Are hipsters dying? Is the movement over? This schlub thinks yes.

During middle school I tried to fit into the "skater" fad by anxiously purchasing a pair of puffy DC shoes from PacSun. And that was it. I still shudder thinking about how sweaty my armpits would get whenever a trip to PacSun happened: my existence was so horribly awkward I would do anything to get picked on less. Even so, I couldn't bring myself to look any more foolish than what a pair of DC shoes did to me - plus I hated the kids who were legit gangster-skaters (at that time, and in Oregon, you weren't a skater if you weren't also half gangster). As such, I hung around the fringes of middle school society, telling myself over and over that the skater fad was a dying trend, and that the next, better scene would be one I'd embrace full-on just as soon as it happened.

And then it turned out that the next scene was this whole hipster thing that's been going on. And I was almost equally fucked. I know the telltale sign of a hipster is a hipster who refuses to label himself as one, but I'm still going to say that I'm decidedly not a hipster. Sure, I fucking love Wes Anderson movies. And yes, I live in San Francisco and have a velvet painting of an owl in my living room and I majored in English and I think irony is great. But I also wear collared shirts and eat meat and detest skinny jeans and washed out Instagram photos and pointy-toed shoes. Plus I have the whole so-ambitious-I-actually-work-a-real-job thing going for me, so I feel safe in saying I'm not a hipster. I'd logically place myself squarely in the nerd realm, on the side that barely juts up against the fringe of hipsterdom, which is a safe place to be because hipsters are kind to nerds and sometimes regard them as fellow companions adrift in a world of meaningless consumerism (their words [I think], not mine).


So but anyway lately it seems as though the hipster movement has no place else to go. Everything verifiably hipster has become so self-aware that the only remaining option for progress - in my opinion - is to step out of the bubble, shave off the beard, and reinvent. I'm so excited to again see people with genuine expressions on their faces I can hardly stand it. Imagine: walking into a coffee shop and witnessing animated mouth movement; eyes that widen in excitement when someone exaggerates with their hands; the sweet booming of a belly laugh. It'll be as if an entire generation of youthful zombies (coincidence that zombies are so popular right now?) just snapped out of their languid repose and realized they spent the best decade of their lives trying to pass as catatonic. Plus lesbians will have their look back to themselves.

I wouldn't describe any of my immediate friends as hipsters... but friends of friends definitely are. From a once-removed perspective, I've had ample time to stare and judge. I could write a lot about their *interesting* fashion choices, or how the whole lifestyle encompasses so much wasted talent it makes me sad, or that the paradoxical, so-different-I'm-the-exact-same nature of their existence is a black hole of logic (or is that the point?), though in truth I'd rather focus on the inherent retarded ineptness of it all. For fuck's sake, people, you're using an app on your iPhone to take pictures that look as if they came from a classic Polaroid, so that you can then use those pictures to embellish your idealized online version of yourself in front of the 1,400 people who claim you as a friend. It's sacrificing real-life living for a too-cool avatar. But if you ever pointed that out, they'd say they're drinking tall boys, wearing ridiculous clothing, and specifically not mugging in front of an ever-present onslaught of cameras precisely because the last thing they care about is Facebook. I suspect, though, that I'm preaching to the choir here.

I'm reminded of a quote from Brenda on Six Feet Under: "That's the thing about depression - if you really allow yourself to feel it, it gets very boring very fast."

Are they bored yet? Don't they have to be by this point? I suspect what's holding back the new revolution is the dawning realization and fear of the fact that they've pissed away so much time doing exactly nothing that to start caring now would be, like, really hard.


Two signs of the coming hipster apocalypse: Jake Gyllenhaal murdering the shit out of them (here), ***and this is a real-time update, foks - I'm so jacked on coffee right now I can't remember what the second telltale sign is that inspired this entire post in the first place. Here's hoping it comes to me soon***

The really great part about this, of course, is that all these clueless hipsters who are about to put down the barista apron, buy a bed frame, and look for lucrative ways to turn their passion for poetry into a moneymaking career are going to be about 2.5 years behind yours truly. For once I have a legit head start! And damn, does it feel good. After the world doesn't end in December, I'm envisioning a 2013 that plays out like a minimalist version of the 80s: those fucking hippies had their fun, now it's time to make money and drive nice cars.

Audium

Usually Friday nights go: nap/exercise, shower, frantic dinner, even more frantic drinking, bus to some bar or another for continued drinking.

And it's fun. And I have no complaints.

This past weekend, though, after a productive week at work spent reading up on SF-based blogs, I decided something more cultured was in order. A friend and I bought tickets to an appropriately mysterious event at an appropriately off-the-map location called Audium. I knew we could expect an experiment in sound, which was to take place in complete darkness, and that's about all she wrote.

Friday night rolled around, and while I was excited for whatever I'd just paid $20 to attend, a huge chunk of my gut was nagging for a return to my more familiar Friday night shenanigans. The vodka! and the Rock Star! (My gut nagged.) Instead, I silenced it with a slice of pizza in the least shady bit of the Tenderloin our trek to Bush and Franklin provided, and by the time we arrived approximately at Audium's intersection, I would have sworn we were lost had our phones not declared otherwise. And then there it was.

We were kind of being tailed by this awkward hipster kid who couldn't seem to match his pace with ours, resulting in his being right on our asses until we stood directly in front of Audium's entryway. As such, what was already a bit of an ominous moment was made even more off-kilter by the fact that we were flustered by this kid's presence, seeing as he was the only other one in sight on the dark street with us, and we didn't know whether he was following us inside or what, and so instead of taking a moment to orient ourselves we were kind of thrust unceremoniously inside, which to me is a big deal in terms of establishing a mood and a pace. If that makes sense. Fuck, I'm crazy.


The lady in the ticket booth immediately inside the doors was dressed in strange vintage garb that was just a little too costume-y to take her as a serious human being. She looked like a background extra from Altered States, and her mannerisms only confirmed this harsh judgement. Beyond her, around a dark corner, waited the lobby. Honestly, I could have just hung out in the lobby for the entire length of the audio performance and been content: it was stark, smelled like 1973, and featured strangely placed art pieces bathed in moody red and blue lighting. About two dozen other people milled around, waiting, and I immediately wanted to know who these people were and what the fuck they were doing at Audium on a Friday night. Some had on suits! Then I thought about the veritable parade of Friday/Saturday night performances that had taken place here since the 1960s, and how many countless hundreds of thousands of people had been in the exact same lobby, and I felt a lot less special. Still, it seemed as though I'd entered one of those pockets of our current reality that might have a portal to another one behind a curtain in the basement somewhere, if you know what I mean. Let's just say the air was charged.


After a while this old guy in an interesting tweed suit emerged from the pitch-black octagonal doorway that led to the sound theater. He gave a little speech that meandered in a distressingly memorized way, like "oh I'm just giving this off-the-cuff speech for the 4,000th time, let's see how subtly I can veer into a totally controlled tangent." Then we followed him through the octagon into a long stretch of pitch-black hallway, which soon bent back on itself into another long hallway, which then opened up onto the theater, which let's just say a picture says a thousand words:


We all sat down facing each other, and within two minutes the old man had entered a control booth and dimmed the lights lower, and lower, and lower - until I couldn't see a damned thing. In complete darkness, the sounds began. After a while my mind started to wander, and I forgot I sat in a room with two dozen strangers who were all probably unwittingly starting straight at me through the dark. I thought it would be an ideal setting for a pervert to routinely show up at, wait until the lights went black, and then sneak his pair of night vision goggles out from a backpack so he could observe everyone who had no idea they were able to be seen. Then I realized the old man in the control booth must have night vision goggles himself, a suspicion he confirmed when he thanked us an hour later for being "such an attentive audience." Ah!

My only complaint is that the sounds themselves were a bit (read: lot) outdated, and it was kind of apparent that this musical composition of raindrops, laughter, creepy piano riffs, and bouncy-ball sound effects that took place all around us (even in the floor!) were the machinations of a drug-addled ex (?) hippie. But he was nice and gave another little speech in the lobby afterward about how he creates his works (this is his 9th iteration), so I'm going to focus instead on what a wild overall experience Audium turned out to be. Definitely recommended, even if you do feel leaving dazed and confused.

Hobbit Hole

My new place is fantastic and cozy, with one problem: I never want to leave. When I'm headed out the door to work, everything looks so quaint and delightful in the morning sunlight that I nearly shed a tear, and when I get home from work, the low-domed ceilings and ornate (read: wavy) woodwork surrounding all doors/windows/arches practically begs me to sit on the couch, drink wine, and not get up until it's time to fall into bed. I know I should go climbing, and I know I should eventually get around to vacuuming the kitchen floor, but from the couch it all looks so warm and perfect that how could I have the heart to do anything but sit and stare? Especially since it's mine. All mine.

Let's just say I threw out the bathrobe during my move.


Today's a balmy 72 degrees here in SF, and I'm inside an office. Normally now would be about the time I post an annoying picture of myself sitting in a park sipping on a Forty, but that's not the case these days. Instead, I run outside for lunch, speed walk specifically on the sunny side of the street to whichever restaurant, and then half-jog back feeling guilty for having taken a whole 15 minutes to purchase a salad (but, more likely, a burrito). And it's not like I'm swamped with work. I just have this Catholic Guilt going on still. Man, this shit's bad.


I have to say that my new location in the city has turned virtually every day into a brand-new SF experience. I take new buses (I would say the 38 can go to hell, but that's clearly where it's always stopped at the end of the inbound half of its route, and I don't want to be redundant), Alamo Square Park (complete with the Full House houses) is 30 feet from my front door, and my favorite neighborhoods are all within short walking distance. Just the notion that I'm on my own is almost too much to handle, let alone the rest. This is the big time, people.


On Sunday I stepped out onto the sunny front patio of my place to assess the weather. The patio is elevated a good 12 feet off the ground, and just as I was standing there stretching, one of the big, topless double-decker tour buses stopped right in front of me so everyone on it could take a picture of City Hall (which my street dead-ends into). I was on the same level with them and only like four feet away from the side of their bus, so I awkwardly stopped stretching and started waving. Thirty grinning tourists waved back. I would like to start every day that way: "yes, this is my life, now go on and continue snapping photos of it."

V Day

Time accelerates. I am a man on a rocket ship.

Today is February 14, and I'm pretty sure yesterday was January 3. Or something.

No matter. I've spent the past four days at work holed up with a head copywriter and a creative director coming up with slogans for a relatively cool company's ad banner campaign. I estimate having written approximately 250 slogans since last Thursday, which is fine by me because it's partly what's fueling this TimeSurge (what I'm labeling the whole rocket-ship feeling). My boss here moved me out to the big common creative room where everyone else who writes and designs sits, and they're fantastic company. Everyone plays music, discusses TV shows, throws paper airplanes, and generally acts like fools until it comes time to sit down and produce something. And even then, Whitney Houston is playing in the background.

Although the office isn't anywhere near as sleek as the one in Mad Men, and the clients aren't quite so exciting, the daily conversations, dramatic presentations, and interpersonal dynamics between creative and account people is near identical. I'm having a great time sitting and observing everyone wisecracking and swearing at one another and then get really surprised when I'm called into the action, because I tend to forget I'm not just an audience member sitting on his couch yelling at Peggy for being such a pushover. And the even crazier part is that even though I'm interning, any changes the directors want to make to my copy has to be approved by me, so whenever they come for my permission to chop a word out I get really unnecessarily excited.

This rule doesn't apply, however, to works in progress. I have seen SO much copy I've produced either completely thrown out or ripped nearly in-total to shreds, with just one or two compelling nuggets remaining for me to restructure and build upon. It would be devastating, but two years of creative writing in college turned my skin to dragon hide (and by that I mean: super tough). Also, I keep getting reassured that I'm actually doing a really great job and this is just par for the course, especially when it's your third week writing copy. And these aren't the kind of guys to bullshit, so I believe them. More later, yo.

A Night on the Town

Part I (In Which the Protagonist has a Glorious Night on the Town [and also, just so you know, there won't be a part II]):

Last week my dear friend Alex and I met up at House of Shields in San Francisco's Financial District for some after-work cocktails. House of Shields is a chandelier-y, wood-paneled, airy establishment frequented by attractive suits who need a stopover between the office and a fancy dinner. Every other time I've been there the drinks were bought for me (the perks of being a poor intern at Wikipedia), so I was surprised to discover my meager Greyhound cost a whopping $6 (which, for the record, is about $3 more than I'm used to spending on a well drink). Then I had this fantastic moment of realization where I was all, "wait a second. The price of this drink literally doesn't matter: I made me some money today!" The sad truth is I've grown so accustomed to never having extra dough to throw around I don't know what to do with myself now that I'm earning a modest hourly rate. I've tried twice to buy some quality clothing in order to project an air of stylishness and authority, but I can't justify spending $190 on a sweater. I did, though, happily upgrade from Gilbey's to Smirnoff during my latest vodka purchase at the corner market.

Then we ran into my old boss from Wiki, Jay. The encounter was everything I imagined future encounters for myself to be, wherein I'm a non-awkward adult who thinks nothing of running into people I used to work for, and who can say something totally normal and engaging and not get flustered when the conversation ends just as abruptly as it begins. When we parted ways, I thought back 1.5 weeks to when I still interned at Wiki, and it already seemed like it had happened way too long ago, but instead of feeling sad or nostalgic I kind of just went, "oh, so now I'll be seeing him at bars instead of the office. Huh." And that was that. And I felt wildly sophisticated. And I also had a brief glimpse of the next forty years of my life, during which events and people and situations and run-ins will pile up and twist together and morph into a life so completely foreign to the one I know now that I may as well not even think about it, because it's all going to end so unpredictably that even just trying to puzzle the next week out is enough of a clusterfuck.


At any rate, after our drinks we moseyed through San Francisco's teeming downtown crowds (seriously, they teem) to Spoke Art, a small gallery debuting Tim Doyle's "Surreal Estate" series, in which Doyle has reinterpreted iconic landscapes from some of television's popular shows. The gallery was small, but free beer flowethed, and I'm a huge fan of Doyle's artwork, so I willingly suffered close proximity to so many fancy hipsters for a chance at one of his limited edition prints. Soon, though, with a beer in hand and my unease put to rest by a nearby rendering of the Bluth family's banana stand, I actually started to feel just the tiniest bit like I belonged there. Alex and I stood close to the door, looking at everyone and commenting on how strange it was for us to just be standing there, in a hip art gallery in San Francisco drinking free beer on a Tuesday night, and how we'd scarcely received even a single hostile glance. All at once the situation turned magical. "This is it," I thought, "this is what it's like to start feeling like you've made it." But then if you'll recall my previous post, which actually happens after this one chronologically, you'll start to understand how perilously up-and-down my weekly emotional agenda goes.


So I ended up buying a print of the Seinfeld diner (titled, "The Big Salad"), which a lady at the bus stop an hour later ended up telling me allll about (she went to school right down the street from the "real" exterior used in the show), but not before Alex and I finished the evening with some Thai food at a gloriously random restaurant somewhere in the Tenderloin. When I finally flopped onto my bed that evening, art in hand, and thought about the ad agency, the bar, the gallery, and the restaurant I'd circulated through since I stepped out of bed that morning, I felt incredibly accomplished. Like when I first started college and would leave my dorm room at 1 am to have a late-night burrito at the 24/7 mexican restaurant across the street, mostly just to be able to sit there knowing it was 1 am and I didn't have to get anyone's permission to be doing this and my mom was fast asleep and had no idea that her son was braving the streets of Eugene for a burrito.

So I lay there, feeling dirty from the bus and clutching my art and thinking about how it was only Tuesday night, and everything very nearly fit together into a coherent sort of existence. And it was all terribly exciting, just so long as I didn't let my brain drift too far in any one direction. And now I'm hoping there never comes a time when I'm unable to excite myself just by accomplishing totally ordinary feats.

A Case of Mondays, Alleviated by Office Hottie

So last week at work I successfully read 700 pages of epic fantasy, gained a hard-to-shake reputation as the new kid with the disgusting hacking cough, and was actually assigned something Friday afternoon.

On Tuesday, though, I sat in on a meeting where the heads of the creative and accounting teams came together to discuss a series of commercial pitches they're delivering to a company this week. It was super exciting because the budgeting lady was listening to the script pitches the creative team had put together and was saying things like, "with this budget we'll never get two locations" and "can we just have one principal (actor) speaking?" and "now let's keep in mind we need this translated to French and German, as well, so the more narrative voiceover we can get away with the better." Every time they referred to "Creative" as a team I perked up a bit, though I didn't get to contribute an opinion once. They favor the "fly-on-the-wall" approach to interns here much more so than over at Wikipedia.

Then on Friday one of the lead Copywriters gave me an assignment, which is to come up with two of the five tag lines that are going to circulate across the lead banner of a high-traffic website. I would totally tell you which website so you could see my work in a few weeks, but I still don't understand all the confidentiality stuff I signed, and I'm pretty sure this falls under what I promised I wouldn't talk about, so you're going to have to settle for vagueries (new word!). He sent me all these documents that have the company's mission statement and ground rules for creative work laid out, and I've been distilling the "primary message" from these two distinct portions of their web entity to come up with two sentences that describe who they are to a soulful, resonating Tee. The guy I'm working on this with is an old English fellow who dresses proper and has wild grey hair and huge bottle-rim glasses, and he basically stumbled from some unmentioned classroom at Hogwarts to start working here I'm pretty sure.

Otherwise, not much is going on. Actually, a lot is going on, and I have 600 words written to fill the space between these two parentheses right here: " ". But I'm not going to tell you what they say yet until an undisclosed thing happens and I feel I'm in an appropriate place to paste away and let you all read what's there but isn't. And if this is confusing, no matter... it'll all make sense soon enough.

***Evening edit: Forgot to mention anything about the titular Office Hottie. He's tall, handsome, has a great smile, dresses well, and initiated conversation with yours truly TWICE already. Which is about 1.5 times more than anyone else can claim credit for. Either he's a really nice straight guy who just has my best interests at heart, or he's thinking the same thing I am. But how to find out? And what to do once that happens? Shit, man.

Oh, George

I know I spent 15+ months updating this blog (on my MacBook Pro, while listening to iTunes) with rants about how much I hated working at Apple and how all the sniveling, overprivileged customers who came in griping about their iPhone or their iPod touch were more or less the foulest, least deserving people ever, but now that I have my iPhone I totally get the fuss. It's like when I first adopted my cat Squeakers and I spent like two hours every night playing with her in the garage before bed, and I'd always wonder how I used to spend my time before bed prior to owning her. This was pre- learning how to masturbate, of course. I think.


But so now I have the iPhone, and the best part is it could actually help me masturbate, if I wanted. No but seriously, the best part is like literally every second I have with my hands on it, which is a big number by the end of the day. From the battery life left in the little fella, though, you'd never know it. I play Words with Friends like a fiend, and deliberate over wallpaper images, and keep up to near-constant date with Michael Ian Black and Roger Ebert on Twitter, and still there's like 85% of a charge left by the time I plug it back in for the night. What a trooper.

About two weeks in, though, a pixel on the screen went black. I was so used to its flawless performance that it seemed a much bigger deal than it actually was. I wanted a replacement, and I wanted one *now*. Rationality didn't factor in at my base impulse level. But then I was like, "wait a second, AJ, if you're the douche that tosses an entire phone's toxins into the environment because of a single dead pixel, then you are NOT starting 2012 out right. Plus you would hate the person who came in for that if you still worked at the store." And it's true. What ultimately upset me most about the situation was my day-long assimilation with the greedy assholes who unceasingly march themselves to 1 Stockton Street by the thousands, daily, angrily demanding replacements for phones and laptops because of something so measly as a single dead pixel.


So instead I named my phone Freckle and am calling it even... but if Freckle gets another one I'll be in for sure.

Also, I've been reading more Game of Thrones this past week and that George R.R. Martin is one clever bastard. Just when I think I have his methods for plot twists figured out, he goes and throws a wrench in. A fantastic, marvelous wrench all the colors of the rainbow! My thoughts went from, "oh great, here goes Jon Snow blathering on about which side he's on, and it's going to take 500 more pages for any of this to come to a head, and meanwhile he's like camped out right next to Bran but he'll never know it, and gahhh," to "holy shit! He decided and Bran's direwolf saved him!" within the span of fifteen pages. And if you don't know what I'm going on about then you should probably start reading (Simone).

So yeah. It's off to the pho shop for me.

Latitude

It's here...

Kind of. I have to admit that when the creative team behind the Jejune Institute self-combusted last year, I didn't give much thought to what Nonchalance's next massive project might be simply because I didn't think there would be one. Sure, I'd take dates on late-night detours down side alleys in the Mission to check out a relic or two from the former experience, though that was about as extreme as I thought my immersion into a fabricated alternate reality was ever going to get again. But then this website arrived, and it's already hooked me:

http://thelatitude.com/

I'm not titling the link because I think its more mysterious as is (as if my preferences even make a difference to you all). Also, I keep bringing this up, but I wish the big button that you're clearly supposed to push at the bottom of the page had "conceive" correctly spelled on it. Perhaps the typo is part of whatever insane game Jeff's cooking up next... but it probably isn't.

Regardless, I've sent an email into the "inquiries" address listed, and will be keeping everyone who reads this informed of any minute update. And by minute, I mean minute - though a little bird tells me nothing will be officially happening until much later in the year.

Commence speculating. Now.

Wonderment

Lately the world's been wowing me.

For example, today my friend and I were at the gym, running next to each other on treadmills (which was the least sensical thing to do, what with Crissy Field literally outside the window... but she had a really sore throat and thought the outside air would be too sharp on it, so...). We made a point of starting the machines as close to the same nanosecond as possible, and we ran the same speed the entire time. Still, when 25 minutes were up, I'd run farther, burned more calories, and my timer was a full seven seconds ahead of hers. I'm not suggesting I time traveled, but some serious discrepancies were going down between those two machines. If we had done nothing for 25 minutes but run and stare at our respective countdowns, would I have perceived seven extra seconds of time? How does that work?

I swear I'm not high right now.


1/2 of the view from the gym. Not included: Alcatraz, Golden Gate Bridge.

Second, my relationship with John, the guy who runs the corner market below our apartment, totally floors me. I'm actually one of those people living in the big city who's on a first-name basis with the gregarious, over-the-top, somewhat sleazy corner market guy. What's more, he thinks I'm a stand-up human being and is always inviting me to hang out and help him rearrange his shelves of overpriced wine. In other words, he doesn't sense anything the least bit fucked up about me, which I always consider rather remarkable a slip-up for any observant individual to make. (just kidding, prospective employers!) The only truly odd bit is that I've definitely done my fair share of late night canoodling in front of him, and the guy still thinks I play for his team. I always consider just telling him straight-up that I'm gay whenever he gets to talking about "the women with the breasts" that come into his store, but I have no idea where that would lead and frankly I think he'd forget by the next time I came in, so I'm letting this particular sleeping dog lie. For now.

Finally, I'm reaching a point in life where alcohol is still super great and all, but I'm finding it increasingly less necessary (is "increasingly less" a paradox?) to slug down in order to have a good time. During college, when the name of the game was fitting into a straight party full of straight sexual tension, I'd need me a whole lot of Vodka to even consider playing the part. Now, though, after coming out and after gaining quite a bit more self-confidence than I used to possess, I'm discovering it really doesn't make a difference to my fun levels whether or not I'm good and schnockered. In fact, I'm probably more fun (and a hell of a lot sexier) in my coherent, non-bloated format. So I'm trying to practice the more-water-less-booze principle these days, but to be honest by "these days" I mean the past *TWO* days, so this may or may not be a turning point decision for my own personal history books.



Definitely NOT a young, gross me drinking beer from a bowl

Still recommended for all you Netflix Instanters out there: Weekend (Tom Cullen + Chris New = eye candy man sandwich), and Peep Show (the most fun you'll ever have being awkwarded the fuck out***).


*** Did anyone catch that super clever Peep Show / Creepshow tagline reference? God, I'm delightful.

Intrigue

The other night I found myself ordering a Super Taco at El Rancho Grande, the local mexican food joint that's open well past midnight and features a kickass salsa bar. The Super Taco was fantastic, but is not the subject of this post.

On my way out the door, I took a moment to examine the flyers and neighborhood postings taped to the wall. My time with Nonchalance taught me to demonstrate extreme curiosity regarding walls covered in flyers, as they're a super obvious opportunity for an intriguing mystery to begin taking shape. How else these days could anyone looking to screw with people address an audience with complete anonymity? It can't be done any other way, I tell you.

At any rate, I quickly spied a nondescript sheet of paper taped near the bottom of the collage of colorful ads for guitar lessons, used furniture, and Spanish tutors. This piece of paper was plain white, and featured a totally normal typeface that read: "Help Pan with the MAZE. Helen wandered into the MAZE weeks ago. She hasn't been seen since. This MAZE needs our attention. For more information, please contact Pan." The bottom third of the flyer was devoted to tear-off tabs that all sported the slogan "Help find Helen" alongside a web address.


I was floored. Clearly this was the start of some brand-new mystery. Who was Helen? Why was MAZE capitalized every time? What did any of this mean? I grabbed a tab and started walking home, super anxious to look up the website and fall into another grand adventure.

Fuck, I love adventures.

But it turns out I was kind of drunk (hence the Super Taco at 1 am in the first place), and in the course of gesturing wildly to my fellow drunkards on the walk home, the slip of paper with the address escaped my jacket pocket. I realized what had happened after it was too late, and no amount of googling the relevant keywords revealed anything useful. I went to bed a sad man, and awoke having completely forgotten the incident.

On my walk to the coffee shop that next morning, I found myself practicing a routine eyes-to-the-ground maneuver in an effort to avoid contact with a crazy guy yelling at a bus on the street corner, and at the exact moment of looking down I stepped over the scrap I'd dropped the night before! Normally I don't pick anything up off the ground in this city, but such is my ravenous hunger for intrigue that I lunged for it. Triumphant, I marched to Cafe Abir ready to be blown away by whatever lay in wait.

As it turns out, "Pan" referred to the small Pan Theater in the East Bay, the MAZE is the humorous nickname its volunteer workers have given the series of hallways you have to navigate to reach the stage, and Helen is a poor elderly soul who got lost in the hallways on her way to view a performance this past holiday season. The whole effort that necessitated the flyer in the first place is an ongoing grassroots attempt to raise money to demolish the hallways and erect a new theater entrance that minimizes patron hassle/confusion, and that's the extent of it.

I was mildly crushed. I mean, I wanted to trip into a hallucinatory world of sleuthing, and instead got to feel bad for this crone Helen. On the other hand, I had to applaud the Pan Theater people for creating a flyer so nondescript and intriguing that I actually took the time to look something up that ordinarily wouldn't have piqued my interest in the slightest.

This is the future of advertising: subtle trickery. I can't wait until the day that mysterious opportunities left and right end up leading participants to the new flavor of Doritos in the chip aisle at Safeway, or a website for the redesigned 2013 Nissan Xterra. Let's hear it for creative duping!

The Third Space

definition: Any place in the world that is neither your home nor your work. The Third Space is also mostly open to the public, and is generally hurried through by robot citizens so as to avoid close inspection of its intriguing alleyways and trap doors.

When it gee-wowed me: Again, during my stint as a copywriter for Nonchalance. Those people are obsessed with the Third Space, and I have to say I'm now pretty into it as well. Case in point: during Phase One of the Games of Nonchalance, a player finds himself sitting in the reception area of a 16th-floor office space in downtown San Francisco. Suits hurry by. Important-looking people whisper together urgently on their way to the elevator. All the furniture is dreadfully void of character. The player feels like he doesn't belong here. "Is this right?" he thinks. "Don't I need some kind of clearance to be sitting in this reception area of the 16th floor of this random downtown building? Am I going to be arrested?"


Well, no. Turns out a huge portion of the world is open to everyone, all the time, always. Aside from the obvious sidewalks, parks, freeways, alleyways, and public restrooms, you've also got entire skyscrapers, hidden parklets, back stairwells, parking garages, cemeteries, churches, and office building hallways that are all designed to give off the impression of exclusivity, when in fact they're anything but. The best part is that no one can really do a goddamned thing about you being in any of these places.

That security guard at the front door? Yeah, he's totally useless. Go ahead, ignore him.

Anyway, Nonchalance's games and projects are all intended to make players more aware of this great big beautiful public space around them, to have them step out of their regularly scheduled walk to work - even if only five feet in the wrong direction - and examine that one alleyway with that one giant cat spray painted onto that one lonely wall. If you've never noticed it's there before, it's because you're not letting the world thoroughly batter your senses with stimuli. You've let the man tell you that your place is this one stretch of line between Point A and Point B, and god help you if you ever try and shake it up. I mean, holy hell, you'll probably end up murdered or raped if you step out of line. Or worse.


And who knows what you'll find if you follow the alleyway to the lonely cat. Mystery and intrigue lurk behind every corner.

Conclusion: Nonchalance also champions Pervasive Play - a term coined for taking this newly reclaimed Third Space and turning it into one giant adult playground. After all, what happened to the world between ages 9 and 30 that made it so uninteresting? More appropriately: what happened to you? The next wave of totally immersive entertainment would be foolish not to maximize Third Space use. It's free. It's near-limitless in size. And it has so much hidden potential just waiting to be discovered.

Something Fun

I spent a half hour before bed last night reading my posts from two summers ago, those fine months spent at Disneyland as an official Cast Member. Damn, I had fun! I also realized I haven't done such a good job lately of really trying to relate an experience to you all. In trying to figure out what's going on around San Francisco that might make for an interesting read, I continually draw a blank. Not for lack of detail to write about, but because I think the whole experience is so overwhelming that attempting to single out any one aspect is near impossible.

So here's this instead: I drove from Bend back to SF yesterday. The trip consists of two self-patented key Phases, each with four sections. From North to South, they are:
- Phase One: Bend to Klamath Lake, Klamath Lake to Weed; Weed to Shasta; Shasta to Redding.
- Phase Two: Redding to Dunnigan (505); Grassy Fields (505); Nightmarish urban sprawl (I-80); Richmond to San Francisco proper.

Phase Two is notoriously god-awful. Not only do you have I-5 to conquer, but once you've finally managed its 160-mile stretch of nothing, an even more boring series of grass fields looms (excusable only because it's super easy to break the law and use your cell phone here), followed by a guaranteed traffic jam for 65 miles.

When I stop and think about it (which the traffic jam allows ample time for), though, the funneling process I go through to take me from rural highway to urban parking spot near my apartment is remarkable. Wading through millions of people and their cars, taking a specific series of exits, crossing multiple bridges, turning an appropriate number of lefts and rights, and finally pulling into whichever patch of pavement is lucky enough (and empty enough) to have me is just such a process. And then once I'm out of my car and walking to good old 2423 Post, the relative silence of the street is staggering considering the onslaught of mind-boggling stimuli I just had to deal with to reach a specific point in the city that, from afar, looked SO busy.


And I have this ritual of putting on the entire Suburbs album by Arcade Fire as soon as I start crossing the Bay Bridge. Little else is as epic as approaching the SF skyline with Arcade Fire blasting, the buildings looming larger and larger and larger until before you know it the vista is too IMAX-y to appreciate as a whole and you're submerged, and all around you is the city and lights and traffic and incredible rolling hills that you have to shoot quickly up before you can come barreling back down the other side of, all the while dodging bikers and crazed cabbies and homeless slinkers and drunk couples pirouetting off sidewalks, neon signs flashing left and right to the heavy beat of "Modern Man."


It's all fabulous spectacle, to be sure, and little else makes me feel so alive. Also, knowing what I'm doing has helped substantially, because my first few visits here I was too concerned about not getting mowed over by crazy Californian drivers to pay any attention to these man-made vistas.

Interactive Narrative

Definition: the intersection of storytelling, visual art, and interactivity.

When it gee-wowed me: During my several month stay at Nonchalance headquarters. I would sit every day at the office facing a fantastic map on the wall. This map visualized the entry points, segue ways, and end points of each of the three phases of the Jejune Institute - the interactive narrative game that, in this humble blogger's opinion, is trailblazing in the realm of immersive media.

I could trace, for example, a curling arrow from an icon that read "flyer with phone number" in the bottom left corner of the map, to a "Jejune Institute Orientation Meeting phone message" icon. This same icon was also reachable by two other arrows, which directed players from "graffiti art with phone number" and "Dolores Park radio transmission", respectively. In essence, a willing participant could access the phone message from one of three distinct entry points to the game, and also have no idea that the other two existed. Then, once the phone message was digested and curiosity actually led a participant downtown to the orientation session, literally so many variables for alternate modes of play presented themselves that how and what a person explored within the game's narrative became their own prerogative. Indeed, from the "Orientation" icon, the map on the wall became an intricately linked labyrinth of possible paths of narrative travel, some dead-ending, others leading a player to the very heart of the game.


And I think the dead ends are what made the Jejune Institute so special. Consider, for example, the elaborate backstory constructed for the purely fictional Hip Hop Shoe Repair, itself a now-decrepit, in-story hangout for the fictional characters who used to populate the Mission. When they track it down through various means, players come across a chained-up newsstand on Valencia Street that apparently doubles (in-story) as the Shoe Repair stand. Whether or not you are then supposed to glean anything meaningful from the structure in order to advance your own narrative is a question that took me and my intrepid partner about twenty minutes to determine.

Was the newsstand actually a piece of the puzzle, or was Nonchalance's goal of reclaiming the Third Space (more on that at another time) as an adult playground actually working? Because when it comes right down to it, you really start to appreciate a chained-up newsstand the more you look and realize how beautifully random and absurd its existence is. Here I was seeing an unremarkable little detail of the city in a brand new, devastatingly exciting light, and it made me want to treat every object I passed with the deserved level of reverence.

Though the scrutiny ultimately led nowhere, the experience of the narrative turning literally everything into a potential clue for our discovery was a feeling of real-world excitement no single-medium-bound story could ever replicate. The more you looked, the more you noticed the stuff around the city that really was an element of Nonchalance. You also started seeing everything that wasn't in the same mysterious light. And everyone knows mystery is what makes the world go round.



Conclusion: The more irrelevant detail an interactive narrative provides, the more meaningful and immersive an experience it weaves. I am reminded of Roland Barthes' essay "The Reality Effect," which explores referential and aesthetic restraints in literary narratives. Put very simply, the more meaningfully random the descriptor, the more tangible the experience. Without Hip Hop Shoe Repair, the Jejune Institute still would have kicked ass - it just wouldn't have kicked ass so fully. A newsstand is a newsstand unless it's a clandestine hangout.

The Future 2.0 (take seven)

.

I think this visual is the closest I can get to explaining the paradoxical nature of the decisions I was - or wasn't - making these past several weeks: do what your gut says, not what your brain thinks; follow your heart, not your head; reach a decision and then question your logic until anything definitive has turned back into a good old-fashioned "?" again; ask for advice and listen to none of it; etc.

And so on and so forth, until we've gone there and back again in proper herculean hobbit form. Fuck I'm clever.

I guess what I'm trying to say is: I shall hang my hat on two unlikely job opportunities, and if neither works out (or the universe's vast intricacies presents an even less likely third option) I"ll be back in Oregon by Christmas. Portland ho! Probably. Either way, I won't whine about it. Promise.

Last night was fantastic. I went out with three girlfriends to Moby Dick, and I'm not even being boastful when I say I don't believe a better time could have been had by any of the Castro's other Sunday-night drinkers. I received my all-time highest number of paid-for-by-random-people drinks (two), indulged in a celebratory bowl of late-night chili at Orphan Andy's, and then was treated to a walk all the way home from the Castro because the 24 Muni line was in a perpetual state of "calculating...". Oh, plus the men's lacrosse team who asked for their picture taken in front of the bar, only to let me know after I had agreed (and after they'd started stripping) that the picture needed to be of them in their underwear. Insant Good Samaritan karma, right there.

It's good to know that after considering and obsessing over all possible 3,487,622 potential courses of action I could have taken with my life as of last week, the one I settled on and am traveling down includes a mostly-naked lacrosse team.

Me For a Day

Wake up. Decide you can't tell what time it is based on the window light, then decide it doesn't matter because you have no one expecting anything from you. Then feel guilty for squandering one of your final days in beautiful SF by lying in bed. Then think about coffee. Wonder if anyone has sent any messages your way since you fell asleep last night. Reach for your phone. No messages. Think about how you have to leave this goddamned city. Then think about how it might not be any better anywhere else. Hug your pillow.

Consider your plan of action: shower, maybe trim the facial hair. Spring out of bed. Springing is better than any other method of leaving your bed. Walk to the bathroom. Decide that since it is Thursday, and your chances of being seen by lots of gay men are statistically much higher tonight than they were for the past several nights, you should definitely trim the facial hair. Once you are finished, hop into the shower. Hopping and jumping are your two means of entering the shower. Anything less active is not acceptable. Make funny little singsongy noises as you soap yourself, then realize people might think you're a freak if they overhear you. Decide not to care. But it's so hard not to care.

Contemplate breakfast. Opt for a sandwich somewhere, what with it already being 11:23 and all. Bring a book with you, wherever you go, so you don't look like the single most lonely kid in this city.

All things considered, days off kind of suck.

Walk to the coffee shop. Consider the sad-looking people walking around you. At least you don't look as sad as them. Pay no attention to the happy ones. They're fools.

Sit outside and eat your sandwich. Be happy you can buy yourself a sandwich. Those guys over there look like they want your sandwich. They aren't getting it. Stretch your legs out in the sun. Sun rules! Read your book and think about how quaint this moment of your life will look from the future. Just a young you and a book and the sun. Almost no worries. Almost.

Except for all the worries! Gahhh. Stifle them.

Walk up the street to pass time. Head into the comic book shop. If nothing else, bookstores of any kind make you feel right at home. Walk serendipitously to the graphic novel memoir that most closely aligns with your life at this moment. Buy it. Smile and be nice to the comic book guy. Wonder what his worries might be.

Walk to the vintage furniture store. See the coffee table you were meant to own. Talk yourself into spending $175 on it. Marvel that you are at a point in life when $175 on a coffee table, of all things, is not only feasible but exciting. Worry for yourself.

Go to the park. Sit on a bench in the sun and take turns staring at the cityscape and reading. Watch the people in the park laugh and socialize with their dogs. Wonder if you are making the right choices in life.


Happy. Sad. Ecstatic. Elated. Miserable. Angsty. Nostalgic. Psycho. Happy.

Meet up with your friend for a beer. Discuss the serendipitous nature of being at the exact spot drinking the exact beer with the exact person you did the exact same thing with exactly a year ago. Wonder what this could mean in terms of you and your choices. Contemplate the harsh reality of leaving a city that has such beautiful sunny days midway through November.

Head home. Make your usual dinner: chicken, black beans, broccoli. Think about how you spent over $200 today. Decide this was a responsible move, despite not having a job at the moment, because at least it wasn't $200 spent on drugs.

Get dressed for a party. Go to the party. It's a gay party! Not one of the guys is attractive. Think about how you've managed to live 16 months in the gayest city on the planet only to spend one of your final Thursday nights at one of the least attended, least attractive get-togethers ever. Consider the sad nature of this situation. Think about the guy from your previous relationship and what all his exceptionally handsome friends must be doing at this same moment, probably less than a mile away.

Take lots of jello shots. Pretend not to care. But also you don't really care. It's more like you think you should be concerned about this situation rather than you really feel concerned, and you don't like the way you let what other people think of you control so much of your life. Realize no one outside of the party knows how ugly the party itself is. Realize your own perceptions are what will continue to bring you down. Tell yourself you are only 24 and you have so much more time to make it right. Then wonder what making it right means.

Exit the apartment. Walk down Haight street to get home. Consider the very act of walking down Haight Street. Realize that you finally feel comfortable in this giant magical city and that you are actually one of the very few people on the planet who has the privilege of casually walking down Haight Street after a gay party to get back to your own apartment in San Francisco. Think of all the men in the world who lay alone at night wishing, in all their separate languages, to be in San Francisco. Many would probably literally kill to be in your shoes. Are you an asshole for wanting to give this up? You're here, goddamit. It doesn't get better than this.

Enter your own apartment. Fall onto the couch. Stay up until 2 reading your graphic novel memoir. Realize most people who move to big cities at 24 feel the way you do. If you could just hunker down and make it another year, you'll probably be transformed enough to manage for good. But at what cost? Will you be the empty husk of the idealistic person you once were, or a new version altogether? Is the past at 24 something worth holding onto? Should you really be trying so hard not to change, to harden? Is this plain old growing up, or is this growing up unhappily? Where do you expect to find better conditions for happiness? Is substituting palm trees and Victorian architecture for rain and moldy housing really going to help? Will you end up worse off there than here? Should you just grin and bear it? At what point will it be too late to make these kinds of decisions? How many more years do you have when decisions like this can still be pulled off? Why are you so insane? How does everyone else just go about their lives as if they don't think these things? What's satisfying about a life without way too much contemplative thought? Are you ever going to change for the better? Will you ever be happy with a respectable career? If you turn tail and run from a writing position, what won't you run from? When is anything going to make sense? At what point is grasping for straws here versus there going to make no difference in terms of how it all turns out? How? Why? What?

Sleep.

It Wasn't All for Naught

Sixteen months in San Francisco. Holy cow. I feel as though I've lived within the frame of a postcard for so many days. Similar to what we learned with Blue Velvet's ear, though, surface-level beauty and sunshine doesn't a perfect life make.

I'm anxious here. A lot of people perpetually bustle. Muni rarely provides a pleasurable experience. Web developers take precedence over virtually any other professional skill. I can hardly hear myself think.

But the pho! and the men!

The men. How they prance. So many from so far. Each one restless, grappling for something. The surface-level fun of it all strains to contain so much pressure for genuine connection. Sex isn't the ultimate satisfaction - a truth etched into the older ones' faces.


And the twenty-somethings! With their bikes on the park under the sun passing a joint. How I would so like to feel like I belong among them, instead of like some kid who's a perpetual tourist.

Those twenty-somethings. They each know more people in this city than I will in the entirety of my life, but in most cases, those relationships are hollow. Everyone is an acquaintance. Few are actual friends. It's hard to find friends when you're pinballing between start-ups and don't know which surreptitious individual it'll pay most to shake hands with.

Oh San Francisco. I really don't know about you. Love. Hate. Not very many in-betweens.

But you weren't all for naught:

- I Freelanced as a copywriter for the coolest hybrid arts agency ever.
- I worked for almost an entire year within the Wikimedia Foundation.
- I witnessed firsthand the influence of Apple on an Apple-mad culture.
- I got to strut my stuff down the streets of the Castro on warm nights.
- I relished an eager, youthful relationship that impacted me for the better.
- I will never have to wonder what it would have been like to live here at 23.

These experiences will only shine brighter with time.


It's been formative, yo! Onward and upward.

On Leaving Wiki

If there’s one thing my time spent here at the Wikimedia Foundation has taught me, it’s that nerds have no shame about taking the loudest, nastiest-sounding shits I’ve ever encountered. Nine out of ten who relieve themselves in the stall next to the one with the big window that I habitually lay claim over at approximately 11:13 every morning do so with a near-epic level of accompanying flatulence and splatter sound effects. I’ve seen residual toilet bowl streaks every color of the rainbow, and I can’t believe these people who take such abnormal poops don’t wait after they flush to make sure any embarrassing remnant has washed away. It’s baffling.

Of course, there does lurk below this observation another concern, which is: why am I so secretive and dignified about something that doesn’t really deserve a huge amount of discretion? If everyone is taking horrific craps, shouldn’t I be down with following suit? Is anyone sitting in the stall next to me ever thinking “now there’s a guy who poops silently. Hot damn.”

Troubling, to be sure. Let’s blame it on St. Francis again.

But back to Wiki. I can recall a morning in February when I stumbled into this place an eager, wide-eyed naif. I aimed to prove myself and land a job, and while I earned Jay’s favor, the job part didn’t work out. I can’t much help the fact that I’m not willing to move to India or Brazil for a Communications position - never mind that I don’t even speak the languages. And so I sat here and wrote. And edited. And organized and efficiencized and used the label maker to a near-extreme degree. Large photos hang on the wall where I wanted them to hang, and banners ban where I wanted them to ban. The entire merchandising system runs the way it does because I was all “oh no you didn’t!” when I saw how it worked previously, and 2011’s forthcoming Annual Report is going to read extra delightfully in certain segments because I’ve proved trustworthy enough to pen entire 200-word segments of the document. Yay for me.


What I think I’m getting at here is that this internship experience has primarily functioned to make me confident in my ability to walk around a legitimate work setting and actively contribute to its output. With Apple, the system was set up such that a monkey could do my job - and the monkey could probably do it better because I don’t think monkeys feel shame to quite such an acute degree as humans.

Plus I really enjoy feeling guiltless about the work I contribute to. Spreading free knowledge to the entire population of the globe? Yes, please.

I’ll miss it all, that’s for sure. Part of me feels like this is one of the final bastions shielding my young-adult existence from the epic reality of full-on adult life. God knows they’ve got enough M&Ms and free pop around here.

When I do leave, a week or two or whenever from now, it’s going to be a proud departure. Because this is one opportunity I took maximum advantage of here in SF, and it’s largely kept me afloat.

VIP Nonsense

My good friend Edlyn - she of the naturally optimistic outlook on life and perpetually singsongy cadence - somehow got me to agree to attend San Francisco's first annual Masquerotica event last night. The conversation went something like this:

- "AJ! What are you doing tomorrow night?"
- "Whatever it is, I hope to not be sitting and staring into space. Like I am now."
- "Come to Masquerotica with me and my boyfriend! I'll get you a VIP ticket and you can pay me back."
- (internal monologue: Just do it, AJ. No regrets, remember? Live, pussy boy. Live!) "OK!"

Turns out "VIP" meant shelling over $120 plus a surcharge fee in exchange for such extravagances as a special coat check, meet-and-greet with the fetish masters, nonexistent light food fare, and two drink coupons that gained me access to the least satisfying vodka cranberries I've ever chugged. Basically, $65 over the standard ticket price = a shot of liquor.

But it wasn't all bad! The whole thing positively oozed an intense Halloween atmosphere, and I couldn't help but think, as I watched two bound Asian women struggle to balance lit candles both in their mouths and in the delicate pocket that the smalls of their backs created, that if my mom could see me now, she'd quite literally shit her pants.

Lots of costumes were funny in a that-person-is-so-fat-and-hairy-he-should-really-have-more-on kind of way, while others were super elaborate. I also got a kick out of a humongous bed that comfortably fit thirty lounging people, plus a few waiters who crawled around feeding everyone strawberries and chocolate. I know, I know, it kinda just sounds like one big disgusting sex orgy, but the lights were actually turned up pretty bright and the decor was colorful and festive, and it really came across as more of a PG-13 porn bash than anything truly hardcore.

Plus there was the dance hall that seemed exclusively devoted to gay men in jockstraps and football pants (I'm sure those pants have a more technical name), but all that happened there was my deciding I needed to leave. Something about so many gays all hopped up and dressed in the same slutty costume makes me feel straight-up empty inside. I ditched out on Edlyn and her BF and managed to hail a cab pretty quickly - an act that always temporarily renders my life quite adult-like in a Sex and the City kind of way.

The cabbie was from Russia (I think), smoked a cigarette as he careened through yellow/red lights, and kept asking me about "all the naked womens at the party." I told him I'm gay, and then we didn't talk much. Cathleen showed up back at our apartment around 1:45 and made me a grilled cheese sandwich with tomato soup, which I scarfed. And that was that.

All Those Wasted Hours

There's a reason I haven't posted since February (missed you guys and gals), and that reason has since come and gone. I could dwell on my time at Apple, and how I messed up and let 1 Stockton Street take the rest of my life down with it... or I could choose to focus only on the few exceptionally fun times had with the few exceptionally cool friends I made there. Instead of either, though, I'm opting for the route where I suppress all emotions toward it until there's enough distance between it and me (read: like three years or something) that all I remember is the gold. Adult of me? I thought so, too.

What I can say at the present moment (which, as this super-cool new blog font, titled "Luckiest Guy", reminds us is October 21, 2011 [?!]) is that I have seen the bottom, my friends, (or, as close to the bottom as I can see, what with being 24 and super privileged and all) and it's no place I'm eager to return to. I mean, I actually hadn't written a blog post in over eight months because I didn't want to have to face the state of my life by typing it all out again. And that's no good. No good at all, I say I say. I now present a brief list of lessons learned since my last posting:

- No retail. Ever again.
- Don't settle for anything that feels deeply unsatisfactory longer than six months. After six months, it stops functioning as a learning experience and instead starts eating away at dreams and self confidence and such.
- Writing is therapy. Don't stop writing. Even if it's mindless and not for profit.
- For the majority of their users, Apple products are a status symbol and nothing more.

That last one was starting to get a little harsh, and here I am breaking my own self-imposed rule from three paragraphs up. I'll instead continue with a fantastic quote that I carry around with me for times just such as this:

“Always in the big woods when you leave familiar ground and step off alone into a new place there will be, along with the feelings of curiosity and excitement, a little nagging of dread. It is the ancient fear of the Unknown, and it is your first bond with the wilderness you are going into.”

Thanks, Wendell Berry! Basically, what I'm getting at here is that, now that I'm finished with this past experience, a lot of options have presented themselves. Many of them would be easy, safe choices, and would allow me to return to the comfortable lifestyle I'm used to in the best state on the West Coast with the friends and family who have always been totally awesome and there for me and will continue to be/do so. OR, I could carry on with what's hard and challenging and continues day by day to shape me into a more self-reliant, confident individual. Whatever that might be.

I'll say again that my dad's heart situation, which began almost a year ago to the day, has put a lot of perspective on the decisions I make. It's easy to declare my intention to push forward and challenge myself and truly approach every situation with the goal of being as genuine as I can, but it's quite a bit more difficult to actually live that way.

So here's to the decisions we make that lead us down the paths of self discovery. And here's to giving everything we care about, or knew we once cared about, every effort to work out the way our once more optimistic selves intended. I'm here in the present moment and it's all stretching out before me, and I'll be damned if the Unknown isn't scaring and inspiring me in equal parts.

Bloggie Dearest

It's been a while, because my life sucks! Just kidding. My life rules - or, at least, today it's ruled. So far. I mean, I finally have stuff worth typing about, and I'm not just repeating what I already speak aloud ten times daily (for the uninitiated: "I hate Apple! Apple f***ing sucks! Why oh why did I work so hard in college to graduate into so meaningless and numbing an existence as matching rich people with the "best pair of headphones" and restocking Norton Antivirus software?"). While I'm still working retail three days a week - which equates to the longest 24 hours of my life four times monthly - I also managed to land an internship at Wikimedia! Yay! (Or, "I love Wikimedia! Wikimedia f***ing rules! Thank God oh thank God I worked so hard in college to graduate into so meaningful and stimulating an existence as _________________ [I haven't actually really done anything yet]".)

Maybe it's just that I woke up early. Or maybe the past three weeks' worth of flu-like symptoms (yes, I barfed! Several times!) have, in some placebo-like fashion, cleansed my system in much the same manner as a raw veggie fast might. Over raw veggies, I'll take barfing any old time. Regardless, this morning I woke up to Velvet Underground crooning on my fancy new iPod/alarm clock thing (present from Mom... I'm not about to spend my hard-earned money fueling the corporation that routinely brings me to my knees [in defeat, not over the toilet. Wrong knee-falling context.]).


A hot shower would surely have topped off what were unknowingly the first few minutes of a glorious day, but a certain roommate of mine was immersed in her normal 30-minute-shower-with-the-bathroom-door-locked-and-a-seeming-determined-disregard-for-responding-to-loud-knocks/protestations routine, which might be acceptable if said routine didn't always happen when two other people also need to use the bathroom, in which case at least leave the door unlocked so we can grab our toothbrushes, yeah? But so anyway I eventually stumbled from the house, re-parked my car (an activity that in itself would have guaranteed a disastrous, nihilistic day if I were headed to Apple), saw a rainbow, immediately got caught in a fierce hailstorm, walked a few blocks to the Castro, and ran spot into a certain shaved-headed individual who also happens to work at Apple and is the most charismatic human being I've had the pleasure of knowing (and before any of you get any ideas, he's 40... not that I'd let that stop me with this one). As is always the case around him, I immediately became awkward and sweaty and blundered my sentences by trying to articulate about ten different sentence options at a single time in what's always a severely misguided attempt to appear/act normal. He smiled, congratulated me on my "rainbow-internship-hailstorm that I just saw going to" (okay, so it wasn't that blundered, but still) and recommended what was, in his words, "the best coffee shop for the best cup of coffee you will ever drink- and just down the street!"

I mean, how could I say no (other than the fact that I was literally incapable of saying 'no')? Turns out he was right. The coffee was a dream and I can't wait to go back. At any rate, after this superb cup of coffee, I took the underground MUNI to New Montgomery Street - the underground subway system still excites me an irrational amount every time I use it: there's no traffic, it's underground (!), and I feel like I'm living in a city at least twenty times larger than San Francisco when I'm down there hurtling through the dark. New Montgomery Street is a magical confabulation of everything that's right about downtown San Francisco (also, it isn't even close to the Apple Store), with delicious sandwich shops and art students and huge brick buildings everywhere.


But so anyway the Wikimedia offices are perfect and beautiful and located on the sixth (and fourth) floor of this great, old, six-story brick confabulation. There are giant windows and wide open spaces filled with funky chairs and dry erase boards and I have my own desk with a computer and pens and a stapler (!) and everything. Oh, and the sweet-ass kitchen is stocked with all the pop and candy I could ask for (resupplied monthly!) and I can already feel my office ass expanding in, and filling out, my office chair. It's a perfect working boy's dream. My boss people are easily the two coolest people in the building (right after Miguel, the door guy, who I wisely made a good impression on day 1). I kind of just sit and listen to them talk, all the while drooling because what I'm overhearing is so effortlessly intelligent and funny.

Today I have: attended a creative brainstorming meeting with Jay (Boss 1) and an outside creative consultant regarding Wikimedia's outreach efforts for 2011 - highly kickass; walked through both floors of office space with Jay and an eager assistant, the two of us listening to his grand vision for how best to utilize the wall space with photos and banners that really communicate Wikimedia's mission - the whole situation was fucking hilarious, but I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who thought so; attended a lunchtime discussion hosted by an Egyptian Wikimedia staffer who's actually been in Cairo for the past three weeks; ran and picked up sandwiches; and closely read over Wikimedia's five-year plan, which I'm now apparently supposed to transfer into an online format. Further directions pending.

This whole time I've been sitting here considering how lucky I am NOT ONLY for this to have happened to me (and of course it never would have happened without the hook-up of a lifetime from my friend Deniz, who deserves a shout-out even if almost none of you know her) but also that I landed this particular internship under the tutelage of these particular two people (who, let's hope, don't turn into total duds now that I'm writing this), because if I'd landed anywhere else in these offices I'd guaranteed not be having as awesome a time as I already am. The whole thing's just super lucky.

Now all they need to do is pay me, because I'm already dreading work at the Big A-hole tomorrow...