Aug 20 2014
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San Francisco

Hey You. Yeah, You. I Smell Your Sandwich.

imageSo it looks like we both got on the same MUNI stop – 4th and King, near AT&T Park in San Francisco. I don’t know about you, but I was just leeching off of Panera’s free wi-fi for a couple hours and enjoying the sunlight in SoMa before heading back into the fog that’s now spilling over Twin Peaks like a fleece blanket made of water droplets from hell.

It also appears that you sat directly behind me and that you brought a little snacky-poo. Because here’s what you don’t know: I’m starving right now and as a result, I have olfactory abilities that rival most predatory animals. In this moment, cheetah snouts ain’t got nothing on this nose. I can’t see you but I can smell you. I can smell you and that mesquite turkey sandwich on ciabatta bread and local provolone cheese with house-made chipotle aioli, crunchy romaine lettuce and thinly sliced red onion to boot. No tomatoes.

I can smell it all. I can smell that you’re wearing the hoodie your startup gave you, the human version of cattle branding, and I can smell your straight cut dark jeans, your thick-rimmed glasses and your sneakers – the popular kind. I smell your haircut, your five o’clock shadow, and the guilt you have for not keeping in better touch with your college roommates.

I smell your insecurity, your fear of failure, and your desire to be accepted. I smell the nervousness that you feel when you enter a room full of people who expect something from you and the fact you hit your snooze button twice this morning and that earlier this week, you cracked the screen of your iPhone when you dropped it on the sidewalk in front of Philz coffee.

I smell your doubt and the creeping sensation that you’re somehow missing the point of it all and the embarrassment you felt earlier today when you thought a cute girl was checking you out but it turned out she was just looking to see if the bus was coming. It wasn’t coming, but that didn’t matter because it wasn’t your bus. I know that because I can smell the numbers of the buses you usually ride wafting off your breath as you exhale the sweet scent of fresh bread and chipotle mayo, because that’s all aioli is. It’s mayonnaise.

And I can smell that you know that. You know that aioli is just mayo. You learned about aioli shortly after you moved here from Wisconsin, and shortly after that you learned the two condiments are essentially one in the same but you still say aioli whenever you can because you want to believe that you’re different now, and that despite the fact you might be missing the point of it all and despite the fact that girl didn’t even see you or your fancy haircut, despite all of it you want to believe that you’ve made something more of yourself.

So it’s aioli, not mayo, because this is San Francisco and this is the MUNI and this is your evening meal on your commute home.

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Aug 19 2014
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Wassup USA?

23 Things That Are Easy to Forget About When You’re Just Living Life in San Francisco

This is not normal.

This is not normal.

1. Weather.

2. Styrofoam.

3. Bugs, specifically mosquitoes and lightening bugs.

4. Free parking.

5. Warm summer nights when you can sit outside in a short-sleeved shirt and enjoy an ice cold beer.

6. Industries besides the tech industry.

7. Conservatives.

8. Free plastic bags at Target.

9. Unkempt facial hair.

10. The midwest.

11. Bad food.

12. Rainfall.

13. Bricks.

14. Restaurants without a vegetarian option.

15. Shirt collars.

16. Humidity.

17. The freedom and responsibility to judge others for all personal choices without any guilt.

18. Sandals. It’s always too cold for my poor little toesies.

19. Seasons.

20. Common sense.

21. The morals you grew up with.

22. Rent under $1,000 a month for a room in a crappy apartment in a less-than-ideal area of town.

23. Adulthood.

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Aug 19 2014
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Wassup USA?

I’m Back in San Francisco. Guess I Better Find My Jacket.

Found it!

Found it!

50 days and 6,000 miles (ish) later, I’m back in San Francisco and wearing a sweatshirt. I’m not going to try to do one of those here’s-all-the-crap-I-learned-while-I-was-traveling blog posts so don’t get your hopes up. That’ll come later this week.

While I was on the plane from Denver, stuck in a special non-reclining torture chair, I kept on thinking about what it would be like to touch down in this city and reenter life as I left it, but with some profound differences. In all my imaginings, I saw a beautiful sunset, delicious frozen yogurt and a clear night sky.

I get into town and of course (duh duh duh duh duh) it’s foggy as all hell, I get Indian food instead of froyo because I’m craving hot food after a day of exclusively eating Cliff Bars, and I remember I don’t have a towel so I’ll have to air dry tomorrow morning before I can go to Target to get one. Yippee.

On the bright side (and there is a very bright side), I don’t have to go into a job I don’t care about, I have Indian leftovers for lunch, and I get to wear an outfit that I haven’t already worn 30 times this summer. Yes, there is much to be thankful for, even in the fog.

So goodbye, brick houses and warm summer nights. Goodbye styrofoam and mosquitoes. Goodbye short sleeve shirts and sandals. Hello San Francisco.

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Aug 17 2014
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Wassup USA?

A Night Drive in Late August

After everyone else has gone to sleep, when the house is quiet, the dishes are washed and all I can hear is the kitchen clock ticking and the ceiling fan, this is the time for the night drive. Instead of turning out the last light and brushing the teeth for bed, I put on my flip flops and grab the keys.

A night drive must not be taken too early in the evening. It should be no earlier than 10:30 and no later than sunrise. If it goes later than sunrise, it is no longer a night drive, is it? Night drives are best on clear nights. Something about being able to see the stars makes the road seem more free. There’s more space for the night soul to roam.

I pull out of the driveway and hear the garage door creak shut. I roll down the windows and turn off the radio. On night drives, I prefer only the sound of the crickets and the cicadas and the frogs from the forest and the wind rustling through the leaves. Sometimes I like to sing to myself too, but nature sounds more beautiful.

I pass through the nearly empty streets of my quiet suburban town, my old high school, the Wal-Mart I used to frequent, the soccer fields I played on. I leave the city’s center and am now on purely residential roads, the country byways between spacious housing developments. Trees line the road and my car goes up and down over the gentle hills, rolling past Chisolm creek and over the railroad tracks. Outside the sky looks purple and the air is perfect as it comes through the windows. It’s cool and smells like trees and soil.

I roll up to a stop sign and stop there for a good while. There’s no one else around. There’s no rush. I sit in perfect silence and listen to the outside. It’s an entire world. I want to get out and leave the car on the side of the road and lay down and watch the stars circle around overhead and listen to the forest soundtrack forever. I don’t think anything has sounded quite as beautiful as this. It’s a little heartbreaking.

But I stay in the car and drive a little longer, singing an Eagles song, going up and down on the road that moves on the hills and in between the trees on a night drive in late August.

“Take it to the limit, take it to the limit, one more time.” 

 

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Aug 16 2014
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Wassup USA?

Pancakes Are the Stuff of Heaven.

imageI saw a vision of paradise at a Guatemalan restaurant in Oklahoma City called Cafe Kacao. It was in the form of the most delicious pancakes I think I’ve ever tasted, and I’ve tasted a lot of pancakes. In fact, I had 98 from 2013-2014 alone.

Let me describe these pancakes for you, so you too can see the vision of paradise as I saw it. Like the Apostle John, I will relate to you my experience of the otherworldly and the choice is yours to believe, or not.

“On an indistinct stretch of North May Avenue in Oklahoma City I saw a vision of paradise. It was late August and the LORD led me to Cafe Kacao with my family after going to Body Pump at Gold’s Gym.

It was there that God revealed Godself to me when lo and behold, the crowds of people parted and thereupon appeared two cakes of a most miraculous sort, smothered in a light creamy sauce and drizzled with a blackberry reduction, the two sauces mixing together in a way so sublime I knew it was a sign from above. The fresh berries piled on top of the cakes was also a sign from heaven – strawberries and blackberries so plump and so awash in flavor in the land of blackberry reduction that I almost prayed for the LORD to levitate me to heaven right then and there.

But my work on earth was not yet done. Seeing the cakes before me, I knew I was meant to eat them and thus taste the bread of heaven yet while I lived. Eat them I did. My first bite revealed more wonders and knowledge to me than my 25 years here on earth. Has there ever been a pancake so crispy but so tender, so giving in flavor, so receptive to the tongue?

In that very instant I saw everything clearly. I was to be like this pancake, firm but yielding, flavorful but able to work with the flavors of other people, tender, warm and loving. In short, I was to be perfect as this pancake of heaven was also perfect. I at once felt a sense of peace descend upon me as I heard a voice say, ‘This is my pancake, with which I am well pleased. Now go forth in the full knowledge of the pancake and spread the word among the lost.’

I awoke with a stain on my shirt and a faint memory of something all hazy and golden. This blog post had been written in its entirety, and I’ve remained faithful to the original text. Please blame any typos on my vision-seeing dream self.

Also, eat these pancakes.

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