The year began in Sacramento, on the 13th floor of the Hyatt, passing a bottle of champagne back and forth with my love of the last two years.  Then I was back in San Francisco and beginning a very long streak of 40-hour weeks.  I lived in the Castro with my sister and rode my bike down noisy, bumpy Market St. every morning.  I began listening to my iPod on the ride, which improved it but didn’t make it any less hectic.  I also started wearing a kerchief around my neck to protect my shirt collar from sweat. I’d smile and stride into work each morning, ready to conquer the world of internet marketing.  I packed lunch most every day and after sticking the cold items in the fridge, fired up my little laptop and got to work.  I took lunch alone most days, maybe sitting in the office looking out the window, or if the weather was good out in the sun on the steps at Montgomery and Market.  I got my haircut downstairs at “A Businessman’s Haircut”, and always tipped Benjamin $10.  I made money but saved little.  After work I rode home up the hill and often stopped at Golden Produce for some produce.  I cooked alone or sometimes with sis.  I tried to update my blog and keep up writing commitments to Bleacher Report and Barca Blaugranes.  I took guitar lessons but found little time to practice.  I went to bed early so I wasn’t tired the next day, and 10pm always came too soon.  I pushed through that little barrier that hovers over your bed each morning you have to go to work.
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Illness is your body’s way of slowing you down, and the slower you can get the better.  In the past 72 hours, I’ve learned that I’m TERRIBLE at being sick.  Here’s a little run-down:

Tuesday Morning: I first feel a little under the weather.  A big day was planned, and I decide to carry on with the plan of driving North out of the city for the day.  I feel a little better around midday, then worse again that night.

Wednesday Morning: I’m officially sick, and I’m immediately upset about it.  I know it’s thanks to an absurdly late night I indulged in over the weekend, and now I’m paying the price and feeling lousy.  But there’s much to be done, and I decide that if I’m not going to make it to my studio, I’ll sure as heck get some computer work done.  I sit at my desk in the cold and struggle through some photoshop and wordpress tasks.  I hit snags at ever turn, forced to contact tech support and chat with numerous representatives supposedly named “Mike”.  I miss out on a chance to hang out with a friend.

Wednesday afternoon: I take a short nap but don’t feel well enough to make it to a reunion dinner, so I’m forced to pull out.  I put myself to bed at 9pm sharp, determined to sleep this damn thing off.  I toss and turn for more than an hour, thinking about how I wish I wasn’t sick, and of all the things I have to do tomorrow and how I absolutely need to feel better and how this sleep just has to come.  It doesn’t, and finally I have to get up and use the bathroom, and I’m aggravated to see it’s well past ten when I get back in bed.  I read for a little while.  I TRY to relax.  Finally, I fall asleep.

Thursday morning: I feel a little better but I’m not “better”.  I get up early anyway, and push myself down to my studio to get some things done.  I don’t get much done.  I can’t focus and I can’t make decisions.  I start a project and it doesn’t quite come out right and I leave it.  Then I realize It’s not a project I want to do, and, tired, I go home.
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Fantasy sports can get pretty serious.  Depending on how much energy you decide to invest in your particular league, making the playoffs, missing the playoffs, or losing your best player to a season-ending injury can have very real emotional consequences.  Football has been on my mind a lot this year.  Perhaps it has something to do with the Buffalo Bills’ hot start, or maybe it’s that the NFL is just downright more exciting this year than ever before. Whatever the reason, Fantasy football, as a result, has also been particularly compelling.

I play in a league with high school friends.  We’ve been going at it on the virtual gridiron since the early 2000’s, and although a small cash prize is awarded to the winner, it’s pride and bragging rights that really make this league tick.  There’s trash-talking, early-morning waiver pick-ups, and a good dose of playful animosity.  This season, as the playoffs approach, I’d like to put my friend on blast for his under-handed and cowardly conduct that will likely cost me a spot in the playoffs and a shot at the title.
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During my year abroad in Barcelona, I frequented a nightclub called “Nick Havana”. And I do mean frequented. A friend was a promoter for the club, and since it was located a short 10-minute walk from our apartment, we found ourselves there at least once a week. I had some good times, some so-so times, and quite a few awkward moments. One particular night, however, I experienced a moment so awkward it will no doubt go down as one of the most embarrassing moments of my life.

I’m not sure how, but I found myself at the bar ordering a drink. It was early still, and the club was relatively empty. Nobody was really dancing yet, just a few folks clustered around the bars and standing near the walls, chatting and looking cool. Two Spanish girls came up to the bar to my right, and miraculously, they started talking to me. I don’t remember what started the conversation, or what we talked about. I just remember feeling really excited to actually be speaking with girls, and Spanish girls at that.

So I had my drink and they had theirs and I turned slightly to face them and I said something awful like “la música está bien, no?” (the music is good). They smiled and nodded.
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