Sincerely, M.

When I am struck by a particular moment, I can't help but notice similar moments again and again. Often, they are something relatively insignificant like the shapes of old pieces of gum on the sidewalk or the way different chairs I sit in throughout the day support my body. Sometimes they are a little more meaningful. The following are a few moments I collected more than a year and a half ago. Unfortunately, I only kept the journal for two glorious days. They are written like fragments of a letter to the strangers I observed. Here is what I wrote:

To the man in the hat eating pizza alone on the bench with his head down,

I hope that is the most delicious pizza you have ever tasted. I hope you are hunched over because you don't ever want to let it go and you want that flavor to happen over and over again.  If your head is down because you're eating the same pizza again, and because nobody wanted to eat it with you again, I'm sorry I didn't pay $3 to have a slice and sit on the other side of the bench.  At least then we could have been two strangers eating the same pizza on the same bench.


Sincerely,
M
---


To the old brown dog with a graying face,

I hope your owner loves you and gives you treats every once in a while. I hope you had that look because you were deep in thought and not because you were a sad dog. Sorry I didn't give you a pat on the head.


Sincerely,
M
---

To the man holding hands with a woman on my way to work,

I hope you know how amazingly beautiful the thing you have is.  Something magical happens when one person relies on another so entirely. May you never lose touch with how special this is.  I'm sorry she couldn't see the joy on your face.


Sincerely,
M

---
Do you ever think like this?  Tell me about one of your moments. What do you make up about the strangers you pass on your way to somewhere else?

Squishy squish in the mucky muck.

The bright lights and fast pace of success are quite enchanting. If you don't want to, you never have to to stop, never slow, never listen, never feel. But that's not to say you miss everything. Maybe you catch more because more is flashing before your eyes. Maybe you don't.

I imagine it like water skiing. The thrill of gliding across the water. Without significant speed, what you're doing is impossible. Slow down and it won't work. You'll sink, literally. Maybe you stare the wake in the eye like an old west outlaw who's crossed your path one too many times.

All the while you're out doing impossible things, conquering foes, in full command or barely hanging on, amazing things are happening all around. Perhaps some bugs flew too near the surface of the water and became trapped by your marvelous wake. A lurking trout sees a prime opportunity and swirls to the surface for its desperately fluttering meal.

Or perhaps there was a bullfrog sitting on a mostly submerged fallen tree an arms reach from the shore. Its glassy hardly-blinking eyes are watching a bug swirling just above the water. Just as the insect comes within reach a wake from a boat crashes against the shore, startling the frog and causing it to jump underwater.

Maybe a father is on a "squeegee hunt" with his young son. They've got charcoal on their faces and ferns tied 'round their heads, completely invisible to the untrained eye and especially to squeegees. They are in hot pursuit when they notice the an incredibly large bullfrog. It's so big, it must be the bullfrog king. Quietly, they sneak toward the shore. With held breath and eager hands, the son reaches closer, closer... closer. "wwwwwwaaaaaaAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!" A boat goes roaring by with a skiier and the frog jumps into the water, returning to his due place on the bullfrog throne. There will be bullfrogs to be caught another day, but for now there are squeegees to be hunted! "ONWARD!" a little voice proclaims. The squishy squish of big boots and little boots in the mucky muck of the mud fades to a gentle crunching of twigs and pine needles. The hunt is on.

Is life in the delicate, rugged details or the fast paced impossible. Can you have both? They seem to be mutually exclusive but I hope that isn't true. Maybe at the moment the frog king returned to his throne his hunter and a similarly aged child on the boat caught each others gaze. The type of loaded gaze that lasts fractions of a second and never enters consciousness like something on the tip of your tongue that you never quite figure out. Perhaps a wordless conversation about trading places and wondering what its like to go so fast on the top of the water without sinking or what its like to go on an adventure with sticks and charcoal and ferns.

---

You see, the old wood floor and the old brick wall have stories to tell; so many stories, but I haven't the time to listen.

Coffee House Northwest

1951 W Burnside St

Portland, OR 97209

Once upon a lucid dream (Thoughts on waking from a semi-deep pseudo-sleep)

Imagine waking from a dream to a world where everything was the same… except for one or two little things.  The next day those seem fine, but there’s something else a little off…

The drainage pipes on the building across the street have offsets of different sizes that make them look uneven.  I’m sure this isn’t the fault of the architect and just some miscommunication between an engineer and the contractor who put them in.  At least this is what I learned from a repeat of How I Met Your Mother episode. 

Oh, and the rivets in the siding.  They are not quite perfectly lined up.  It’s hard for me to look at.  Not because it looks bad; it is certainly the nicest building in its vicinity.  I’m just always looking at how things line up with other things and when it isn’t just so, I become annoyed fairly quickly.

Earlier, I received an email from the insurance company I used to have.  That’s right, they shouldn’t be contacting me anymore because I’m no longer one of a million satisfied customers… at least they advertise something absurd like that.  My assumption is that the other 999,999 customers never had any intelligent questions to ask their customer service reps who perhaps couldn’t have told me the difference between my policy and the receipt from their lunch break.  But that’s beside the point.  The email from the insurance company isn’t the point either.  Neither is the building across the street or any of its “flaws” that probably exist only to me.

So what’s really going on?  I woke up from a dream and this time there were enough things off for me to notice and since I’m not very good at expressing emotion, I felt irritated, unsettled and even a little angry.

It’s also important to note that I don’t mean dream like one of those things you think of since you were little and try very hard to achieve or obtain.  I simply mean a dream like when you sleep.  It’s sort of like this…

One night after a long shift at work, you went to the bar where you went almost every night after work and probably had either a PBR or a Coors Light, depending on what was cheaper.  At one point in time, you never would have drank that awful stuff proclaiming to have tastebuds or standards.  But the first sip of ice cold beer after a long shift, especially at a job you’ve become disenchanted with, is so good, regardless of the beer.  So good on so many levels, it lulls you into returning night after night without ever realizing how often you go or how much money you’re spending on shitty beer.  You flirt with the habits of your alcoholic friends; dark, empty lifestyles you refuse to believe could ever become your own.

One night, you fall asleep on the couch you got for free on craigslist; probably a semi-deep pseudo-sleep that’s been partially induced by a couple of shitty beers and some well whiskey.  This sleep is not very restful, but you drift from consciousness and your body doesn’t move the entire night.

As consciousness slips, your mind is hijacked and taken away to another place. 

Away from everything.

A fresh start.

And it turns out to be a lucid semi-deep pseudo-sleep.

So you explore.  You see the newfound sights around you, and you begin to rewrite who you are. 

A new person, a new place, a new story. 

You can be whoever you want to be.  Good, bad, whatever… none of it matters, because you are inside a choose-your-own adventure story as the protagonist and somehow you cannot fail.

If it were my dream, I would choose to be really good at my job.  Its something I cannot help.  I would also choose to live like I’m on top of the world, that I mattered, that what I was doing was going to guide a piece of what would someday be important history.  I would make a lot of money and get to eat almost whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.

Then you make a critical error.  You forget you’re asleep.  You start really investing where you are, in the place, in the people.  You make some really, really good friends, find favorite places… favorite flavors.

Chicken wings from that super cool place, the best sandwiches of your life… regular tasting best-coffee-of-your-life because it just was.  Breakfast that was the best because of the bike ride and scenery you experienced before.  And ramen.  Oh, the ramen!

You spend Sunday afternoons in a park with best friends you barely know.  They showed up somewhere in the middle of the dream but it feels like they’ve been there far longer.  At night you eat three dinners, because…

Cocktails here and there.  They fried what? I have to try that, do you want to go?  Oh, they have amazing… do you want to try it?  What about noodles?  Steam buns?  Foie gras?  I used to think it was disgusting, but I absolutely love it at… Let’s do drinks on Monday.  Drinks and dinner?  Dinner then drinks?

It goes on and on, crazy combinations of the best flavors you can imagine at a nearly unheard of frequency.  Is it gluttony? Nah. It’s just something to do.  Food and drink bring people together and this is certainly the best time of your life.

Then a ripple happens; you can tell something isn’t right but you’re not sure what it is.  Like something is coming.  Like a character in a movie where a bad guy or bad thing is right behind them but they can’t see.  You feel your body start to wake.  Frantically you examine everything in your dream and you start grabbing for everything. 

Anything.

Something.

Please remember.

Don’t forget this.  When you wake up, don’t… don’t you dare forget.

And so you go on but more and more frantically.  You burn brighter and brighter in more places with more people, but you forget the wick is almost gone.  Slowly the flame fades from its brilliance as your body wakens.  You let your blurry eyes open.  The couch has become someone’s guest bed and there’s no whiskey on your breath.  You blink a few times to be sure.  This is reality, but that dream…

…it was so real.  It feels like you became somebody, like you discovered your own self, like you became somebody different and perhaps better.  But your dreaming stopped and now you’re here.  The semi-deep pseudo-sleep transported you from a place of deep dissatisfaction and darkness to a place of ideals (mostly), and now you’re here. What is here?  Where is here?  What just happened…

The dream fades from your consciousness and the details slip… what was it you tried so desperately to preserve?  What was that? What was that dream I had just earlier today?  the other day…

And it slips.  Further, further

further.

I know it was a good one.  It was like… I was invincible.  The world was my oyster and I had it with bacon and Champagne. 

That’s the alarm.  I woke up before it again.  I should put on some pants and leave the house.

- --

White peony white tea

Townshends

2223 NE Alberta

Portland, OR 97211

(503) 445-6699

Knotty pasta and imaginary movies.

The other day before work, I was walking to the Starbucks around the corner and listening to something on my iPod. I wasn't really listening though. Sometimes I just like to have earbuds in so I don't feel obligated to acknowledge anyone and let low music dull the sounds of the city. This day I was particularly distracted by everything around me.

In general, I have a slight obsession with shapes and the way they look, how they interact with other shapes and the spaces that are created between them. As I type this I realize that I'm at a round table, with my rectangular-ish laptop in the center, my cell phone carefully placed to the left and my coffee to the right, both spaced perfectly between the side of my computer and the edge of the table. Equilaterality is key. Anyway, this is one my my many neuroses, but sometimes it is a fun one.

This day, the sky was a brilliant blue and there were plenty of fluffy white clouds cruising across the sky. Quite fast actually, which is why they caught my eye. What really struck me was the way all of this combined with the appearance of the buildings on New Montgomery St in San Francisco. It is a one way street and you are surrounded on three sides by buildings. Everything was so picturesque, I wondered what it would be like if my eyes were movie cameras; each blink a carefully placed cut, changing my focus between this or that like the careful artistry of a good director. Then I think about what it would be like to make movies, or rather, to be successful at making one box office smash after another, and it all goes downhill from there.  When I finally come back from my fantasies, I let my brief thoughts be what they were; a fun little moment that was exclusively mine. The camera panned up the side of an older building as clouds shot over the roof and across the street.

Sometimes, it's little moments that nobody else can possibly understand that make life so exciting. No amount of explaining can do it justice.  I felt like I was 9 years old at Disneyland and they had created a ride where you're inside a dream like in Inception and the laws of physics were obliterated as the ground before you bent up toward the sky like a dandelion on time-lapse.

Rereading that, it either sounds like I'm crazy or trying too hard to talk about a brief moment that nobody else could ever really understand. Maybe this moment only existed for me because the tangled spaghetti of neurons in my brain were overstimulated because I finally gave them a chance to do as they willed.  The following poem is not very related except it's about a moment that nobody else can understand, and it's stated in a much more elegant and concise way than my knotty pasta is capable of.

Scrambled Eggs and Whiskey 
by Hayden Carruth
 
Scrambled eggs and whiskey
in the false-dawn light. Chicago,
a sweet town, bleak, God knows,
but sweet. Sometimes. And
weren't we fine tonight?
When Hank set up that limping
treble roll behind me
my horn just growled and I
thought my heart would burst.
And Brad M. pressing with the
soft stick, and Joe-Anne
singing low. Here we are now
in the White Tower, leaning
on one another, too tired
to go home. But don't say a word,
don't tell a soul, they wouldn't
understand, they couldn't, neverin a million years, how fine,
how magnificent we were in that old club tonight.
Go outside and don't forget to look up. You just might end up in a movie.

---
Starbucks Coffee
74 New Montgomery St Ste 100
San Francisco, CA 94105

Droid does(n't).

Technology is strange. Billions of dollars are spent on marketing for the latest technology that will make our lives easier or better because it does this or that better than the competition. For a few hundred dollars, we can purchase the freedom to do any of a countless number of tasks (probably simultaneously) whenever or wherever we choose.

We purchase our freedom and for a while it seems that everything is better. We are able to find things we didn't know we were looking for (or could look for) and our lives outside of social media even improve because of the ease that technology has facilitated relational growth with our colleagues, friends and family. Perhaps it has even allowed for new relationships to develop because there is now a connection where there previously was nothing.

All that is great... until its taken away.

I was very slow to jump on the smart phone bandwagon. But when I did, I loved it. It changed everything. I was able to go more, see more, and eat more than I ever had before. It was as good or better than having a new best friend in my new city because it knew all the best places to go for this and that, and I was able to discover who I was. It turns out that Droid, in fact, does... or at least it did until mine didn't for the second time. This isn't about that though. What I found most interesting is that I didn't know what to do when I realized that I wasn't going to have a phone for 24hrs or so. I mean, I knew what to do. I emailed everyone who I knew would try to call or text me today and posted on Facebook for everyone else. But, what to do... Words With Friends was now impossible, I couldn't text anyone, and I didn't have lunch plans yet so how would I even find anything to eat?!

Then I recalled a time before my droid where I would look something up the old-school way... on the internet with my computer, look up a map and go from there. Turns out that it still works. Not having a phone turns out to be better than I could have imagined. I was forced to observe more of the world around me than I had in a long time. It was amazing.

Oh, and by the way, my already delicious lunch was more delicious because I couldn't tell anyone how delicious my pork belly was while it was getting cold. Next time you go out, leave your phone at home and put delicious in your mouth while its still hot.

---
[No photo because my phone was BROKEN.]

Santa Ramen

1944 S El Camino Real
San Mateo, CA 94403

(650) 344-5918

When the substitute becomes the standard.

Ramen. Ten cents or ten dollars?

I think its safe to say for most the word ramen evokes thoughts of ten cent packages of dried noodles with far too much salt that you add to hot water and have a "meal". Even though the package says to boil water... everyone knows you put the stuff in the microwave for about three minutes and you end up with a product at a similar point on the bad scale. Or you can be fancy and just get the cup of noodles, but the polystyrene foam cup is quite obnoxious. But everyone has had the less than adequate meal at one point or another, and thousands upon thousands of college students consume God knows how much of the stuff every year. And before teachers were smart enough to catch on, it was the easiest and cheapest way to win canned food drives.

And then perhaps you have a decent bowl of ramen somewhere and it changes everything. Your mouth is flooded with all kinds of flavors you didn't know were possible, and your palate does somersaults over new combinations of textures. It's almost exhausting. But you grow to love what's happening and you go back again and again. You forget what that dried microwave brick was all about and you have no desire to return to it.

Then, you go to a different city for lunch one day because you've heard things. Crazy things. That there was an even better bowl of ramen. This doesn't even make sense because what you've had over and over again at the other place was as mind blowing as any food really can be. But they say its even better than that. Could it really be? Doubtful, but you find yourself on the freeway just to be sure. Upon arrival, there is a small line, but apparently that means you're lucky because there's always a line, and usually its long. Or it means you are a nocturnal creature and showing up at 2pm is what some might say is "after" lunch. Don't believe them. Anytime before 3 or 4 pm is perfectly normal for lunch. The place is small and there is a chalkboard menu on the wall. Three choices of broth, a buttload of "extras" you can add to your liking for anywhere from $1 to $3 and a little note that says "our ramen is not vegetarian food". That little message at the end and aromas dancing in your nasaries is very promising.

I've thought for a longtime that food can be quite transcendental, especially when you taste something from, say, your childhood but you're 25 or you're 40 or older and you haven't had ______ in years. Those moments can even be religious. A friend of mine has even been brought to tears by something she ate. This was one of those moments. Except I didn't cry because I am an iron pillar of masculinity. (Okay, it's just that I don't cry often. Not that I don't want to, but my crier is broken.) The first bite of this ramen took me to places I've never even been, to galaxies far far away, and across centuries in the past and to come all at once. It was unbelievable. And apparently, there is an even better place in New York called Ippudo which I HAVE to go to at some point, preferably soon. And all this begs one question: why on earth would anyone ever choose to put that aweful $.10 into their body for any other reason than necessity?

Days and weeks later, my mind still lingers on those flavors. Was it even real? Could such grandeur have taken place in the life of a mere mortal like me? David said it best, "is this real life?" As usual, I end up thinking about things far beyond what is normal and I find myself all up in my head... this time about noodles. But ramen is more than that and here is why.

I think I paid about $15 for that steaming bowl from heaven after all of my extras and tax. It was truly unbelievable and if you don't believe me and you're in the Bay Area, let me know and I will buy your noodles if they don't change everything for you. Well, we'll cross that bridge when we get to it. Anyway, when we hear "ramen", I'm confident that most will think of the ten cent dried noodles with salty broth in crinkly packages. But that's not what ramen is supposed to be. Its a substitute for something incredible. I wonder how many things in our lives are a rip off of something that's supposed to be soul-filled and delicious in every sense of the word. There's a song by Switchfoot called "Easier than love" and I wonder if it could also be about ramen. Of course, they didn't write the song about ramen, but it could be related. The song is about how sex is something that has become the substitute for love because its easier. A certain very prominent coffee company is trying to do this to people too. An instant coffee that's supposedly hard to tell from regular brewed coffee. Now I can imagine that its not too bad and I can see how you might drink it because its easier and more convenient, but when you taste freshly roasted coffee brewed in a french press (or a Clover machine, or some other snooty way to make coffee) you're blown away by what you're tasting and what you've allowed to become standard.

From all this babbling, I only know three things:

1. I won't eat ten cent ramen unless I have to (or I'm tempted in a weak moment)
2. I don't want substitutes to become standards for anything in my life because the real thing is that much better
3. Ramen Dojo in San Mateo, CA is FREAKING DELICIOUS AND EVERYONE NEEDS TO EAT THERE. Except, please don't because then I'll have to wait in an even longer 2pm line :)

805 South B Street

San Mateo, CA 94401

(650) 401-6568

Pocket [change].

The other day I went searching for something delicious. This is really a never-ending activity for me. Maybe its all I ever do and other things are just rabbit trails along the way. Friendships, work, fun activities, coffee shops and bars - all just distractions on my way to that delicious morsel of mystery. I even dressed up this day. A collared shirt, a sweater, nice jeans, and dress shoes if you can call that "dressed up". And I was going to the farmer's market and I LOVE the farmer's market.

Bear with me. Maybe life is a collection of moments in more than measurable ways like how a day is a collection of hours and an hour is a collection of minutes and a minute is a collection of seconds. What do you remember? Memories are collections of moments that pushed through to permanency like a million salmon returning to spawn and the few that actually make it. It's easy to forget about the vast majority of them, but you certainly remember the ones you catch... or that one that got away.

Sometimes there are moments that change everything. Then there are moments that are only remembered because of a series of... well, maybe we don't know why we remember them. Or even why we noticed whatever it was to begin with. For whatever reason, we remember certain otherwise-insignificant moments.

The holiday season always brings about a certain spirit of giving. Though this spirit is often confused with the evil spirit of pointless consumerism, it is still there, and people ringing bells next to red buckets are its signature.

I was at the farmers market and the unmistakable clanging of a Salvation Army bell ringer could be heard over the chattering crowd and buses passing by. Then I judged a man. He looked dirty, his clothes didn't fit quite right, match, or look very good. I imagined he had a certain aroma about him; probably something like weed and body odor and I thought he must be homeless. I don't know what his situation was or anything about him for that matter. Except, there was one thing. He was a much more generous person than me.

Whenever I pass the ringing bells and red buckets, I always feign a smile and keep walking. Give a stranger my parking money? HA! This man was different. Some of this memory died halfway upstream, but I think I remember him putting down his bag and walking out of his way to drop a few coins in the bucket. As for me? I didn't have any change to give that day, but I did eat an $8 hot dog. Life can be ridiculous, unfair, judging, absurd, and sometimes dirty. But, it can also be generous or delicious. For me the two seem to be mutually exclusive. At least on that day. My conscience will deal with these things and change will come, probably in small amounts. Pocket change.

---
'Zilla-style hot dog from 4505 Meats. Bacon is already in the hot dog, then they add their $$$ Sauce, kimchi, and the most incredible chicharrones known to mankind up to this point. I also don't remember if I ate this hot dog the same day that I saw the man give some pocket change, but I'm choosing to remember it that way.

When the sun sets to the east...

In A Million Miles In a Thousand Years, Donald Miller talks about creating memorable scenes. Those moments you're likely to remember forever. Yesterday I was sitting at home and it was a very plain Sunday. Except that I had a delicious pork butt ready to be braised, nothing would be memorable. Someday, I'll probably braise a better pork butt, and that will be forgotten also. So, what to do...

I live about a mile and a half from the Golden Gate Bridge, and if I leave a window open in my bedroom I can fall asleep to the rhythmic cooing of a buoy and crashing waves. I love that. I found myself relishing in these blessings and I had an idea. I would book it over to the bridge and watch the sunset from somewhere in the middle. Brilliant... sort of. This is also where I would encounter a flaw in this "memorable scene." You see, pedestrians are only allowed on the east side of the bridge. I realized this on my way to the Bridge, but decided go anyway. The GGB is big, the ocean is big, the sun is big... I'd probably be able to see it. Except there is also a big railing; right over the sun. You can see it (because it is big), but it isn't fun because the railing gets in the way. So I decided to enjoy the walk, the freezing wind, and a great view of San Francisco. That's when I realized something that changed everything... sort of.

I like to think about perspective a lot; a lot referring both to frequency and my level of enjoyment. Sometimes I'll look at a random object and imagine it from an impossible angle, if I were inches or millimeters tall, if i were a spider on the wall, or what the world would look like if I were the thing itself. Now that I think about thinking about this, that might be something fun to write about sometime. Anyway, perspective. I looked to the east, because then there wasn't an orange vermillion railing in the way. Facing east, I saw a beautiful sunset. I realize this doesn't make a lot of sense, but it does. I promise.

When considering the sun simply, it is a GIGANTIC BALL OF LIGHT, which means the light it projects must be reflected. We see this everyday it's light outside and the last time I checked, this was everyday. So I forget about it. Until one Sunday evening when I was walking across the Golden Gate Bridge and I happened to look east and the hillsides were sparkling. Windows of buildings I couldn't see reflected such a pure golden color. The sunset to the east was not a gigantic glowing orb but tiny, fragments of light moving slowly, gently upward and becoming a thousand lightning bugs graciously making a heavenward ascent.

---

Truthfully, I've never seen a lightning bug, but I imagine that its incredible. Someday I want to sit somewhere on a hot summer night and wonder at them like I would if I was six years old; like nothing in the world mattered or existed except those glowing bugs and the jar I was going to collect them in.

P. Jones

After parking my car and walking toward work, I often see a friend of mine. He usually has something to eat or is trying to find something to eat. Unlike a lot of the personalities on the street, you know he's there and you know he wants something, but he's never intrusive or pushy or rude about it. If you have something to give, he'll gladly accept and appreciate it.

Who are we kidding? P. Jones is the kind of guy who is actually pretty shy. He doesn't like eye contact and hates getting in others' way. Like I said earlier, you know he wants something, but he's always trying to be inconspicuous about it; almost in an obvious sort of way, but he doesn't know that. P. Jones is special. Watching him can bring much joy, but you have to be in the right mindset to really appreciate him. Maybe one has to be hungry before P. Jones can become more than a curbside annoyance. Children almost always love him, but in a malicious sort of way.

The other day I did a terrible thing. Blood is on my hands and I feel no remorse. Actually, I feel pretty good about it. Maybe better than ever before in some kind of sick way. Anyway, here is the story and why P. Jones has anything to do with it.

It was late in the day on a Sunday, one of my days off. And as usual, I was hungry and wanted to go out for something to eat, but what? Feeling social, I thought I would go sit at a restaurant bar and order food in the midst of strangers. I parked my car a few blocks from a place I had been once before. Beginning the short walk toward soon-to-be biochemical peace, I found myself lulled by the echoing saxophone of a street musician. In fact, I didn't even notice the music until I realized I was humming along because it fit the evening so well. When I saw how busy the bar was, I immediately felt less social and thought it better to choose an option that would take less social confidence and certainly less of a wait. But, finding it better to eat now rather than later (which usually makes sense, I think) I walked inside. Turns out, I would have no wait- there was one seat left at the bar. This is where the story begins to take a turn...

Sometimes, we are given choices, but some choices are like selecting a card from the deck of a musician with a deft hand. You see "choices" but have only one real option. I knew as soon as I saw friend/relative/colleague/whatever of P. Jones what I had to do. It almost seemed instinctual, so primitive, so wrong, yet so right. Taking the card forced upon me, I slid that sharpened steel into his leg, muscle tissue tearing as my blade glanced off bone.

---

Without fear of sounding like a crazy person, sometimes I like to think of the pigeons on the street as my friends. I like watching them, their seemingly erratic movements in some kind of calculated harmony like a concerto of some composer I would sound smart if I could mention by name. But I can't. Anyway, now when I see P. Jones, I have a secret that I can never tell him, but it is a delicious, delicious secret and I wouldn't have it any other way.

---

Squab with creamy farro, brussel sprouts, arugula, and pomegranate at Nopa.
560 Divisadero (at Hayes), San Francisco, CA 94117
415-864-8643

2 months, 8 days.

Or something like that. What do I think? Did I make the right choice? I don't know the answer to those questions. Am I where I'm supposed to be? Yes. But, this is as awesome and harder than I expected at the same time. My job is the best job and the hardest job I've ever had. San Francisco has more fog than I ever saw in Oregon. More than anything (except my adoring family and awesome friends) I miss grass between the sidewalk and the curb. And good, hard rain. None of this misty bullshit, I want rain that almost hurts when it hits you in the face. I want to be soaking wet after the trip from my car to my apartment. I want to feel alone in the pounding of the rain, the presence of God in the solitude of a rainy night. Something familiar. Something horrendously mundane and boring and irritating like cold, hard rain. Not cold, hard cash. That's stupid. I want grandma's short ribs on a Sunday afternoon. Or spaghetti. Or the best overcooked roast you can imagine, with ketchup. Those are the things that can never be taken from me.