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.

Running across the street.

A few days ago something beautiful happened. I was in a hurry on my way to work, as usual when EVERYTHING STOPPED. I was a few cars back from the crosswalk at a stoplight, patiently waiting for the light to turn green. It finally changed, but nobody was moving. A little irritated, my hand moved for the horn but I stopped when I realized what was happening. The sun was shining bright as a man had begun the journey that was the crosswalk. Dignity was granted as he was allowed step by painstaking step through the crosswalk without anyone impatiently swerving around him. A cane in each hand and groceries dangling in plastic bags he slowly made his way across the street. I'm sure to him, this was running. Moving as fast as he possibly could. For everyone else, this was patience. And, it was graciously granted to the man in the crosswalk. Human dignity lived for a moment and it was beautiful. The signal changed twice, but for a moment an old man was young again, running across the street.

I hope food on time machines is better than on airplanes.

Have you ever had an orange popsicle and all you could think about was being 5 and wearing sandals and short and being at grandma's house and playing with the dogs, oh yeah, and the popsicle?

Or what about that time you had scrambled eggs somewhere and you remember the time you and your dad woke up early to go fishing and make breakfast along the shore with a propane stove?

Or what about that perfect cup of coffee that makes you think of the times you spent in college doing "homework" at a coffee shop? (homework = Facebook, email, and youtube)

How about the time you had jello salad at a potluck and you remember eating so much jello one time that you threw up? Oh, maybe that one is just me...

What about finding somewhere with shawarma or shwarma or shaorma (depending on who spelled it) and you immediately teleport across oceans to that place? ....no idea where it is and it would be impossible to find it again, but man, that was some good sh('awa', 'wa' or 'ao')rma.

Or finally, what about that time you had egg salad, but it had sat out just long enough so it wasn't chilled all the way, and the mayonnaise or something made it ooze some kind of gray colored juice and it made you think of the time you tried balut? Oh, god.

Anyway, food has this mind-blowing ability to take us from one place to another, to remind us of the past, to give us visions of what could be, or take us outside of our day to day lives. Let the journey begin.

Check the line.

(From 4/22/10)

Eight years after receiving your Oregon driver's license, you have to renew it. DMV isn't open on Mondays so Tuesday is their Monday which also happens to be my Saturday and also the most convenient day for me to go. Of course, there was a huge, gigantic, no good, way-too-big line. Trying to be positive, I waited patiently. I knew I just had to get it over with so I could go along with my day.

Sometimes I get so caught up in the motions of life that I forget to look around, to observe, and to realize somehow we're all in this together. At the DMV, they had a lady going through everyone in line to make sure we had all the right documents and pieces of identification to make the process go as smooth as possible. A couple people had to leave because they wouldn't be able to do anything for them without... whatever necessary thing. She asked me, "What are you here for?" and I told her. Being my father's son, I had everything perfectly ready to go (except I didn't go right when they opened as he would have). There was a pleasant man behind me in line who made some small talk, mostly about the line, and funny little things about DMV or people in line. He was asked the same question as me, and was also prepared, but his response was one that caused the world to stop for a moment. The noisy atmostphere suddenly dulled to what I remember as silence as the man said, "Well, my wife passed away so I'm here to take her off the title." Ugh. We all have hard things even when we forget because we can't see beyond our own.

Twenty-four.

What is this mid-twenties thing all about? Just a couple years after graduation, I thought I'd have some things figured out. But maybe that's the point. We think we should, but when we don't it seems a fair amount of disappointment creeps in. Life isn't what we thought it was twenty-four hours ago. The world is going so fast, and everything in our lives is constantly changing. We have been the victims of a vicious sleight of hand. Except, we are the ones who bought into it. We were sold one thing, and took home something else, knowing the whole time but without the willingness to admit it to ourselves.

That's the part that bothers me about having a vision for something. Whether its the vision of some entrepreneur for a hot new company or an 18 year old's vision for their future. We are sold one thing, only to discover that thing is a little more hypothetical than we expected. The company isn't as great as it could be. College... well, it just wasn't what you thought it would be. That dream job, the burgeoning success that you think you're on the verge of, the house, the wife, the two and a half kids, they're all just

out of reach.

Just like that. Plain, courier font because I don't know how to change it. It didn't turn out how I expected. Which makes sense because this is only 24 no matter how much the ol' bait and switch might suck. Really, it doesn't suck, we just don't understand it. Or, I don't understand it. Maybe this is what its about though. Not understanding. Just living and breathing and trying to figure it out. The struggle and tension constantly shaping us, making us stronger, perhaps even preparing us for something. Maybe I'll look back and everything will make sense. Maybe none of it will. I guess that's why it is important to live the adventure.

.esreveR

Sometimes all I can do is think about moving forward. What's next? Where will I be in 5 years? 10 years? Tomorrow for that matter. Sometimes people ask, if you could take back anything what would it be? Or, they ask about regrets. My barely post-adolescent brain that's still idealistic tells me to live without regret, and usually I can. Don't think about the past, think about the future and the direction you're going. Of course, you should remember where you came from, but you would never go backwards in a progressive, forward thinking kind of world would you? Sometimes you don't realize how important going in reverse can be until the little R on your shifter suddenly means... nothing.

P
E
R
S
P
E
C
T
I
V
E

is everything.