Today the tradition lives on

It's 8:30. By the time I finish this, it will probably be close to the end of the night. I will go to bed having only really accomplished the authoring of a meaningless blog post and the useless cycle of the universe will continue.

Here is a list of other useless things I should to tonight, for my reference so that I don't forget:

-Produce rent check(s)
-Write up an Ivy West teachback
-Email Louise my availability for next week.

I had my "Exhibit Developer I" interview on Friday at the Exploratorium. It took place during the end of my Explainer shift so even if they don't offer me the job, the joke is on them cause I was paid either way. Ha! who has the power now, museum? I certainly hope you find me qualified for your position, suckers, but do make sure to let me know the next time you want to donate $6 to the campaign to get Fischer loaded.

The interview went alright, but I don't think I will get the job. I just didn't get the impression that they recognized my inherent greatness. Instead, they asked me such inane questions such as "do you have experience welding?" Do I have experience welding? Correct me if I am wrong but that's just melting two pieces of metal together, right? Jesus, these people had no idea who they were talking to. In my opinion, the whole thing was way too bogged down in insignificant details.

Friday night, I somehow ended up in Critical Mass. I don't know that Critical Mass is quite the "global people's movement" that self-important left coast shitheads like to call it, but one thing it is, is very fun. One of the best times I've ever had in SF, actually. Hundreds of people got on their bikes and rode all over the city for three hours, disregarding red lights, suspending traffic, and being generally obnoxious. What a fucking spectacle. It was like being in a late-night marijuana-festooned parade. And the same streets I ride along every day seemed so different. My friend Hannah described it like riding around in a dream. feather two pixels has employed that simile before, but it perfectly describes the experience.

Speaking of dreamlike experiences, power went out on the top of Nob Hill for the second time in two weeks. Predictably, Carly was in the bath doing Sodoku; she was very alarmed when the lights went out. I, on the other hand, was secretly happy to have an opportunity to inaugurate my new flagship 3-cell Mag-lite--the last one got taken in our latest burglary--as well as my new mini Mag-lite. Both performed impeccably.

Finally, Nowell and I grow close to the completion of our "San Francisco postcard project" film thing. The film doesn't actually have a proper title yet, but we have somehow managed to finish editing 60% of it already (that's a lot), and at this point the project has a momentum of its own. As Nowell put it: it's been like pushing aside sand as it gently falls to the velvet ground (A little embellishment there). Now I'm not suggesting that the rest of the world will like it, but last week when we watched a test DVD on Nowell's home theater, which I believe actually converts a signal to the next generation of video standard that has not been invented yet, I was very excited. More details as they come.

Things at the art studio have been decidedly less easy. I'm mostly in the drawing phase and when you aren't that great at it, drawing can be the most frustrating thing in the world....of me. Why can't I just retire from art now and live off the glory of my eight previous pieces? Kubrick didn't have many more than eight proper films, did he? It's not that I can't produce a good drawing; I'm just not that good at it. I will sit down and draw for weeks and it might all be shit except for one piece. At least after I am done the drawings, it gets a little more fun. Anyways, these pieces follow similar themes, too pretentious to mention here, of my previous open studios shit and the San Francisco postcard project film thing.

I was talking to Ben last weekend about promotion. It's been on both our minds recently. For him it means spreading word about his adult comedy show, for me I think it means that in the medium term I finally need a real website. Then I can finally leave fucking Blogger and all of you assholes for good.

A survival guide for American families

Here we go: interview time again. Round and round I go, what underpaid, disrespected job I end up at, no one knows!

Actually, I am generally overappreciated and overpaid, to which my 2005 $21,000 gross adjusted income doesn't speak very well. I also get a full benefits and a paid lunch break during my 9-1:30 shift at the Exploratorium.

My interview for Exhibit Developer I is on Friday afternoon, during my real job at the museum (I'm not sure if I should wear my orange vest). And I really don't mind interviews but I am not looking forward to the process in which my life is indefinitely put on hold while I try and do things like plan a Spring trip to Italy and find work for the summer. In reality, though, this truly is a dream job so I will endure the delay and heartache and give it my all. Unless of course they want me to work past 1:30. This brother don't work no 5 hour days.

They asked me to bring a sample of my artwork to the interview, which was intriguing. It was also a good reason to finally finish mastering the digital proofs of my pieces from the show last October. I cleaned up all the images up and went to Kinkos down the street to print and bind a little portfolio. Our 24 hour Kinkos is a hidden perk of the mid Polk Gulch area of San Francisco. You never know when it will come in handy. On the other hand, fuck Kinkos--two portfolios cost me more than $50 to make.

In between intermittent fighting, Carly and I managed to attend two Sketchfest performances. The three troupes on Sunday--including the amazing Will Franken...see him now--were great. The "emerging sketch artists" we saw yesterday are, well...as Carly put it: emerging very slowly. But we support them! The pecking order of the comedy world seems like a big a food chain, with bigger acts devouring lesser ones and shitting them out as parodies of themselves. At the top sits Will Franken, my new God, transcending all.

In distressing news, last Thursday a girl was killed on her bike by a hit and run who ignored a red light. Sarah Tucker was hit at an intersection that I ride through almost every day, she was 26 just like me, she worked at a science museum just like I do, and she was coming from the karaoke bar that I karaoke at! Not only could that have easily been me, but its almost as if the universe spent a few minutes deliberating over which one of us to take.

The really distressing thing is that I was back to taking my whole life for granted ten minutes after these thoughts passed through me.

Help a child start a small garden

Sunday afternoon at tutor headquarters. I am here to conduct what's known in these parts as a teachback, which is the final stage in the blossoming of each beautiful new Ivy West SAT tutor. Speaking of work,

But what's this? I am home now. Pretty impressive, no?

This time, it seems, fate has saved you from another tutoring anecdote.

...Which reminds me of something that's been on my mind recently: blogs are weird things. Some time ago, Partha at Ivy West discovered feather two pixels. I'm still not sure how, exactly. But now everyone at the office knows about it and a few may even read it. In principle, I have no problem with this. On the other hand, it feels like there should be something strange about the people one works with having access to a written record of things like how you carried drugs into a police station.

...Which begs the question, what's the point? Why exactly is anyone anywhere writing to, theoretically, the whole wide world in a blog instead of to themselves in a journal? Actually I do have a journal. On the rare occasion that I can force myself to update it, everything I write turns out too embarrasing to describe. So the pathetic fact is that I need the detachment of an audience to say anything about myself that I don't hate. What a mastubratory habit. Not unlike masturbation. And my point is that whole thing makes even less sense in light of the fact that, ideally, nobody I know would ever read my blog. But you can't have it both ways in this world.

In more exciting news, there is a tar kettle in front of my building.




















The Steelers are in the Super Bowl? Wow, good for them. There's actually a Steelers bar a few blocks from my place--named after a ninteenth century inkeeper who was said to have drugged and kidnapped men to make them work on ships--and a few blocks of Polk Street briefly resembled Station Square this afternoon. Good for all the people I know who will be esctatic that the Steelers made the championship. Good for me that I will have a team to root for. But the downside is that a 15-1 Pitt team going virtually unnoticed. I mean, I think I understand Pittsbugh well enough, but there is plenty of room on our bandwagon too.

And the last item that I have the energy for this evening regards the San Francisco Accordian Club. My friend Christina plays and invited me to the monthly meeting. And yes, the thought that it would be a good thing to write about in my blog crossed my mind when I accepted the invitation. The experiement influences the experimentor--this is why I didn't make it in science. Anyways, she tricked me into thinking that she herself was playing, but watching the semi-professional acts instead was kind of a treat. Best of all, the meeting took place in a cavernous auditorium in the South San Francisco Senior Center. I was the youngest person in the whole room and I could have won a bottle of champagne.

"I'm getting the (stuffing) scared out of me"

I passed a pair of beautiful Fisher speakers yesterday. They were large and solid, the kind you saw in stores before the idea of the home theater was giving 18-45 year old American males wet dreams about the carpeted room at Best Buy. I stopped to look at them quietly sitting at the bottom of my block while I was walking home late last night. Despite the fact that pretty good shit, occasionally great shit, is often left on the sidewalks of San Francisco, these surprised me. For a moment, I toyed with the idea of hauling them up for deep storage in the apartment. But our horde is already on the verge of ridiculous--and includes plundered speakers-- so I decided against it.

Today I was walking from the opposite direction, up the east face of Nob Hill, when a man stopped me in the middle of the street. I couldn't tell if he was a typical neighborhood guy or more of a transient. He asked me if I had seen the speakers. I told him that I had but they had been gone by this morning. He was very visibly dissapointed and stood there for a while, as if in shock.

I grabbed something from my car, which was parked a little ways down. When I came back the man was still standing there looking sad. I felt I should say something. "That's the kind of shit that if you want it, you gotta jump on it right away, " I said.

froggy - "hol dis"

So I thought I would take a little time out and let myself recognize what a great week it's been. That's a healthy thing to do, right? It's a little disturbing how easily good things can pass under the radar while I spend so much energy fussing over every little insignificant detail. At the very least, it seems important to document a few good times to fall back on for the moment at which I hit that ineveitable low.

I started out the week in the art studio feeling pretty uninspired. I was pretty happy with what I put together for open studios and I knew I wanted to move forward with my ideas. But it had been more than two months since the show and I still didn't have much in the way of a definitive direction. At one point I went outside to clear my mind. Somehow, that became a magical hike up Potrero Hill and it changed everything. I retured totally inspired, ready to go with a full creative tank. I fleshed out some ideas for my next project and that was it--I think I am off to the races. It took two months, but I found inspiration in a little community garden off San Bruno Ave. I love San Francisco.

That night, I ate these incredible spicy wontons at a dumpling house that I stumbled across way out near the ocean a few weeks ago. The wontons alone are reason to be happy about life. They are large and doughy and served hot in a tasty red oil sauce, mixed with onions and scallions. They fucking rule. Anyways, since finding this place by accident I've gone back twice in the last week. On Monday, I was in the neighborhood to catch The Best of Youth at the Balboa theater. Beyond my own embarrasing, self-congratulatory take on sitting through a six hour movie, it was an outstanding film. It made me happy.

By the time I returned to the museum on Tuesday morning, I was still feeding off all of it. It was one of those low key days in which I kept seeing the same kids, who kept me updated on what new discoveries they made every hour (I got them started by sending them hunting for the water fountain toilet). And at the end of the day, I handed in my application for what can only be described as my dream job: Exhbit Developer I. Now as feather 2 pixel afficionados know, we have been through this before. Recently. But I'm not getting my hopes up, and, really, could there be a job that would be more perfect for me than inventing interactive learning tools for science eduation? I gotta go for it. I think, on paper, I am a pretty strong candiaite and should get an interview. But beyond that it's a long shot.

That night Jill and I innagurated the 2006 tennis season at the secret lighted court near the Diamond Heights Safeway with a 6-0 trashing of me, but I came back strong to win the next set. Then, for some reason, I drove down to the Castro Safeway and picked up some really nice Dill Havarti cheese, among other things.

And tonight Nowell and I finished up the super rough edit of our collaberative video project, whittling 4+ hours of footage down to 30 minutes (with a ultimate goal of 3-5 minutes). I think we've both been real happy with the photography, and tonight the very first indications of project's final form started to materialize and it was totally exciting. The best part about it is that it's real loose and kind of has a life of its own now. Nowell is probably willing to reveal more than me (I say that if you aren't Nowell or I then don't expect much), but here is a little peek at what we are up to.














That brings us to... right now. Loose is one thing my writing has not been; a few paragraphs and it's already 1:30AM. I need to get up in a little while! This little euphoric 3 day stretch is going to come crashing down in a gruff morning haze. Thanks for nothing, blog.

A companion website offers an abundance of resources

The other day I was biking up Larkin street on my way home. Usually I bike up Polk Street, which has a kind of unofficial bike lane, but this street is pretty much a biker free for all. At about O'Farrell Street, I caught up to a guy who was riding pretty slow, but for some vague reason I liked the cut of his jig and decided that I would get in line with him and let him set pace up the hill.

That worked out OK for a block or two, but then he really started slowing down. There was minimal car traffic so I moved over and assumed passing formation. When he caught me out of the corner of his eye, he immediately noticed I was white and sped up so I couldn't pass him. As soon as he did, I noticed he was black and so I tried my best to overtake him. We zipped up the hill together at an unnatural speed, him setting the pace and me right on his tail. Eventually he made a right and I continued up Nob Hill. But I felt happy that we had challenged each other for a few blocks.

It is both funny and frightening

2005 was an alright year. I enjoyed it.

...Well OK, I will come clean and admit that right now I don't actually remember a single thing that happened last year. Wasn't there some kind of tornado? Eh, forget it, it's useless. At some point, I am going to make an effort to do some research, consolidate my thoughts, and maybe come to some conclusions about last year. For now, though, I will begin this year as I began the last: with meticulous procrastination.

Speaking of procrastination, the last time we talked was Thanksgiving. Then the holiday rigmarole set in and it all fell apart. Wow, that was a long time ago. Let me tell you what happened since.

December got real busy real quick. The steady rock in my life known as the Standardized Achievement Test reared its head again in the form of a new tutor recruiting season. So I was called in to tutor headquarters several times for the momentous job of math training. Usually, they send me "the signal" by directing to the skies an enormous spotlight in the shape of my profile. This time, though, they just phoned me and I have to say that it was much more convenient.

New recruits persevere remarkably well through ten hours of SAT training primarily because they are excited about the job. Also, headquarters is a little corporate, so I think that scares many of them into submission. It's all a lot like joining the Marines; we need to break your body and mind into mush before we can properly remold you in to a score-raising commando.

Anyways, they all put on their best face and the whole thing usually runs very smoothly. Now once in a while we get some deviants, which are dealt with on a case-by-case basis with various degrees of violence. For example during this training, one girl wore a tight shirt on the second night, exposing her nipple rings. True story; they were staring at me like two 6-cell Maglights for three hours straight. It's the hardest part of my job, but I'm sure you understand why ripping them right out was entirely necessary--how would you react if you were a hard-working upper class family expecting a dependable SAT tutor but at your door stood some do-nothing floozy? I like to think of myself as a moral filter of sorts.

San Francisco got its worst rainstorm in ten years. At least according to Ross the landlord. Keep in mind this is also the person who bet $700 on Monday Night Football because of a passing comment I made to him. But I believe him; for the last few days he has been running around the building, attending to a series of leaks, cracks, and other water related damages. For our part, the floor in the map room has actually started extruding upwards due to some underlying beam damage. It's like having our own little mogul in the middle of the apartment. It all makes me wonder how much worse the damage is everywhere else because we live on top of a hill. At work, Dizzygirl claimed that her whole apartment flooded and half her stuff was ruined.

And then there was the trip home. Unfortunately, my short schedule didn't overlap very well with my parents', but it was a relief that I didn't have to spend days rotting in their house alone. I did have enough time to grab a Pudge's cheeseteak with Danny (complete with an impromptu Valeri sighting) and to enjoy a home cooked feast with 4/5 of my family--my mom got it in her mind that we should have Thanksgiving dinner together since I wasn't around in November. It was a success. It's hard to go wrong with thanksgiving dinner.

I also made it out to New York City for a visit that will be remembered for the emphasis on walking that the MTA strike made mandatory. Banished from their tunnels, New Yorkers took to the avenues and the streetlife developed a new level of intensity, not so much because of the increased volume as much as the completeness with which the strike enveloped the city. The tabloids featured pages and pages of mean-spirited accusations, network news devoted entire broadcasts to reporting the latest developments (or lack of), and as Ben noted, New Yorkers were once again united and he loves them all. In San Francisco, the opposite philozophy prevails: we say we care about everyone but, as a general rule, avoid unnecessary interaction.

Walking a lot was not a big problem for us. I met up with Ben near Penn Station and we walked to the production company where Joe makes a living editing TV spots and seducing young receptionists. (Some of the details are different, but many things haven't changed through the years). The three of us eventually embarked on the trek up to Joe's place in East Harlem, which actually ended at the Dallas Barbecue on 71st street. We got humongous dinners and Margaritas garnished with test tubes of tequila, which really was the perfect dinner solution after thirty blocks of bumbling around midtown on an unfocused quest for food. And the entire New York trip unfolded a lot like that: the strike always in the background, somehow directing our fate. And that was OK. I got to check out Ben and Aimee's new place and a little bit of their new neighborhood, Greenpoint in Brooklyn. We played Kismet. We listened to music. We watched R. Kelly.

The strike ended the morning we left and that night the entire crew in its legitimate entirety got together in Blue Bell, where Nowell unveiled the long-awaited Budget DVD project. Much can be said about the Budget DVD, but to summarize, it archives pretty much every video project we have produced since high school on an immaculate 4 DVD set. It was a joyous occasion and so, naturally, we headed to the local wafer processing unit manufacturing facility, smoked at the loading dock, and watched the DVDs in the conference room.

Sometime after that, I came home and the ensuing week alone passed in a haze of mindless errands and, of course, rain. I cannot believe how long it's taken me to just complete this entry, so at this point I think that I am going to thank my 2.5 readers for checking in, be happy about rebooting feather 2 pixels for 2006, and save the backlog of half ideas swirling around my head for another night, not too long from this one. Welcome back, baby.