that could possibly take the entire eight hours without a single five-minute break. There's no way to duck the share.

YouTube videos typically last 3-8 minutes. The first thirty seconds are confusing: why did he/she send me this?

Then it gets funny. I chuckle. He/she hovers over my computer while I watch, or I have to stand over his/hers while I watch it there.

After about two minutes, I'm over it. Never in my life have I seen a clip that causes me to laugh constantly for five minutes.

But there my friend stands, looking for validation.

Three minutes in, and now I'm bored. My mind wanders, but I try to pretend to care. I stare at the red status bar and marvel at how slowly time passes. I could live forever if YouTube allowed regular people to upload clips longer than ten minutes.

Usually around minute four the sharer gets impatient himself, and sometimes even a little apologetic: "So, anyway, I thought that was funny... It's pretty much the same thing until the end."

And, occasionally, they have mercy. That's where the little online adventure ends. (The selfish pawn clip after clip, as though they're paid per impression.)

Generally, here are my rules: under a minute means share away (!), under 3 minutes means share if it's really funny, and under 7 minutes means you want to painfully steal precious minutes of my life. I won't soon forgive you. If your clip is above 7 minutes, shame on me for even acknowledging your invitation.

a coconut making some oreos

2008-10-02T23:39:00.000-07:00

You'd think I would've learned my lesson with the pesto experiment: economies of scale make some foods that normally would be prohibitively expensive somewhat affordable.

Still, inexplicably, the recipe for homemade Oreos caught my eye. For one, they're from Food Jesus Thomas Keller, a man whose recipes I would follow until the bitter end, even if said recipes included toenail broth. (At least my blind devotion isn't directed towards, say, the NRA.)

I had to wait, though, because the recipe promised 36 or so cookies, which is far too many for one man to consume. Finally, when my apartment-mates and I decided to have a party, I knew the timing would be right to experiment with the Thomas Keller Oreos-- the upside being that attendees likely would be too inebriated to notice if, say, the butter-cream mixture was a little to heavily leaning towards one unhealthy dairy product.

I purchased all of the ingredients the night before the party. And, this being a Tom Keller (can I call you "Tom?") recipe, I knew I had to go top-notch, or at least as top-notch as my highly underinvested Safeway would allow. I bought brand-name chocolate, coop-produced organic flour, organic cream, and the like. In all, I spent approximately $25 on ingredients (though, admittedly, I had some left over for future iterations).

And after burning roughly 1/4 of the cookies, I had approximately 20 to share with friends.

Meaning that, yes, each cookie cost roughly a dollar, or approximately twenty times the price of name-brand Oreo cookies from Nabisco.

Sometimes homemade doesn't mean cheaply made.

king of the pride

2008-09-28T23:39:00.000-07:00

I'm somewhat fortunate to live a block away from Safeway. Sadly, it seems like this Safeway is now an afterthought for company, or possibly forgotten completely. This Safeway hasn't yet been blessed with the company's new "lifestyle" format, and they can't seem to keep things like lemon juice in stock (even the manager, when I asked, admitted defeat).

Add that to their overeager checkers, and I'm happy to avoid the store altogether (luckily, there's a Trader Joe's five blocks away, so I won't starve). On multiple occasions, I've brought in my own bag, but they've decided to bag my groceries with their bags anyway, and then put those bags in my bag, thereby defeating the purpose.

Things reached a fever pitch on Friday night, when the store was uncharacteristically busy. Let's call my checker Fred.

In-between paying customers, Fred would stop everything, pick up his phone, and make an announcement that played out more like a bad audition for Upright Citizens' Brigade than a worthy interruption to the easy listening music we were all enjoying:

"World peace? We can't help you there, but there are pizzas available in our deli for only $5. That's right! Pizza for $5, today only at Safeway."

Mr. Safeway, if he's dead or ever lived, would be rolling in his grave.

This announcement (or a slight variation) after every. single. customer.

A couple stood in front of me, ready to pay. She pulled out her credit card. He pulled out his Safeway card. Big mistake.

Fred says: "Um, actually we prefer if each customer has their own Club Card."

The boyfriend/husband: "We're together."

Fred: "But did you drive here together?"

Her: "Yes..."

Fred: "Okay, let me get you an application. I'll let you use his card this once, but you really need to get your own."

They exchange confused looks, rightfully.

I guess it's just weird for me to see people take such pride in jobs I generally consider to be occupations of necessity rather than the foundation of a career. I know I should be motivated by them, but I'm not. If anything, I probably feel pity.

subtractvertisement

2008-09-22T23:28:00.000-07:00

One day, after picking up the mail, my dad proudly mentioned that UC Davis researchers finally figured out a way to recycle envelopes with plastic address windows. This was the latest in a series of casual plugs for Davis, where he was hoping to relocate my family.

(He was successful, of course, but that's a story for another time.)

I was nonplussed, and maybe even a little disappointed: "Dad, people are dying of diseases and UC Davis spends its time researching ways to recycle paper and plastic together?"

To which he replied: "Well, not everyone can cure cancer."

And I guess that's true. Just not always.

For the uninitiated, the Ad Council is a group of advertising agencies and executives that volunteer their time to create ad campaigns promoting things that, you know, are actually good for you and everybody else. I suppose it's like opposite day around the office when they work on those commercials and posters.

Generally, they do a good job. But they've been around for awhile and, lately, I think they're scraping the bottom of the public service barrel. Hulu.com frequently features an ad with McGruff the crime dog pleading for an end to cyber bullying.

Really? Cyber bullying is the biggest problem they want to attack? Admittedly, I have no idea what cyber bullying is, but I imagine it's people writing mean things to each other online. I guess Al Gore solved global warming, and you were tired of making ads telling kids to exercise. We won't even get started on that old chestnut, the War on Drugs. Won, I suppose.

Things reached a fever pitch the other day when I walked out of the BART station only to be inundated by ads begging me to recycle my old paper. I suppose people have a handle on recycling new paper, but as the billboards suggest, we simply ignore the old junk mail piled up in our basements. Or something. Never mind the fact that we're in a drought, in a war, or near the brink of an economic collapse-- you're hoarding your back issues of National Geographic, and that needs to stop.

Such is life, though, I suppose. One man's pet peeve is another man's crisis.

the anatomy of a trick

2008-08-24T22:57:00.000-07:00

If one thing's obvious after living in the Bay Area for a year, it's that the homeless are organized.

Someone somewhere must've created a "best practices" document for eliciting money from empathetic-yet-employed looking youngsters, because I always seem to hear a variant on the same story.

First, the irrefutable politeness: "Hello sir, can I ask you a question?"

I fall for this every time, because I usually think they're going to ask me for the time or when the next Fremont-bound BART train is arriving at the station.

So I say yes.

At this point they're instructed to tell you the most unbelievable and generally horrifying story still possible within some realm of reality.

On Friday, it was that this man's uncle was shot dead on some very specific intersection in San Francisco.

Then, without a segue, he proceeded to his request: "So, can I get some money for a donut? Not a whole dollar, man, I wouldn't do that to you-- just a few cents and I can scrounge up the rest, but I really just want a donut."

Somehow, I guess I was supposed be blinded by the tragedy that had befallen his uncle and given him donut money.

Mind you, I'm no stranger to grief-fueled junk food binges: my family-- mostly because we're morbid-- still love to joke about the time my cousin devoured an entire box of KFC hot wings at my grandmother's funeral. Still, I wouldn't imagine a distant relative of mine using my grandmother's passing as a way to extort a stranger out of a quarter. It just seems... unseemly.

But, then again, I suppose there's no better word to describe Oakland.

Locavore no more

2008-08-19T23:50:00.000-07:00

It's hard out there for a yuppie-in-training.

I had some time to kill today. And instead of huffing paint (or whatever it is the youth of America does these days-- watch Family Guy reruns on Hulu?), I decided, naturally, to go pick some blackberries.

A coworker described where near the creek they'd be, but didn't explain to me what, exactly, they'd look like. Except blackberries, of course, though I couldn't see those whizzing by at 10 miles per hour on my bike. I needed more information.

Partly because I still can't let go of the idea that my parents know everything, and partly because my dad has an advanced degree in horticulture, I gave them a ring. I explained the situation. My mother sighed.

It was a sigh that said: "good lord, there goes the one chance we had at a socially normal son." (Their other son, I should note, has a Star Trek ring-tone. I really was the last chance at normalcy.) It was a sigh that said: "Okay, so all of your coworker friends are at a dance, but you're waiting to go until the very last minute so that you can go off and pick blackberries by a creek next to the NASA airfield polluted with untold chemicals. I'm never having any grandchildren." It was a surrender.

Sadly, they weren't able to provide much additional guidance: "Ravi, it's a bush, it's green, and it has blackberries on it. What do you want from us?"

So I decided to figure it out on my own, the hard way-- being careful, of course, to avoid the berries with lateral lines in them, because movies aren't simply for entertainment purposes.

I ate a few bitter ones, and then finally found a decent patch of sweet ones. This after I left my bike in the middle of the path and trudged over some precarious stones.

Blackberry farmers, if you're wondering, fully deserve the premium they charge for that berry (though, admittedly, I doubt they pay their harvesters more). The branches are thorny. The fruits are juicy. The bunches of fruit are small and disparate, and they don't all ripen at the same time (or to the same level of sweetness). And the bees that hang out there haven't gotten the memo that they're supposed to mysteriously disappear so that Haagen-Dazs can try to find them.

All in all, a natural disaster.

Ninety minutes after I left the parking lot of my office building on a borrowed bike, I emerged from the bushes. Splintered, thorny, sweaty and with hands covered in blackberry juice.

Was it all worth it? Probably not, since I could've bought enough blackberries at the market for about $6 bucks, but I'll find out for sure tomorrow when I make this.

What would Bono do?

2008-08-14T22:57:00.001-07:00

Here's the problem: I'm not very good at feigning interest, and I'm even worse under pressure.

When people used to ask me: "How are you?," and I knew they didn't really care (or they were walking the opposite direction and I wouldn't have enough time to give them a proper answer), I'd just say, "Well."

Eventually, it struck me that some people might find this rude. That, apparently, the appropriate thing to do would be to ask them how they're doing in return, even if there still isn't time for a proper answer and even if, this time around, I didn't really care (assuming, of course, that things were some variation of "fine").

But since I can never remember what I'm supposed to say when, I decided to follow a few simple rules: if they're asking a question, reply with: "How about you?" And if they're offering a compliment, reply with: "You too!"

Unfortunately, while I apply these rules recklessly, they don't always work. Replying to "Have a good weekend!" with "You too!" is perfectly appropriate. The same response to a comment like: "thanks for the quick response," however, typically gets met with confused stares.

With time, I don't seem to be getting any better at this effort. Nonetheless, I figure it's better to say something than nothing at all and, who knows, maybe they responded quickly to something once and no one said thank you-- because the recipient then didn't care and didn't know what to say.

The prime (number) of my life

2008-08-10T00:16:00.000-07:00

And so I enter my 23rd year. (A prime number, hence the title.)

Recently, my mother told me the latest in a long line of wrongs committed against me by my pediatrician.

When I was younger, maybe 9 years old, my parents told my doctor that they should just throw me away and try again. He was joking, probably, but he was also Argentinian, so it's hard to be sure. He didn't have the command of the English language that includes proper sarcastic intonation. Fortunately, my parents decided to stick with me-- whether fools ignorant of the Sunk Cost Fallacy or nice people, I'll never know.

He said this because I had health problems as a child-- problems that surfaced before my birth. As a result, I was born prematurely, at a scheduled time. This isn't terribly interesting, except the part where my mother asked my doctor if he'd schedule the birth for August 5th-- a fitting way, if ever there was one, to introduce a child who embraces obsessive compulsions into this world.

I would also be born exactly one day after we think my father was born (or, rather, the day he decided to say he was born on citizenship papers, since India isn't known for its meticulous medical record-keeping. Talk about a win-win: the parents get two birthday celebrations done at once, while I get the poetry of 8/5/85 on my birth certificate.

Sadly, the world had to wait two days to meet me. And why? My doctor decided to take a vacation. The little boy with health problems that needed to climb out couldn't because, well, the good doctor had heard the call of the wild (or something).

And so, as often happens with my life, I'm left with something pretty close, though not exactly, what I wanted: lucky number seven.

bar fly

2008-07-31T23:28:00.000-07:00

I've recently come to revise my stance on women in bars.

I didn't meet anyone in a bar, but I came close, and I have a few friends who did and haven't died from an unidentifiable disease yet, so I think it's time to lift that embargo of sorts.

At a certain tiki bar one weekend, a woman approached my friend and I. He and I were in the middle of conversation, so it was a little annoying, but we tried to be friendly.

She explained that she doesn't drink often-- so, okay, she was probably drunk-- because she prefers to spend her money on food.

Admittedly, that piqued my interest a bit.

We talked about favorite restaurants. I mentioned one of mine, Ad Hoc, to see if she faking.

She replied: "oh, the new Thomas Keller restaurant in Napa?"

Close enough, I guess. If by "new" you mean "about a year and a half old," and by "Napa" you really meant "Yountville," a township about fifteen minutes outside of Napa proper. Call it my version of beer goggles (or, in the spirit of things, tropical fruity drink goggles), but I was sold. Not on this particular person, per se (pun intended), but on the idea that people worth meeting actually cavort at bars from time to time.

Which shouldn't be surprising to me, I guess, since I happen to visit bars from time to time myself.

Call it pretension or call it a lack of self-awareness. Either way, I'd say I'm cured.

Brain Drain / I've got Issues

2008-07-22T23:09:00.001-07:00

Like the people who canceled their subscription to The Dallas Morning News after the paper named "Illegal Immigrants" as their Texan of the Year, I think it's time for me to cancel my subscription to The New Yorker. And over something far more irresponsible than a politically charged nomination or a silly cartoon.

I can't even tell you in what issue the article appeared, because I haven't read an issue since some time in the first half of this year. Generally, I keep it around for pretension. But they've gone too far. Or so I hear.

There was, apparently, a story published in that rag recently about some girl who had an itch. In her head. She scratched and scratched and scratched, even in her sleep. Eventually, she scratched so much so hard that she dug right through her skull, at which point I hope someone became alarmed.

I have no idea what happened next, nor do I care to find out. The Cliff Notes I've heard so far launched quite a panic, and I don't think I've been so scared of something since I heard about an antibiotic-resistant staph infection on a friend's foot nearly 6 weeks ago.

Can I somehow prevent feeling itchy in my brain? Is this a verifiable medical condition? And are there doctors working on it (you're excused, temporarily, from finding the cure to sentimentality I requested last night)?

I can't stop thinking about itching my brain, which has made my head the itchiest it's ever felt. I try to think about how improbable it is that a similar affliction will take my life, but in so doing I need to scratch my head. Partly to make sure that my skull is still there. Mostly, though, because it itches.

At some point, I'm sure the morning checks to make sure my brain isn't oozing out of my skull won't be enough. I may need to start restraining myself before bed, just to make sure my wandering hands don't itch my brain. (Cake, I know you haven't released a new album in awhile, but if you're still wondering where your fingers go when you sleep, it's apparently to scratch your itchy head).

I could also try to think of other things entirely, in the hopes that I'll simply forget about unintentionally scratching through my skull as a possibility. Maybe I can think about how much I hate The New Yorker. For the record, your articles are too long and your cartoons don'y make any body laujgh. Don't get me started on the cryptic poetry.

a moving moment

2008-07-21T23:00:00.000-07:00

I'd like to offer myself up for clinical trials to the first pharmaceutical company that develops a drug combating excessive nostalgia.

It certainly feels like a disease. Moving out of my apartment-- the site of no remarkable memories, honestly-- was an unnecessarily emotional experience. I wish I knew why, but I was profoundly sad as I packed up my final boxes. Meaningless moments took on a whole new depth-- the time we threw eggs at the train. The dinner parties. The guests I hosted. (I should note here that I shared none of these memories with my roommate.) Then there was the time my roommate told me-- good news! (his words, more or less, not mine)-- his grandfather just died, so now he'd be buying a big screen TV with his inheritance.

The worst was when I sat around waiting for a train. God willing, I'll never live near train tracks again (it's a lesson, like so many in my life, I demanded to learn the hard way). Still, I couldn't help but wait to hear it one last time.

It's inexplicable. I'm sentimental about even the worst days of my life, because I generally learned something important on those days. I'm also sentimental about anything that I know I'll only do once, or experience once, even if it isn't anything terribly remarkable at all. For some reason, the idea that I'll never park in space 213 again, or visit the Carson IKEA, makes me sad. It's pathetic.

So have at it, science. Cure this ridiculous sentimentality.

The Name Game

2008-07-20T00:18:00.001-07:00

My name is fairly unique outside of its origin country. And it's fairly similar to a popular name here (Robby), so I tend to spend a lot of time subtly correcting people when it's important (like at the DMV, for example).

Given the choice, though, I wouldn't have it any other way. While it can be annoying that 90% of people I meet never say my name correctly when they first meet me, the uniqueness outweighs the trouble.

I'd rather be a Ravi than a Robby because I'm almost always the only Ravi in the room. And, when I stop to think about it, I like it that way.

I first met another Ravi when I was about 8 years old and, as you might imagine, I was none too thrilled at the prospect. He was probably in his 40s, and working with my parents on some community service project. I demanded that my mother refer to me as Ravi and him by some other name (I'm pretty sure I offered some options, none of them ideal, but I can't remember them exactly). Me being so young (and, let's face it, so darn adorable), he and she both acquiesced, and I was the only Ravi in the room once more.

As I get older, though, such tactics become less realistic. About a year ago, I started working at a company with several Ravis. I learned this one day after a coworker asked me why I had a baby carriage and why I was selling it. I took a look and, sure enough, some Ravi had posted said item to a for-sale list. She didn't seem to believe me that there could be another Ravi but, fortunately enough, this one had a different last name. Conflict (somewhat) avoided.

Tonight, I went to a dinner party where I sat across the table from another Ravi. I nearly exploded-- not out of anger, but simply shock. A mix of affinity for this person that shares my name, and a little sadness that the jig was up. It turns out I'm not that special after all.

You wouldn't like this

2008-07-06T23:23:00.000-07:00

(So there was an entry that appeared briefly here, but I decided to get rid of it, because people might take it the wrong way.)

I have an opinion on a lot of things, despite being well-informed on relatively few topics. I have an Order of Operations for my life that helps me make sense of the pandemonium. One of the rules, for example, prevents me from eating in the bathroom (or reading, actually). I don't know a logical explanation for this decision-- I just feel an innate revulsion at the idea.

As people get to know me, they get better at predicting how I'll feel about things-- and they might, for example, ensure that we don't eat out at a B graded restaurant, or warn me about lukewarm milk I'm about to consume. I greatly appreciate such indulgences.

Sometimes, though, the prediction is off, and in those instances I don't really know what to say.

They say: "You're going to hate this!" or "This is really going to disgust you!" as a preface to a store they're about to tell.

But then, sometimes, it doesn't faze me at all. And what do I say then?

"Actually, that doesn't really bother me at all," or fake it: "Good lord."

In practice, I'd say I'm split right down the middle. If the person is telling me the story for the shock value, then I'll probably oblige them and act shocked, since they've likely obliged my peculiarities many times before. On the other hand, if they're telling me the story in all seriousness, I'll probably tell them that I don't really care.

For example: rats in a kitchen (except Remy!) are a definite no, but an accidental hair in the food usually doesn't even compel me to send the food back. I'd give a restaurant with a worm in their salad a second chance, but I wouldn't think twice about blacklisting a restaurant where I saw a worker that did not wash his hands after using the restroom, or handled currency and food with the same hands.

Naturally, I don't expect anyone to know that, or predict with any certainty whether or not I'll find something repulsive. I'm just happy that they try.

purse-pective

2008-06-30T22:54:00.001-07:00

When I shop at Trader Joe's, I usually do so with my earphones in. Not because I have terribly compelling music, or because their music is so bad, but because their checkout clerks are so darn chatty. To the point where it's almost a hindrance.

Today, though, I was ready to be engaged. The guy started talking about the two new Trader Joe's stores that recently opened in Oakland-- and how this store's traffic has declined as a result. It's still in their Top 10 grossing stores for California, but dropped out of the nationwide ranking.

Naturally, he hasn't been to the other stores, since he works at the Emeryville one and doesn't want to visit another one on his spare time.

He explained that customers tell him the College Ave. store is much nicer, based solely on its polished concrete floor (very urbane, I'll admit).

I was ready to mention how I really liked the Lake Merritt location, because it has a single-line system (meaning that there's one line for all customers, and they head to the next available register).

But he got to it first. "I don't like the store near Lake Merritt! From what I hear, they've got a single-line system, and that's just a disaster. What if you have a crush on a checker? Or what if I had a customer crush? The suspense would be impossible to deal with!"

I certainly had never thought of it that way, possibly because I've never had a crush on a Trader Joe's staffmember.

That said, they've always been nice, so I can see why some customers would fall in love. More disconcerting, though, was his rebuttal to one woman's complaint that one of the new stores tended to have less fresh meats: "They're still getting the hang of things. Lots of new hires there. Give them a year."

Really? A year to master a job where everything is prepackaged and readily barcoded? I've always respected Trader Joe's employees for their fantastic demeanor, not the incredible amount of skill it takes to complete their job (Monterey Market cashiers, on the other hand-- they have to memorize hundreds of produce codes and prices).

Perhaps that's why I've never found a Trader Joe's employee attractive. They're a nice bunch, but if it takes them a year to master the art of customer service, they probably aren't my target demographic.

test-defying

2008-06-27T00:09:00.001-07:00

Tomorrow I testify against the guy who smashed my window a few months ago.

I hope:

1) It doesn't take too long, because I got the whole day off.

2) It isn't his third strike, and I'm the one responsible for sending him to prison for life.

3) He isn't part of some huge street gang that's going to hunt me down.

In reverse order, really.

my tryst with craigslist

2008-06-19T22:38:00.000-07:00

Trolling Craigslist depresses me.

It depresses me to think that all of the world's most illiterate people own property (while I do not). Or, at the very least, all of the world's second-property-owning folks entrust their investments to the illiterate. Is there really a "londeromat" on the ground floor? Depends on what that is, exactly.

But these functional illiterates aren't letting their handicap stop them (do I play basketball in a league, amateur or otherwise? No. I know my limits.). If euphemisms are sprinkles, these people are baking funfetti cupcakes. Is the house "charming," or is it dilapidated? Things built in the 1970s are no longer "contemporary." Did someone at Roget's overlook the fact that "quaint" and "tinier than your left shoe" are now synonymous? Probably not. And that house is about as Craftsman as I am Italian.

While I'm at it, unless the baby comes with a year lease, leave him/her/it out of the picture. I don't care what your child looks like sitting where my sofa will be-- the dimensions aren't even close to similar, and it helps me visualize nothing except what would happen if I had no furniture and a baby to watch (merely the thought incites panic).

I keep coming back, though. Practically every day. With hope that, this time, I'll find that hidden gem. I'll weed through all the listings for $1800 lofts and $400/month telephone booths and see it-- the perfect apartment at the perfect price, oblivious to the thousands who have searched before me. On the Internet, anything is possible.

life in limbo

2008-06-16T23:48:00.000-07:00

I hit rock-bottom last night: I drank directly from the milk carton.

To be fair, no one else will be drinking that milk.

Was it my desperation for milk? My lack of readily available clean cups? Who or what is to blame for my embarrassing misstep?

Wal-Mart, of course.

Nearly two years ago, I purchased drinking glasses from Wal-Mart at the deceptively low price of $10 for a full 20 glasses. A bargain, to be sure, as long as you don't mind stepping on glass. These cups will break if you give them a sideways glance. If you breathe on them. If you accidentally stare.

I have just three cups remaining. Seventeen have broken over the course of the last year, and trust me, it isn't me being a clutz. If this were negligence, or even deliberate, I would've broken at least some of my mother's ugly 1970s-style plates. Then, at least, I could justify the purchase of some new dinnerware. But no. It's the cups. Always the cups. So I'm left, like a three-year-old, drinking out of a plastic cup given as a promotional item for the movie The Science of Sleep.

It changes color when you pour in cold liquids, but it doesn't restore my dignity.

plugging in to the outlet gross-ery store

2008-05-30T00:08:00.000-07:00

Let me start by saying that I don't hate poor people. In fact, given that I can't imagine ever having enough money to own property (at least not before the ice caps melt or the Socialists outside the BART station try to take it away from me or something), I probably am some type of poor.

And, regardless of how much money you make, who doesn't like saving some from time-to-time? Even rich people do that.

Rich people, however, know where to draw the line. Rich people don't shop at the Grocery Outlet.

A couple of months ago, I embarked on an adventure to find my favorite grocery store. No clear-cut winner emerged, and to be fair, the competition wasn't complete. I had been avoiding the Grocery Outlet.

Mostly because I didn't know what I needed to buy there, and I was a little scared of what I might find.

Nonetheless, this past Sunday, I was in the neighborhood for an unrelated culinary expedition. And, well, sometimes a man needs his shredded coconut. So I figured I'd pop in and give it a whirl.

If you're wondering, they did not have shredded coconut. They did not have a lot of things, including dignity and a respect for public health codes. When I walked towards the store and saw that it also doubled as their corporate headquarters (on the second floor), I admittedly got a little excited. Maybe I'm not a man for just any old Grocery Outlet, but their flagship store? Even Martha Stewart had to set foot in a K-Mart at one point.

But if that's how they treat their flagship store, well, I can only imagine that sister stores are covered in broken glass and stagnant pools of water. And ignoring their questionable sanitation (I found several food items ready to be purchased that had already been partially consumed, including virtually all of the frozen cream puffs), there was the selection. Half of the store was dedicated to Cookie Crisp knock-offs and badly marketed scents of Snuggle fabric softener.

In most cases, the store did live up to its motto-- there were certainly brands I recognized, but that didn't make me trust these particular versions any more. It's kind of like awkwardly running into a friend of yours, he unclean and unshaven, at, well, the Grocery Outlet. Embarrassing for everyone. But, really, more embarrassing for him.

Did they have Skittles? Yes (though by no means should you take that to mean I look at Skittles availability as the mark of a true grocery store)! Boxes and boxes of them, 3 for $1. But not regular Skittles. Those flavors sell well enough for the big leagues. Though if you're in the market for vomit-inducing chocolate-pudding-flavored Skittles (no lie), they've got em.

Problem is, I don't think anyone wants them. Nothing at the Grocery Outlet might be very expensive, but nothing is a good value, either. Like so many things in life, just because it's cheap and easy doesn't mean it's a good idea.

more bids

2008-05-25T00:48:00.000-07:00

Today I became the first member of my family to receive a subpoena.

Pretty exciting. Enough to warrant an email from my father, a man who comes from a remote village in India that still lacks indoor plumbing and still cooks with cow dung. (If you're wondering, I visited once, and it tested my ability to grin while bearing it.)

His message, though, was cryptic. "Call me when you get a chance." That could mean anything from "we've decided to get a divorce" to "your mother wants to know if you'd like her to pick up strawberries for you at the farmer's market next time you visit."

Naturally, I assumed the worst, and fortunately my fears were put to rest. But at least I know where I got it from. If there's anything my family loves to do together, it's window shopping at the Merchant of Death's. We're a morbid bunch.

When my car was broken into-- which happens to be the reason I was subpoenaed--I called my parents and they told me that they were convinced someone had stolen my car with me in it and then killed me, dragged out my limp body, and abandoned the car. They were remarkably composed, given the theory they had concocted after the police contacted them (because, apparently, I live off the grid, and the fuzz couldn't reach me directly).

It all begs the question: is this love, or is this insanity?

path-o-logical ignorer

2008-05-20T23:58:00.000-07:00

A year after my graduation, I think I can safely say that the education I received at UCLA most applicable to my daily life is less I learned on BruinWalk: ignore people offering you things, even if they seem to be offering you free things.

For the fortunately uninitiated, BruinWalk was the path at UCLA crowded at all hours by people trying to hand you flyers for things. Occasionally, they tricked you and handed you actual things, but you soon realized that those were just misshapen flyers.

There you learned quickly: talk on your cell phone (fake it if you have to) or put in headphones. Invaluable lessons, given the legions of people I pass trying to interact with me on a typical day.

Let's take today, for example. On the bus to the BART station, a man who couldn't talk spent the entire trip trying to communicate with me-- and only me. I still have no idea what he wanted from me, because I'm not so good at charades. Something about the number 2 and then praying, based on his hand gestures. But since he exited the bus at Safeway, maybe not praying but eating? Who knows.

Once I get to the BART station, there are occasionally people with petitions and flyers, but not today. I was safe until I exited the train, at which point there's always a man playing his lonely instrument (with just one string!) at the base of the escalator to street level. On Market Street, there's always someone selling something or handing out a flyer for some event. On my four-block walk to work, I encounter at least three homeless people, and on days like today, someone else trying to hand me a coupon for a half-price sandwich.

On my way home from work, there are three other homeless people before I make it to the actual BART station, where there are two more. I don't give money to most homeless people for a few reasons, but in these cases I'm just too indecisive about who to support to even begin contemplating the idea of donating money.

Then it's back on the BART. Before I board the bus to my apartment, I have to contend with the Socialists, who seem to publish a new underground newspaper every day. Thanks comrade, but I'll pass (and if you only knew that I am gainfully employed!).

Then I'm home. Hardly the worse for wear, because of all that experience I got at UCLA. No one here makes me shake his hand (that man really annoyed me), but they all want something from me. I'd like to flatter myself by thinking they're targeting me specifically, but I know that isn't true. They're casting a wide net in hopes of finding someone that'll give them what they want. And that person isn't me.

heat waiving

2008-05-18T23:18:00.000-07:00

Heat waves, like beauty (much to the disappointment of one Christina Aguilera), are apparently in the eyes of the beholder.

Last week the San Francisco Bay Area got hot. 80-plus-degrees hot. Okay, so that's not exactly fry-an-egg-on-the-sidewalk hot, but based on the way people were talking, you would've thought hell had finally taken notice of our deviant liberal lifestyles.

I felt it too, and I complained like anyone else (though, as you probably know, it doesn't take much of anything for me to complain). On the first day of the fierce heat, BART trains ran noticeably irregularly. On the second day, the electronic screens at the stations apologized for "yesterday's delays, as high temperatures caused track-side equipment to malfunction, leading to systemwide delays."

The high temperatures that caused me to complain and BART to fall apart? Mid 80s. Note to public transit operators everywhere: your equipment should function normally in temperatures under 100 degrees. Anything above that is forgivable.

I guess I'm most embarrassed in myself, though. Whining about 80 degrees? I've certainly seen better days.

the not-so-invisible hand

2008-05-12T22:17:00.000-07:00

Okay, I suppose I should've written this yesterday, but I've been sick.

Sometimes, things are better when prepared by someone else. In other cases, ordinary things become much better when you play a role in their creation.

Sandwiches and salads taste significantly better when made by someone else-- and their tastiness seems to increase proportionally based on how much money you've spent on them. I can't really explain it, but sandwiches are something pretty much anyone can make with a very limited culinary skill set, and yet purchasing them seems totally acceptable.

Dinner tends to taste better-- or at least I'm less critical of the taste--when I make it myself. Same goes for desserts-- I've been known to overlook the not-quite-solidified state of my chocolate fudge, or the occasional eggshell in my brownie (that only happened once).

Then there are those few foods of indifference. Maybe just cereal, but still.

Of course, the major benefit to cooking for yourself is that, if you happen to find a hair in your food, at least you know it's your own.

Still, a day late, I feel it's important to say: the best is when mom makes it, regardless of the food type.

Beetlejuice

2008-05-08T23:33:00.000-07:00

My right ear is cleaner than yours.

I know my right ear is cleaner than yours because today I spent half an hour cleaning it. And I spent half an hour cleaning it because sometimes I'm the dumbest person I know.

I'm 22 years old and, for most of that time, I've never wavered in my distaste for insects. Still, instinctually, I can't help but grab at them. I don't know why, and I wish I could make myself stop.

This is usually a problem because I don't do it very well. And like everything else I do, I don't do it conspicuously. In the 7th grade, my English teacher stopped the class so that everyone could watch me swat away a fly, because she said that my arms flailing about were too distracting for her.

Years later, I've kept at it. Like today, when I felt a small bug buzzing around my ear. I swatted, heard a crunch, and died a little bit.

To my credit, I don't think I panicked, at least not to the degree I would have even one year ago. There was no vomiting or cursing. I just picked up my pace on the way home so that I could then vigorously scrub out any bug guts.

Proof that, sometimes even on those rare occasions when I do win, I still lose.

here's three cheers to four more beers

2008-05-05T23:28:00.000-07:00

So I've been writing in this blog now for four years. Too long, probably, since I ran out of steam sometime after I wrote about my encounter with a field mouse.

In those four years of writing about my life, I've changed a lot, but I've learned surprisingly little about myself. Surprising, I think, given how easy it appears to be for everyone else to read me.

People rarely ask me if I ever watch sports, though I infrequently tell people that I dislike watching sports. It's something they just know. I'm more likely to watch The Disney Channel than ESPN (though I did kick The Disney Channel habit at the end of high school, long before all this High School Musical and Miley Cyrus hoopla).

Sometimes, though, people completely misread me. Or maybe I misread them-- I'm not really sure. Last week, at a conference, a bartender asked me if I wanted scotch with my water. I said, yes, if he had some. He didn't say anything for a beat or two, and then he said: "here, take my business card." I didn't really know how to reply, and I still have no idea why he gave me his business card (nor did I look at it, so I have no idea what was on it).

The point, I guess, is that no matter how much I think I've changed, I'm just as awkward as ever.

(The point is also that, when you spend 10 hours each day working or commuting, it's hard to find things to write about.)

B.A.D.: Bay Area Drivers

2008-04-30T23:12:00.000-07:00

There are few things I really miss about Los Angeles, but I certainly miss the drivers. Bay Area drivers are just plain bad all around. Not in a rude way, really, just in an incompetent way, like Dell's tech support (they aren't rude to you, they just can't solve your problems).

A few weeks ago, my poor Lola (my car), was scratched when a person was trying to pull out of the left-turn lane to go straight at the intersection instead. My car was in front, and he failed to judge the appropriate amount of clearance he'd need to make the lane change. Fortunately, he pulled over, and we were able to assess the damage, which was a minor cosmetic bump at worst.

He got out of his car and I got confused. He was an old man-- probably 70-- who didn't have any insurance, which I wanted just to be safe. Instead, he offered me $20, which I couldn't accept in good conscience, since I know that Denny's offers people his age specially priced meals because they can't afford the $5.99 pancakes.

I've pretty much moved on from this, but I still can't get over how bad some drivers are. And if any Bay Area driver ever reads this blog, I'd like you to take away one piece of trivia: carpool lanes are not a requirement.

In Los Angeles, traffic is bad, and drivers have developed a common set of rules to peacefully get from one place to another. Some examples: when lanes merge, alternate who goes first, and make sure you let cars make left turns from unprotected left turn lanes on yellow lights, because that might be their only opportunity to do so (I've since learned that Los Angeles purposely limits the number of protected left turn lights, and makes those that exist inconvenient so as to discourage them in favor of multiple right turns).

In the Bay, anarchy rules on the road. Some people have told me that this is because traffic is new to the region, since it's the byproduct of the population surge during the dot-com era. Maybe, but it's been ten years, so it's time to get used to driving with other cars on the road.

But back to carpool lanes. Just because you have two or more people in your car does not mean that you need to enter that lane. I invite you to find a lane traveling at a speed you like where you can get comfortable. No need to hold me up while you drive 55 miles per hour and there's half a mile between you and the car in front of you.

It makes you look dumb and it puts me in an awkward position. Because, you see, now I have to make sure the cars you're holding up behind me know that I'm not the one that's making them late for work. So I start to swerve ever so gently, just to ensure that following cars on the caravan you've created know that there's a car in front of me.

I suppose I could increase my following distance, or maybe I could even stop caring about what complete strangers think of me. But this is your problem, not mine, slow driver man. In the wise words of a friend of mine: move it or milk it.

Sorry to disappoint me, but I'm real

2008-04-27T23:08:00.000-07:00

I've recently come to realize that the person I would like to become and the person that I am are very very different, and it's not a matter of growing up-- I'm probably never going to be that person.

I want to be someone who buys locally grown organic produce, even when there's a the non-organic (inorganic seems wrong) version next to it, half a dollar less expensive. I inevitably go for the cheaper, pesticide-laden version, because I want to save a few bucks. I also shop at Old Navy, knowing full well that the clothes are probably made in less-than-desirable (understatement of the year) working conditions.

I want to be someone who can ride his bike down the hill really fast without getting scared that he's going to fall and die. Instead, I pump my breaks the whole way downhill, just to be safe. And even with a helmet on, I still fear death for the whole trip.

I want to be someone who knows exactly what he wants, and then tries to formulate a plan to get it. But, really, the only thing I have any preferences on are restaurants. My job and everything else: generally, I take the path of least resistance.

While we're at it, I want to like things that other people like. I try desperately sometimes, but I just didn't think Lost in Translation was that great of a movie. Things Fall Apart? Not that great of a book, either. Kinda bad, actually. Catcher in the Rye? Couldn't relate. Friends? I love TV, but I never even bothered with that show.

The reality is, I'm too cheap, too scared, too complacent, and too idiosyncratic to do or appreciate any of those things. But I do want to be the type of person who would, I just probably won't ever become that person.

Nonetheless, I wouldn't want to be anyone else.

pro and conversation

2008-04-17T23:05:00.000-07:00

Be careful what you wish for. It's a lesson I apparently need to relearn endlessly.

Keeping a fairly consistent commuting schedule, I do find myself surrounded by familiar faces (mostly in the morning, though occasionally in the evening as well). There are usually two or three people that live in my apartment complex and ride the shuttle and then the BART train with me every day.

But I've never, for the most part, said a word to any of them. I'm just not a make-friends-with-strangers type of person, I guess. That said, I have always wanted to be the type of person that can strike up a conversation with anyone, so I decided to work on building that little skill, with at least one co-commuter as my testing ground.

Then, me being me, I sat on the plan for about three months, until just the right moment. Finally, one of them said something to me and-- ok, so that technically means I wasn't the one to initiate the conversation but I need to move in baby steps-- I decided to try and carry on a full-fledged conversation while we waited for the bus.

Good enough. I learned she was a prospective law student, waiting to hear back from Hastings, that had just moved out west with her boyfriend who designs videogames. I daresay the conversation was even pleasant.

But as Nelly Furtado once said (and maybe some other people too), all good things must come to an end, and so did our conversation. I was happy with it, and considered my mission accomplished.

Sadly, it was not. The next morning, waiting for the bus, we exchanged hellos. Then nothing but piercing awkward silence for about six minutes, until we both gave up on the possibility of a conversation and she opened her book and started reading. In my defense, she was the first to crack-- I only put my headphones in my ears once she opened the book.

Still, it turns out that my mission was far less accomplished than I thought. One conversation is doable, but striking up a whole friendship when the only common ground you have is that you both wait for the same bus is a challenge for a more social man to meet.

taxonomy

2008-04-15T23:23:00.000-07:00

Filing income taxes, I've come to learn in these few years I've been eligible for such a privilege, is probably my father's favorite thing to do, and easily the time of year to which he most looks forward.

It's as undeniable as it is inexplicable. Starting in Mid-January, he starts asking me weekly if my employer has sent me my W-2s yet. No, Dad, and there's still plenty of time before April 15. He continually reminds me to send him said form the very moment it arrives in my mailbox, so that he can get started on the one single form I send in (the old 1040, of course).

We've occasionally broached the subject of me filing my own taxes, especially as I become a self-serving adult. This year, he compromised and showed me how to file them (in years past, I would simply get a completed form to sign and mail in when the time was right). My brother, however, kept my dad in the dark, and filed his own taxes last year (and this year). I wouldn't be surprised if he gets a smaller cut of the inheritance.

I have no idea why my dad loves filing taxes so, except that he derives great pleasure from recouping every possible red cent from our federal and state governments. At any rate, it saves me from filing my own taxes, so I can't complain. I'll just sit and wait for the refund checks to roll in.

name game

2008-04-13T20:51:00.000-07:00

For a man with so many nicknames, I should really be more comfortable with them.

(My brother's favorite, if you're curious, was calling me "Penelope." I called him "Tina," because his name is Arjan, and there's that whole country and Evita "Argentina" thing.)

There were, of course, many others, but never in public. That was a rule. In public, we use our given names. Mostly because the nicknames we chose for each other were anything but endearing, and they were all fairly insulting.

Other families, I've since come to realize, use nicknames as terms of endearment-- they don't mean to be insulting when they call their family members something besides their given names. Charles, for example, might become Chaz or, in one instance, C4 (somewhat inexplicably, though I'm sure that'll be cleared up for me post-haste).

I never know when the appropriate time comes for me to ditch the given name and go with the nickname, particularly in instances where a person is more well known by his nickname than the one on his birth certificate. I don't want to imply any false intimacy-- if I've never really talked to the guy, I want to go with his given name. But then I might get used to the real name, and never feel comfortable switching to a nickname.

There are also those people who make things awkward no matter what you do. It's awkward to them if you use their full names, because no one really calls them that, except maybe their mothers when their mothers are mad. But it's also awkward to use a nickname when you first meet, because that suggests a level of friendship that hasn't been reached yet. I think Joseph Heller wrote a book about this very situation.

In high school, I knew a girl named Katherine. But I really only knew her tangentially. We ended up going to the same college and, during that first year when people from the same high school tend to cling together, we did occasionally hang out. But I never felt quite right using some shorter version of her name, like "Kat," and being the only person to use her full name in our group of friends sounded rather stilted. So I just avoided using her name altogether, which might've made her think that I didn't know it at all, and might explain why we don't talk much anymore.

It would be a lesson learned if I had actually learned a lesson, but I didn't. I still have no idea when I should start using a person's nickname, and when I should use his full name. The only solution I can think of is possibly the least efficient one: come up with a nickname of my own for everyone that has a nickname. Then things will be on my terms.

in a jam(ba juice)

2008-04-09T23:11:00.000-07:00

I can't tell if I'm behaving really cheaply or really adventurously. Probably a bit of both, actually.

Many of you know that yesterday Jamba Juice was giving away free smoothies for breakfast as part of a promotion to introduce new breakfast menu items.

I'm sure they thought it was a nice way to increase awareness for these "spoon-required" products. And, okay, I did too.

The problem arose when I finally had to make the decision about what to order. Technically, you could order anything on the menu (even those apparently lunchtime beverages they've been peddling for years). I decided to play along with their little stunt and order something from the breakfast menu, since, really, I don't classify Jamba Juice as a meal substantial enough to qualify as the epicurean foundation upon which I build my day. No no, Jamba Juice is, at best, a hearty snack. Sort of how soup is a delicious appetizer, and occasionally decent lunch (when paired with a sandwich), but should really stick to the minor leagues and stay off the dinner entree menu. Since these new smoothies allegedly require a spoon, I figured they might actually approach a meal.

There were, fundamentally, three choices. I don't remember exactly what they were, but I do remember I had a preference: the one with the berries. My preference, however, did not synchronize exactly with their pricing scheme-- the most expensive one was some strawberry-banana-peanut-butter concoction. So I could really narrow it down to two choices: the most expensive smoothie or the one I preferred.

I went with the more expensive smoothie. The odd combination of yogurt, peanut butter, strawberries and bananas. My rationalization was that I probably wouldn't never feel the fiery passion for this blended beverage as I did for others on their menu, so I might as well try it now while it's free. The most logical conclusion? Probably not. The most satisfying? Nope. The most inconvenient? Certainly, since the other smoothies were grab and go but, for some reason no one could explain, these had to be made-to-order.

I do this a lot. Strangely, I seem to believe that pricing is some sort of measure of how good a product is, rather than simply a measure of either how much people will pay for it, or how much it costs to produce. I don't know why I do it, and I need to stop, but I also hope that I'm not alone.

And of course, it's all exponential when dealing with free offerings. I have some unhealthy need to squeeze out as much free product as possible, even at my own detriment. It's why I don't really visit buffets (out of fear that my stomach will explode and I will die, just so that I could take one more crab leg out of the proprietor's profit margin). It's also why, if I'm at a store with an offering of something useless for free after a rebate, you can bet that I'm throwing that widget in my shopping cart.

You give a little, and I'll take a lot.

The dog days of spring

2008-04-07T22:44:00.000-07:00

I'll admit that this entry is likely clouded with jealousy.

That said, one of the few things I still can't get used to-- even 9 months after moving to the Bay Area-- is just how many pets I encounter on a daily basis. The most off-putting encounters happen in restaurants. People, apparently, have no problems flaunting public health laws here, and frequently bring in their non-service animals. And the proprietors? They don't seem to mind either.

And, okay, I'll admit that the animal in a food consumption area probably isn't going to kill me. But it's the awkwardness of having animals all around me at all times that's problematic. I love dogs, and I desperately want one of my own, but I don't think I'm a 24/7 animal lover.

Mostly, I only want to pet pets at certain times. And when I'm done petting, I need to wash my hands. I can't pet and then get back to work or-- perish the thought!-- eating. It's not a scheduled thing (I'm crazy, but I'm not that crazy), it's more like a what-am-I-doing-right-now thing. If I'm working at my desk and a dog comes up, I'll pet said dog, but then I need to go wash my hands. As such, I can't be in the middle of a conversation, or about to do something important.

There's at least one degree of separation here too. If someone pets a dog and then shakes my hand (or something), I then need to wash my hands.

As you can see, depending on the location of the bathroom relative to me, this can be a time-consuming proposition. Pet petting can't happen spontaneously. It has to happen a time where I can conveniently go and wash my hands immediately afterwards, but without drawing too much attention to myself.

Not petting can also be a problem-- it makes me look mean and cold-hearted. But what can I do? I try hard to nearly pet: to appear friendly to the dog, without actually touching it (when I can't wash my hands immediately after). My intent is to look pet-friendly but unable to pet. It probably just makes me look weird.

The whole ordeal is just too troublesome, and having dogs all around me all the time-- as seems to be the case here-- really just provides me with too much temptation (or, more likely, the potential for awkward encounters).

reading railroad

2008-04-05T00:01:00.000-07:00

I've never been someone who promises not to judge people. I'll openly admit, here and now, that I judge people.

I prefer to think of it, though, as "evaluations of another person's lifestyle without knowing him." And I do it a lot on the train to work. I like to judge people based on what they read (though, since I usually don't read anything, I suppose they're all better off than me).

In general, you can read whatever you want, and I don't really care or think more or less of you. Stuff for work, magazines, newspapers, science fiction novels, or anything else. Totally fine.

What gets me, though-- the people I can't help but judge-- are the ones who read catalogs and advertisements as though they were pieces of literature. People who sit down on the bus or the train and thumb through the latest Pottery Barn issue like it's Newsweek. It isn't. Did you run out of real things to read, or do you honestly like looking at every single product they offer?

I should note that I've done this before myself. But I was 8 years old, and what kid doesn't look forward to the day the Toys 'R Us or Lego catalog comes in the mail, so he can flip through every single page and dream of having them all? It's excusable.

A grown woman reading a 4-page Baskin-Robbins coupon insert like it's Moby Dick for 20 minutes is inexcusable (it happened yesterday).

putting my crossing guard up

2008-04-02T22:40:00.000-07:00

I should really start betting against myself.

A few months ago I wrote about how it so annoys me when people repetitively press on the button to cross the street at an intersection-- after someone else has pressed it, as though the first press wasn't enough. Okay, it doesn't annoy me that much, but it does bother me-- enough that I wrote about it here, though I suppose everyone who reads this knows I have pretty low standards.

Last week, in Walnut Creek, I practiced what I preached. I got to an intersection and a man was already there, leaning against the stoplight poll, mere millimeters from the button you press to cross the street.

So I stood behind him. And I waited and waited and waited for that white man to light up and tell me I could cross the street. He didn't. Finally, after two complete light cycles, I decided that he must not have pressed the button at all. I was just standing next to a man leaning against a poll at an intersection. A man who clearly had no direction in life and nowhere to go at that particular moment. A man who fooled me into thinking he was waiting to cross the street, what with his proximity to the crosswalk and all.

I struggled with what to do next. Pressing the button now would be extremely awkward, since I was standing there for at least five minutes by now, and I hadn't bothered to push it when I first walked up. Also, I daresay he was hugging the poll or darn close to it. I'd probably have to brush up against him to reach the button, and physical contact with strangers is always awkward.

And what if he did want to cross the street and he was just incompetent? Then I'd be shoving his incompetence in his face and that's rude. Still, I needed to cross the street.

I decided to wait it out and hoped that I wouldn't have to wait for long. Fortunately, in another minute or two, someone came up to cross the street from the opposing direction. And this person pressed the button. We were all saved!

If you're wondering, the moron on my side of the street apparently wanted to cross as well. But maybe he was worried about the germs on the button (I can respect that). Or maybe he was waiting to see how long I'd wait until I pushed the button myself. Or maybe the button wa
s broken. The world will never know.

I hope you're sitting down for this

2008-03-31T22:39:00.000-07:00

Let me tell you why I'm happy.

Why I'll be elated in the future.

I take the Bay Area Rapid Transit train to work every morning. Every morning, it's a rude awakening that people are, naturally, slobs. They can't be trusted. Every time I board a train, it's like watching someone else's broken dreams unfold. Oh, what could've been.

Here's what I mean: when they started BART, they put an extraordinary-- some would say foolish, but I'll say endearingly hopeful-- amount of faith in the riding public. They laid down carpet in the train cars. Okay, it's not plush and it certainly ain't Berber, but carpeting nonetheless.

They upholstered the seats. Nice padded seats that, even today, aren't too small for all but the widest of rear ends.

They wanted to treat their riders like human beings. Like the train would be a comfortable way to glide into work. And they were so very very wrong.

BART trains are frequently considered among the dirtiest in the country, and probably on par with trains in third-world countries. People spit on the carpets. People spill on the carpets. People, essentially do things to carpet that I wouldn't even subject a cement floor to. Dirty and unfortunate things.

The seats, however, are unspeakable. It was a nice gesture gone horribly awry, as seats are frequently wet. Yes, wet. But wet in a weird spongy sort of way, so that you don't realize you were sitting on a wet seat until you stand up and disembark. So frequently, in fact, that I'd given up on sitting down on BART trains altogether. Whatever it is, it isn't water, and it isn't the way I want to start my day.

So imagine my extreme relief when I found out that BART has finally given up on their grand social experiment. They've relented-- people who ride public transportation, quite simply, can't be trusted. They're tearing out the carpet and replacing it with some dubious spray-on floors (I've ridden in these cars-- it's nice and doesn't feel sprayed-on at all, however that might feel). And now they're tearing out those spongy seats and replacing them with plain old cushioned plastic and pleather.

Score one for people who don't want to sit in other people's pee. And rack up another loss for humanity.

Who let the top dogs out (of compliance with food safety laws)?

2008-03-29T22:18:00.000-07:00

I think I've made great strides recently. I've eaten at B restaurants (knowingly), I don't obsessively wash my hands before eating, and I touch the poles on the BART trains when I don't want to fall over.

I wouldn't go so far as to say I'm normal just yet, but we're definitely nearing the suburb of normal.

Today I went to go try Top Dog, a Berkeley eatery famous for serving drunk people hot dogs. Because people tend to eat these hot dogs when they're drunk, the establishment is ridiculously popular. They serve only hot dogs and chili, but judging by people's reverence, you'd think they serve medical marijuana.

I had to check it out. More importantly, I had to check it out sober, simply because I couldn't reasonably get hammered and make my way the 3 miles to the hot dog stand. Probably not my best idea ever.

It looked dingy, which seemed promising. Certain foods are best served in dingy environments (hot dogs, pizza and rats chief among them). An approximately 100 sq foot establishment with just enough room for the freezers and the grill, this place clearly did not pride itself on farm fresh ingredients prepared to perfection in-house. Okay, I can deal with that.

I placed my order and watched in horror as the Top Dogger (I imagine that's what they're called) placed my bun on the grill with his bare hands. He then happily took my money with that same hand, still un-gloved. And promptly started taking the next customer's order, without nary a sanitary wipe between handling my dirty currency and this guy's bun.

In terms of food safety disasters, this ranks a solid number four, behind the bugs I've seen in two restaurants (those are tied for first place, because how can you really choose?) and the Lukewarm Milk Incident of 2006.

It was personal test time, folks. Old Ravi would have thrown the food away. But New Ravi-- New Ravi was going to eat that hot dog. My hope, though admittedly futile: the supposed traces of drugs to be found on our currency would make me forget what I just saw.

It didn't work. Still, I lived, and that should count for something.

weed whacker

2008-03-25T23:53:00.000-07:00

As I child, I was never offered drugs. Rumor has it that Davis, upper-middle-class suburbia that it is, was rife with drug-addled youth. I never met any of them, and they never bothered to sell me on any of their wares (perhaps the market demand was strong enough that they could be ultra-discriminating in their customer base, or maybe they just thought I wouldn't be interested). In the intervening years, rather than worry about why no one offered me drugs, I've simply accepted the fact that people probably thought I was an undercover DEA agent.

The trend continued through most of college, but once I moved to San Francisco, things started to turn around. On one night, in the Haight, I was offered drugs on two separate occasions. Tonight, waiting for my AC Transit bus next to the BART station-- and directly across the street from a police car-- I was offered weed yet again. Since I'm a man who until recently would not eat at restaurants scoring below a 90 on any of their three most recent inspections from the local Department of Public Health, you might imagine that procuring illicit substances from strangers on the street is low on the list of things I ever plan on doing, and high on the list of warning signs that my life needs to be reevaluated.

I'm not quite sure how many drugs you have to be on at that moment where you decide to buy drugs from strangers, but I'm guessing that your judgment has been sufficiently blurred enough such that you probably shouldn't be making that purchase.

Shockingly, other patrons waiting for the bus did buy his drugs which, if nothing else, gives you an idea of the level of desperation and poor judgment exercised by people who ride Oakland's buses at 11pm. They proceeded to light up right there on the street-- still across from the police car-- with nary a care in the world.

The pusher proudly declared to the buyers that this would not only be the best "backyard" weed they've ever smoke, but that he was a "weed entrepreneur," which suggests that maybe this man has been reading a few too many Learning Annex brochures. He said a lot of other things, too, that made me feel like even more of a square than usual. I think that I feel most detached from youth when listening to drug dealers, what with all of their code words. I don't really know what "chronic" is, unless you're talking about "chronic back pain"-- which I'm too young to have but definitely watch commercials about.

Needless to say, I never actually interacted with the guy. I patiently waited for the bus that would finally take us to our alternate realities (me to my Williams-Sonoma-adjacent apartment-- him to somewhere, undoubtedly, more real).

Diamonds aren't a boy's best friends

2008-03-19T23:05:00.000-07:00

Apparently, the locals call tiny tiny pieces of broken glass "Oakland diamonds." Or so the police officer told me. It's pretty witty, and I probably would've enjoyed the pithiness even more had it not been Oakland diamonds freshly mined from my rear passenger window that the officer needed to photograph for evidence.

It was a mix of extremely bad judgment and extremely good luck that had me filling out a statement with the Oakland Police Department last night. Bad judgment because I parked in an admittedly sketchy area that had plenty of glass shards on the ground I had erroneously attributed to beer bottles or something less sinister than scary people breaking into cars, naive rube that I am. Good luck because the police actually caught the guy in the act, and nothing was stolen (except my innocence).

Here's how it went down: I'm at a pub quiz, and it's about 10:30pm. The Oakland Police Department calls me to tell me what's happened (ok, so color me impressed-- if you can find such a color-- with the Oakland Police Department). They were driving by and noticed Lola's rear window shattered and some guy hanging out in the back seat. (Lola, for the uninitiated into my unhealthy love for inanimate objects, is my car.) Suspicious behavior to say the least.

They arrested the guy after they positively determined that the car did not belong to him. Then they called the Davis Police Department, and the DPD (in a rare outbreak of competence) called my parents, who then called me in a panic. According to my father, they were absolutely convinced that I had been shot. Proof positive that I live in an incredibly morbid family.

Strangely, the OPD decided to wait for me to schlep over from the city back to the Macarthur BART station, where they would review the situation with me. That's some stellar customer service.

And, to be sure, the situation needed review. I was one of the few victims of such a crime where the perpetrator actually leaves me with more stuff in my car than when he came. Apparently, he wasn't interested in my trivia board games and angsty novels. It's safe to say I was now not only violated, I was offended.

For the record, the street urchin also left me an empty carton of cigarettes, a pillow, and a half-eaten chocolate bar. Sharing is, after all, caring. Strangely, my mother's first reaction on the phone when she called me to prove to herself that I wasn't shot, was that, well, "honey, I'm sure it was just some man who was cold and was looking for a little warmth."

Turns out the old bat was right, despite my disgust at her outpouring of sympathy for the perpetrator of a crime on her youngest son. In a true testament to the comfort of Lola's backseat, the guy decided to hang out for awhile, and risked capture in the process. This was no snatch-and-grab, possibly because my car had nothing worth grabbing (though I for the life of me don't know why he didn't jump at the chance to take my Gary Jules CD). This was nap time.

The question now is what I'm going to do with my reclaimed stuff, ever so briefly in this stranger's possession. Burn the blankets? Sell back the books? Steam clean the seats? How can I restore Lola's virtue?

At the suggestion of the officers, I'm going to press charges. I'll feel a little guilty, though, if I find out it's his third strike, and he's going to be sent to prison for life for taking a nap. I'll ford that river when I come to it.

In the meantime, I'll just consider myself really lucky that the police found him sleeping in my car before I did, because I'm pretty sure I would've just given him the car at that point.

egg-cellent

2008-03-16T22:17:00.001-07:00

(Old AIM friends of mine will remember my profile photo. I hope you missed Evil Mickey as much as I did.)

Trader Joe's is quite the trickster. Underneath that shiny exterior of cheap products and decently paid friendly employees lies a German conglomerate that's trying to play with my mind. Or avoid price increases on essential goods. Hard to say which, really.

I started going to Trader Joe's on July 4th, 2006. I remember this because no one should forget their first time, especially when their first time includes free baguettes (and what other first time does? Ralph's didn't give me a damn freebie in the whole 3 years I shopped there, and that's just in the grocery store realm of first times). And the prices! Oh, the prices.

It was, truly, a magical time. Gas prices hovered around $2.50 a gallon. They were practically giving the stuff away, and at that price I could afford several trips a week to Trader Joe's, where a dozen extra-large eggs cost only $0.99. Four eggs for the price of a single postal stamp. I was happy.

The honeymoon period lasted for probably four months. After they had roped me in, though, Trader Joe's, in concert with America's Dairy Farmers, started to test the demand elasticity of the Incredible Edible Egg. Mr. Winters would not be proud.

The dozen rang in at $1.19 at the register. Then $1.29 and, most recently, $1.69 for a dozen extra-large eggs. Pricey? Yes. But far from unaffordable. And I could trust that Trader Joe's was still probably cheaper than any other grocer. And that crazy cartel of dairy farmers were probably the ones setting the prices anyway, so I certainly couldn't blame them.

It appears, however, that my local Trader Joe's has conceded defeat. During my most recent visit I could still find eggs for $1.69. But imagine my surprise when I noticed that, at that price point, they were no longer offering extra-large eggs. Only large eggs for that extra-large price to be found here, folks. (And yes, I realize that it's a stretch for you to imagine my surprise, unless you know me really well, in which case you probably don't think it's strange at all for me to devote a full six paragraphs to the price of eggs increasing $0.70 over the course of a year at a particular grocery store.)

This would be the opportune time for me to provide some sort of resolution. Maybe a Network-esque "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore!" Or maybe a boycott. Or maybe indifference at the size change, which would probably be the rational response. Instead, I did what I do best: filled up with silent rage, my blood boiling imperceptibly. I'm mad as hell, but I'm going to take it, because what else can I do?