Gabriel Roberts

Truth is Beauty

Page 29 of 31

3 Lessons in 24 Hours

January 27, 2011 / / 2 Comments
1. Take your damn time
2. Chill the hell out
3. Don’t ever say “fuck you”, even under your breath.
Lesson 1: Take your damn time
Tuesday I was to meet up with Moms at the Apple store where she’d taken her computer for repair.  An important call came in at work right as I’d planned to leave, so instead of leaving at 12:30, I didn’t get out until 12:48.  I snapped on my bike gear and took off post-haste down Market.  I was hungry, hurried, and wired from a morning of officing, and as I passed intersection after intersection without seeing the big silver box that is the Mac store, I started to wonder if I’d passed it.  This made me angry, “how the hell could I have passed it?” – I’d been looking dutifully to the right as I crossed each street.  I picked up the pace even more, determined to get there faster, the realization that I had passed the store slowly sinking in.  My denial finally reached an end when I reached Van Ness.  Somehow this totally set me off.  I felt like screaming, I cursed a bit, and turned my bike around abruptly and began rocking down the bumpy street in the other direction, now checking each intersection on my left.  It was an absolutely beautiful day, but I was determined not to let this raise my spirits.  I was still in denial, and sarcastically said “oh it probably just disappeared completely”.  Finally I reached it – just about 2 blocks from my building, sitting on the corner very solidly – apparently it had been sitting there the whole time.  I parked and collected myself and went indoors to find Mom serenely sitting on a stool, writing in a little notebook, waiting for the blue-shirted mac doctors to return with a verdict on her laptop.
Could’ve enjoyed the ride, would’ve gone straight there if I hadn’t been in such a hurry.  Take your damn time.
Market St. in the morning
Lesson 2: Chill the hell out
Biking to work yesterday, I approached the third street intersection, the lights shining green in the distance.  I wasn’t sure if I’d make it, but as I got closer the light stayed green so I accelerated to try to catch it and it turned yellow just as I approached.  Instead of slowing to a halt I pedalled even harder and blazed through the yellow light.  Now, although this is common practice in a car, on a bike it’s a bit different – even if you get into the intersection before the light turns red, it takes about twice as long to get through it, and as pedestrians prepare to cross on the other side, you’re screaming at them full speed but making almost no noise.  A young woman, eager to get to the north side of Market street, took a great big stride out into the intersection just as the little white man flashed on.  She didn’t see me coming, and I swerved, BAREly missing her.  
Would have been awful.  Saved me about one minute’s time.  Chill the hell out.
Market St. in the afternoon
Lesson 3: Don’t say “fuck you” to people, even under your breath
Yesterday morning my Mom and I sat at the breakfast table and tapped away at our computers, when my Mom looked up and said “I wonder if I have to move my car”.  Wednesday is always street cleaning somewhere in this neighborhood, and after a moment’s debate, she got up – knowing it wasn’t worth the $55 ticket to sit and wonder which side of the street those little buggers will be patrolling today.  As she made to leave she said “and what about Lucy’s car!”, which was parked right out front, and at 7:56, we realized was just minutes away from yet another ticket.  So we scrambled together, me slipping on shoes and grabbing keys and feeling a bit upset that my morning was interrupted by this task, and out the door and down the stairs we went.  Lucy’s Honda was very much alone on this side of the street, and we hopped in, me driving Moms up to where Maxi was parked.  I let her off at 21st and diamond, and prepared to turn around through 21st street, but found my way blocked by a van coming down 21st and looking to turn left on Diamond.  So I pulled over awkwardly as suddenly numerous cars came streaming up and down Diamond – everybody madly scrambling to get out of the way of the traffic cops.  Finally, the traffic cleared and the van turned, and looking over my left shoulder for oncoming traffic, I looped up and around right behind him.  Some gentleman decided to cross 21st street just then, and I didn’t see him at all – my sharp turn cut right in front of his path, and as he walked on I sheepishly realized I was very lucky not to have hit the guy.  He didn’t say anything, but as I prepared to make my left onto Diamond and drive back downhill, I saw he’d stopped in the middle of the street and was staring at me.  This bothered me – ‘what the hell are you looking at, buddy?’ I thought to myself, and as the traffic finally cleared I stared right back at him, saying softly ‘oh you’ve decided I need a talking to, have you?’.  As I made my turn our eyes met and he flipped me a really aggressive bird and mouthed “Fuck you”.  I stared right back at him, said “fuck you!” under my breath, and drove off.  I was pissed, just really freaking pissed at this asshole as I drove down the hill.  God what the hell kind of a way to start off my morning.  I looped down past the apartment and back up Diamond looking for a spot, and I immediately regretted the way I’d handled the situation.  Obviously, I’d given the guy quite a scare, and his strangely aggressive response had elicited the same from me – I appeared some punk kid with no consideration for pedestrians.  I ought to have winced at him, raised my hand in apology, and mouthed “sorry”.  Better yet, I could have dropped the window as I drove by, and given him a chance to speak his mind.  I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t have tried to kill me or anything – and maybe had I told him how sorry I was, he would’ve gotten his beef off of his chest, I would’ve gotten my appropriate punishment, and we both would’ve moved onwards in much happier states of mind.
But the worst two words to say to somebody are “fuck you”.

Claude Monet was French

January 21, 2011 / / 1 Comment

Today I stumbled upon an article about a Monet exhibition in Paris that has been extended to 24 hours/day thanks to long lines and massive demand.  Apparently 7,000 people visit the show every day.  The article’s featured photo knocked my socks off – a lovely lesser-known Monet painting with plenty of personal significance.

Finishing my art degree at UC Davis, I enrolled in an art history course on the impressionist movement, and throughout the first months of 2009 I studied the lovely paintings of Monet, Manet, and Pissarro.  To prepare for exams, I created stacks of flash cards – an image of the painting affixed to the front, and on the back, important details like the artist name and date.  The trick was choosing which paintings to make into flashcards.  Memorizing every single painting in the textbook, or even those mentioned in lecture, would be daunting (one professor, Jeffrey Ruda, actually imposed this ridiculous requirement), and I considered myself very skilled at predicting which paintings may appear on the exam.  With dozens to choose from, and only 5 to 10 on each test, it was logical that our esteemed professor Catherine Anderson would select only the most important pieces.  On the day of our second mid-term exam (worth about 20% of the total grade), I came prepared to identify a good 30 paintings – confident my stack of flashcards included all the slides we were about to see.  I was right on, and I cruised through the test, quickly identifying each painting as it appeared.  Then, near the end of the exam – disaster.  This painting appeared – a Monet piece I’d failed to include in my flashcards.

I didn’t know the title.  I guessed the date within a few years but I didn’t know the darn title – an easy 2 points out the window. I glanced at the desk of the girl to my right, who had set to writing her analysis of the work – and the name she’d written seemed to jump off of her booklet and into my mind: “Claude Monet  – A Day by the Bay”.  Without thinking twice, I wrote this down and proceeded with my mini-essay about the work.  I never thought about the title again, I finished what turned out to be a stellar analysis, the test ended, I handed in my booklet, hopped on my bike and pedaled for home.

On my way through campus I ran into Gab, and she asked how the test had gone.

“Really well” I responded “except for one slide…”  And I explained the situation, and how I’d grabbed the ID from my classmate.  Gab looked at me kind of seriously, and said something like “can’t you get kicked out of school for that?”, and the true nature of what I’d just done started to sink in.  We said goodbye as she proceeded to class, and I biked home, slowly developing an awful feeling in the pit of my stomach.  By the time I reached the Viking I realized a few things:

a. Since Monet was french, the title of the piece probably wasn’t “A Day by the Bay”
b. The girl on my right was just as clueless as I
c. Our tests would be the only two that incorrectly identified that painting as “A Day by the Bay”
d. The shit would hit the fan

I got inside and laid down on the couch, feeling pretty sick now.  I opened my computer and pulled up the class site and Monet’s pretty little painting read “Terrasse a Sainte-Adresse” and I wanted to throw up.  I imagined every step of the process – professor Anderson grading the tests, marking my ID as wrong, coming upon the girl’s test a few minutes later, reading “A Day By The Bay” again and thinking “hmm.. that looks familiar”, going back to my test, turning to that page and saying “aha!”.  Then me being called in to her office, confronted by the other girl, getting kicked out of UC Davis… and I couldn’t bear it.  I wrote an email to Professor Anderson right then and there.  I laid it all out – what happened, how sorry I was, how I wasn’t in the habit of this sort of thing, (but that I knew there was no way to prove it).  I appealed to her mercy and hoped for the best.

She didn’t get back to me for a couple of long days, but finally she responded and set up a post-class meeting, where she thanked me for my note and told me her decision was to simply mark that part of the question wrong.  She said that from my writing it was clear that I wasn’t casting about for answers.  I was elated.  I was so freaking grateful I painted her a painting.

Despite the lack of consequences, I like to think that I learned something.  Mostly that cheating is never worth it.  I would’ve still gotten an A had I simply left the name blank (Or come up with my own original name like ‘a day by the bay’).  I also learned that I’m not very smooth, and probably never will be.

Anyhow, 2 years later, that little Monet pops up in my Twitter feed, and a really rich memory comes back to me.  I hope the midnight museum-goers are enjoying it in Paris, and I hope Catherine Anderson is enjoying her tulips.

Coping with Coughing

January 13, 2011 / / 0 Comments
Last night I woke up coughing.  The type of coughs that lift you up off of the bed so that you can lean forward and really cough it out.  Then you lay down and take a few breaths and hope that it goes away, but a few seconds later you’re up off your back hacking away again.  This can go on as long as you’d like, but eventually you have to get up and address the issue.  I chose cough drops and a glass of cold water – a fast fix that I hoped would work.  I padded bare-legged down the cold dark hallway and grumpily grabbed the whole bag of cough drops from the kitchen, filled my mug, and returned to bed.  I propped myself up a bit and began sucking ferociously on the cough drop, popping forward now and again with little fits of coughs, then laying back down and pulling the blanket up to my chin.  I was generally pissed off – mad at the freezing cold SF weather, mad that I was sick for the second time in as many months, and mad mostly that I was losing an hour of valuable sleep.  Gradually, as the cough syrup dripped down my throat and accompanying stream of mucus started to slow, the coughs subsided and I drifted back to sleep.


If this happens again, here’s what I’ll do:  I’ll get up right away, and pretend that I’m doing so for fun.  I’ll take the time to put on socks and sweats and slippers, grab my book, and head to the kitchen.  I’ll turn on the little light over the table and maybe even the heater, fill the kettle and set it to boil.  I’ll sit down and start to read as the water heats.  As the water nears boiling, I’ll grab my favorite mug and fill it with a spoonful of honey and a little slice of Meyer lemon.  I’ll stand over the stove with my hand on the gas knob and watch the steam rising from the kettle.  As it lets out it’s first whistle I’ll shut it off and pour the water into my mug and return to the table and my book.  I’ll get through another chapter or two, mug held to my grill, steam rising warmly into my nose and mouth, and sip my coughs away.  Warmed, relaxed, and content, I’ll shut my book, put the mug in the sink, and go back to bed. At least that’s the plan.

Wine, limo rides, and a very frustrating sign

January 10, 2011 / / 4 Comments
A few weeks ago I went wine tasting in Amador county.  I went in a limo with mostly people I didn’t know but a few that I did.  Gab and I were the youngest, and I was impressed with the efficiency and professionalism with which our older companions constructed a day of debauchery.  Before leaving there were mimosas being gulped, a hearty breakfast being finished, and a batch of cocktails being poured.  We got out the door well before noon, stowed a full-sized cooler full of alcohol in the trunk, and popped a bottle of champagne as soon as the limo got rolling.
It turns out that Amador county is gorgeous, despite the rather unsightly beginning of the trip from Sacramento on Jackson highway.  It was a winter day but the temperature gradually rose and the ground began to pick up into lovely rolling hills, and the clouds parted and let in the crispy December sunlight.  We turned the music up and held our bubbly and looked out at the spectacular clouds and hills.  We stopped just before reaching our first winery and picked up sandwiches – pre-ordered from a pre-selected deli (again, older people know how to roll), and getting out we all felt a little tipsy and quite content and the sunlight felt so good on our skin.  After paying for our sandwiches I ambled back to the bathroom, savoring, as I often do, an empty establishment and a capacious bathroom.  Sort of like stretching out in your hotel room, I find exploring a new building in a leisurely fashion, then relieving myself without the slightest hurry or discomfort very pleasing.  I looked at the pictures on the wall and at myself in the mirror, washing my hands in warm water, then striding rather quickly out as I realized everybody was probably waiting for me.  
Our driver was great.  His name was Steve and he wore secret agent-like sunglasses, a short crew-cut, and a dark suit.  Steve looked like he’d been through a thing or two in life, and was very happy to be leading the simple, sober life (at least while on the job) of limo driver.  He took his job seriously, and stood just off to the side of our party as we sat down at the first winery – outside on a patio overlooking rows of gnarled, leafless vines.  Steve busied himself with some sort of wine magazine, but was obviously not reading a word on the page, as he kept glancing up and around and smiling at everybody.  The first tasting was very pleasant – lots of whites and zins and pinos, and I swirled around and sniffed and swished and liked most every single wine, and especially the salami and crostini snacks in the center of the table.  It was so beautiful outside we didn’t really want to leave.  Gab and I moseyed out to the gravel road and into the bright sun, snapping some photos and noticing all four cars parked in a row were Volkswagen.  We were all feeling thoroughly tipsy at this point, but the fatigue of the day had yet to set in, and so we laughed and soaked up the sun and posed for pictures on an old, rusty, but very picturesque truck.  Steve took the role as photographer very seriously, darting back and forth exchanging cameras with the girls.
Our second stop was at Bray Vineyards.  We tasted wine inside at the bar, and the place had a casual, comfortable vibe which was perfect for our party to really ramp up the party.  There were barrels full of buttons, and wines named “Brayzen Hussy”.  Our previous pourer was some rosy-cheeked and fast-talking attorney; here we were served by t-shirt wearing folks – one older fellow, one younger fellow, and a pregnant lady.  Gab and I found a slot near the end of the bar and were served by the younger fellow Eric – a tall and good-natured chap with a penchant for sarcasm.  Although he served us wine, he was far from obsequious, and we began to develop a bit of a banter.  I examined the sign hanging on the wall behind him – a yellow roadsign depicting a farmer popping a wheely on his tractor and guzzling a bottle of wine.  The sign read “farm responsibly”.
I soon became bothered by the contradictory nature of the sign, and pointed this out to Eric:
“That sign doesn’t really make sense.  If the message is to farm responsibly, shouldn’t there be a big ‘X’ over the farmer?”
Eric turned and looked at the sign, then back to me: “I think you’re putting a little too much thought into this”.
Our audience (2 people) laughed, but I went on: 
“I’m not really – the sign is a complete contradiction – I mean if the message really is to ‘farm responsibly’, the sign should show somebody farming responsibly.  If it shows somebody not farming responsibly, there should be a big “X” over it – like a ‘no smoking’ sign.”
Eric insisted that “it was just a sign”, and that I was really giving this too much thought, and the ensuing conversation focused on the fact that I was wearing a sport coat, and how when I’d first introduced myself that morning, people wondered just who exactly I thought I was.  My taking issue with a simple, funny, sign was obviously further proof that I took myself too seriously.
To make matters worse, in an attempt to explain why the drawing clearly depicted an irresponsible piece of farming, I mimicked the farmer rearing backwards on his tractor and swigging a bottle of wine, and I smacked my glass of wine right over onto the counter, spilling the contents.  This was quite funny, and Eric was quite kind to clean it up, but I’m pretty sure he got in a jab about my responsibility (I felt much better a few seconds later when somebody in our party toppled an entire row of wine bottles, smashing a few glasses in the process).
Eventually I gave up the argument – obviously I wasn’t about to convince Bray vineyards to change their sign, and I went back to my wine (which was excellent), and the conversation drifted elsewhere and I ended up buying 2 bottles and then we all sat down to lunch in the sun.
We stopped at one more winery, people got a little bit more drunk, conversations heated up, and eventually we all returned to reality and Sacramento in our long white limousine.
But I never forgot that sign and its frustrating contradiction.  And my question to you my dear readers, is this: was I really putting too much thought into that little sign?  Is it too much to ask that printed, posted, and sold items such as this sign – unofficial as they may be – adhere to some principles of grammatical and visual integrity?  Am I so off-base to call attention to such inconsistency?  AM I THE ONLY PERSON THAT THINKS THAT SIGN IS A SLAP IN THE FACE TO THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE, THE HUMAN MIND, AND CRITICAL THOUGHT?

In defense of noses

January 6, 2011 / / 0 Comments
Ever seen somebody scratch their nose?  Was it calm, casual, or mild?  Or was it vigorous, aggressive, and perhaps even violent?  I’ve seen many of the latter, particularly when the scratcher doesn’t know he or she is being watched.  Perhaps the nose’s soft, pliable character lends itself to more manhandling, and perhaps the itch that afflicts one’s nose is more potent than others, but I’ve seen some scratching that makes me cringe.
First off, at least two fingers are used in conjunction, sometimes even the entire palm.  Secondly, instead of a particular point being targeted and scratched, the entire nose is mashed and moved, often in a circular motion, in a desperate attempt to alleviate the itch.  The word frantic comes to mind – as if the itch were a life-threatening condition that must be emphatically eradicated.  Vigorous rotations of the snout are accompanied by sharp inhales and exhales.  The entire upper body tenses, eyes close, and the pace of the attack picks up to a frightening crescendo.  Finally, presumably as the itch subsides, the rotations slow, the shoulders relax, the eyes open, and the scratcher exhales gratefully.
I feel poorly for little noses around the world that fall victim to these attacks – and I can’t say I’m innocent – but maybe we can all go a little easier on our noses.  Just use one finger, get to the source of the itch, and scratch with precision.  Your nose will no doubt be happier.

2010 Review Part II

December 31, 2010 / / 0 Comments
Part One of the review looked at the moments of 2010 that brought me to where I am, now to examine the position I find myself in looking ahead to 2011.
I’m healthy – despite some dings over the past year, I feel quite good now – I’m well fed, rested, and in overall good condition.  I have a group of friends and family that support me with love and companionship.  I have a job that affords a rich lifestyle in San Francisco, that encourages my creativity and appreciates my thoughts, and continues to teach me.
I have an outlook of optimism that allows me to enjoy (most) every moment of my day.  
I live in San Francisco, the greatest city in the greatest state in the greatest country in the world, where I am surrounded by forward-thinking, educated, and heartfelt people.  
I am open to new experiences and ways of being, so I won’t be caught off guard by big changes; I’ll be ready to ride whatever waves come my way.  
I have a clear picture of where I’m headed, and things I can do every day to move me in that direction.
I have grand aspirations and a belief that anything is possible.
Where you at?

2010 Review Part I

December 24, 2010 / / 1 Comment
The year is almost over, and it’s time to have a look at what just happened.  I’m grateful for the moments that made up this year and for the place of power to which it has brought me.  To begin, some memories:
New Year’s Eve in Tahoe with Gab – snow, boots, a moonlight meditation at midnight.  A final bit of time with pops in the Carmichael home, a couple more paintings put together, then an interview with vFlyer in downtown San Francisco, and a rapid acceleration of my life.  A new apartment by the beach with three gentlemen who came together to create a little brotherhood.  Learning the city from the locals, group dinners and games of Scrabble.  Endless kitchen collaborations, redefining the salad with homemade dressing, learning to love mushrooms.  Meeting a new crew of bros, playing soccer.  Starting work, wearing a tie Monday through Thursday, showing up early for the first few weeks, my new colleagues.  Learning about the spam folder in my Gmail account, learning how to use vFyer.com, talking to my first user on the phone and giving them assistance.  Learning what a blog really was.  Following Chris Brogan, reading his posts for a week, then unfollowing him.  Working downtown, riding the N-Judah every morning and every night, getting up early, sprinting to catch the train, packing my lunch and my life revolving around food.  Living with Lucy for a month, cooking great meals and hanging out in the kitchen.  Spraining my ankle, recovering, hurting my knee playing mojo kickball, getting treated at Lucy’s clinic, recovering.  Riding William’s bike to work for the first time, finding my bike on Craigslist, missing the boat, but finding the same bike on Craigslist a few days later and getting it.  Riding my new bike, crashing on Market street, being rescued by Mom, x-rayed, fitted with a brace, returning with a sprained wrist, recovering.  Saturday morning support work on my computer at Java beach – ordering a blueberry muffin and a small coffee every time.  Hosting parties at our apartment, playing beer pong with the boys, getting TV, getting internet, ordering clothes from lands’ end.  Perfecting my Chinese accent.  Visiting Gabrielle and her visiting me.  Walks on the beach, watching dogs, sunsets on the beach with growlers from the chalet, walking the five blocks down to the water and the five blocks back up.  Doing laundry around the corner, buying tomatoes and oranges from arm and a leg.  Hosting people through Air B&B in our teeny tiny little room.  Making videos for vFlyer, learning to do my job well, getting excited about the internet and blogging more, becoming a “social media guru” and getting more than 500 followers.  Being commissioned to make paintings, dealing with matters of the heart.  Living near Lucy, visiting her in the Haight, watching the season finale of the Bachelor, watching the season finale of the Bachelorette.  Dancing at Maye’s on Polk Street, late night guitar-playing and freestyling in the living room, waking up early on Saturday mornings and walking the still crisp streets of the outer sunset.  World cup fever and games on ESPN 3, rooting for Spain and Holland, watching the Netherlands at 4:30am in a crowded bar, rocking my orange vest for Holland, watching the final with the soccer team and being the only one truly happy for Spain.  A roadtrip with my girl, arriving just in time to see Ross and Renee be wed, a taste of what friends’ weddings will be like, staying in a hotel and feeling like a big shot.  Moving offices, celebrating my birthday in the inner sunset with pizza and drinks and silliness.  Watching the playoffs and rooting against the Lakers.  Playing soccer again, spraining both of my ankles in one game, recovering, doing less.  Getting lost in the city.  Always finding parking, learning how to curb my wheels and get right up on the curb.  Discovering new neighborhoods, imagining moving out with Lucy and then making it happen.  An epic 2 person move – a massive Uhaul, perfect parking, getting honked at, sweating and aching from lifting and carrying, the first night in the new place with a mattress on the floor, getting set up and living in the Castro.  Jumping on the Giants bandwagon, going to a ballgame, watching them win it all at Civic center, seeing lifelong fans rejoice.  Jack Johnson’s new album, Ray Lamontagne at the Greek, Jackie Greene at Hardly Strictly, slow-dancing to Norah Jones.  Living with Mom, reconnecting with my brother and planning big things, organizing my photos.  Cramming for the election, voting.  Getting sick and rediscovering movies.  Reading another Hemmingway book.  cooking and hosting my first Thanksgiving dinner.  Taking guitar lessons, signing up for night school, living life, seeing people all around me ready for a perfect world.

From The Sunset to Downtown San Francisco – a Morning Ride

December 14, 2010 / / 0 Comments
My ride used to look like this:


View Larger Map

It went like this:
My ride begins to the shuddering growl of the garage door opening and the cool air of the sunset.  I strap on the helmet, slide my sleek sunglasses over my face, hook my cinched down pannier onto the rack, swing my leg over the bike and press the button to close the door behind me.  It’s chilly to begin, and I climb slowly up Irving, the rising sun shining brightly in my face.


Going down 41st avenue into the park the air gets suddenly cooler – much cooler.  It’s sort of a lovely little dip, feeling the cool air and knowing that in a mile or so you’ll come out into the warm air again. I cut left towards the polo fields and in a low gear I climb the long hill, standing up in my pedals and feeling good to be using my legs and moving about early in the morning. Past the polo field, often home to a few joggers, and on to the lawn speedway where I’m almost always alone and moving fast while the ground is flat. Then there’s the deceptively steep incline that just keeps going as you reach JFK and, finally, the waterfall on the left.  Here it gets much warmer, and now my body is totally awake and warm and pumping blood fast. I often stop to take off the jacket, and if I’m not wearing it, I’m usually grateful right about here.  

The road flattens and the cars and maybe other bikers join me as I pass the DeYoung museum and filter down to Fell street. There’s a beautiful old 5-series BMW that’s always parked on the side of the road next to the museum and it looks very well cared for and shiny. Upwards past the strange, coppery DeYoung tower the warmth really hits you – just as suddenly as it had left.  I cross Stanyan, then accelerate into my highest gear and the crazy busy panhandle, weaving through joggers and passing dog-walkers, eyeing the Masonic signal and pushing it to catch the light, then warily skate through – down, across, then up the other side.  Out of the panhandle, turning right I push it to catch the signal and make a left on Oak, or miss it, and pull up short in the right-hand side of the left lane, straddling my bike and pulling out the water for a quick sip, other bikers pulling up beside and around me.  Then jetting down Oak, preferably in a pack, alternately passing slowed cars on the right, or pumping to keep up behind traffic.  Easing left a bit, raising the left hand to signal, making a sharp right on Scott, careful to avoid the manhole cover.  Then left on Page, sometimes a scary turn in and of itself, and up the gradual slope towards downtown, passing long queues of cars on long down slopes, riding the brakes, barreling the wrong way down the usually empty left lane, glad not to be in a car or one of the slow creaking buses that makes a hair-raising, jerky right-hand turn onto Page.  Then up to Gough, slowing slightly and usually cutting across through the red light if traffic is light.  Past a lovely brick building for sale and POP (pilates on page), some bums on the wide right-hand sidewalk, and up to Market.  Wait for the peds to start crossing, work your way out into the funny tweener intersection, then finally straight across Market, sharply cutting the muni tracks and bending left to come up to Van Ness.  Usually stop here, things are really popping now.  The funny cut-off and isolated All-Star cafe is open to the left, the big ugly Bank of America / Muni Customer Service building is across the way, and the Market Street grind has begun in earnest.  From there it’s a series of hectic streets, waiting at stoplights and watching the bold on fixies lead the way into intersections.  

Through the Tenderloin you don’t want to stop and you ignore the shouts and yells of poor, crazy, drunken urchins, and you don’t envy the police officers starting their morning rounds and you smell the pungent savory greasy meat from the Donut World restaurant on the right.  Sometimes cabs will cut sharply in front of cyclists and in a pack, commuter cyclists put up a fight.  I’ve seen cab windows hit hard, obscenities exchanged, shouts of “door!” and even older cyclists admonishing younger cyclists for entering the intersection early.  In one such exchange the seasoned pro called out the young hotshot who had to take out one of his earbuds to hear the reprimand “wait for the light!  Most accidents occur from entering the intersection early, you know”, to which the young man nodded cynically and proceeded to take off early before the light turned green.  The older man waited for the signal then frantically pedaled to catch the young man and show him that he wasn’t getting ahead by jumping the signals.  People are so righteous in their indignation, especially if they’ve been at something for awhile.  



The Ferry Building clocktower beckons from the end of Market street, and as it clarifies and draws near the streets count down to fourth then third and the ride is over.  I cut left across Market at the Montgomery crosswalk and cheekily coast on my bike up onto the sidewalk and half-way to the next crosswalk before dismounting next to the short Mexican handing out Examiners.  Then I hurriedly walk my bike and expertly navigate foot traffic to the building entrance where I unstrap my helmet, setting it on the ground and dropping in my sunglasses, then gloves, then folding my neon vest and throwing it in followed by my red taillight.  Out comes the water bottle and the bike seat and after locking up, from the yellow pannier I pull my peruvian shoulder bag, draping it over my shoulder then stuffing the pannier to the brim with the upturned helmet, water bottle, and bike seat.  All then held at waist height like a big yellow tower that precedes me through the revolving doors and into the lobby, to work.

The Worst Moment of my Adult Life

December 5, 2010 / / 0 Comments

Tuesday night. We decided we needed another couch in the living room. Mom found one online for $40, but I didn’t feel like driving up to Russian Hill, picking it up, driving back, bringing it up, etc. There happened to be a love seat without owner sitting on 18th street, less than a block away. ‘Why not just check it out?’ we thought. So we walked down to the couch, examined it, and were pleased to find it not only clean but wide and sturdy. Too sturdy, and much too wide, as it turned out. I lay down to give it a test and was very comfortable. A couple walking their dog stopped to share a laugh, telling us they thought at first that I was homeless and that Mom was trying to wake me up. “Let’s just see how heavy it is” we thought. And it wasn’t too heavy.

Off we went up 18th street to our apartment. We struggled a bit to keep the front gate open, eventually sacrificing my keys’ lanyard for the job, and finally upwards, me first, backwards, pulling, mom behind pushing. It was a tight fit, but we managed to make it up the first flight of stairs, and with some pushing and pulling and tugging an turning, around the landing and up the next flight. Around the last landing we went, this one open to the street, and up the few steps to our apartment door, we sort of jammed it in. It got stuck – half-way through the doorway, the legs would go no further. We lifted and turned and shimmied but we couldn’t get it inwards, and upon careful examination we realized the couch was really much too big. Reluctantly, we accepted the fact that it just wouldn’t fit. The neighbor, Todd, came up the stairs behind, smiling and remarking that he’d had a similar couch, but that his just did fit into the apartment.

“I guess this means it just isn’t our couch” I said.

So out we went, struggling mightily to extricate the piece from the doorway, then down the stairs to the first landing, where, making the turn, we very nearly lost the couch over the edge, where a couple of passers-by may have been squashed. It teetered on the balcony until we managed to muscle it back inside and began the downward spiral of the next stairway. Reaching the bottom, we couldn’t make the turn, and found ourselves struggling with the couch again, this time nearly breaking the glass doorway of our downstairs neighbor. We were an uncoordinated duo – alternately struggling with all of our strength, grunting and tugging in no particular direction, alternately pausing and saying “Stop stop stop”, standing back, examining the couch, seeing no plausible way forward, then grabbing hold anew and wrenching away. Despite our efforts, the couch gradually settled into the stairway, coming to rest with its two feet wedged in the railing, and refusing to budge in any direction whatsoever. We were defeated. We could not lift it up nor budge it sideways. We stood back, exhausted.

“It’s not going anywhere” I said, “we have to just break the fucking thing”.

Mom agreed: “go get a hammer Gabe”.

I left her trapped below the couch and went upstairs into the depths of our apartment for a hammer, came back with the toolkit, opened it, realized the hammer wasn’t inside, muttered “oh my god the fucking hammer isn’t even in here”, called “where’s the hammer?” down to Mom as I walked away, knowing where it was and hearing her call out “in the blue toolkit…” as I went back into the apartment and came back out with the hammer. But I didn’t really know what we would do with the hammer, because the couch was a sturdy piece of work, and the correct tool for the job was a handheld circular saw that could lop off the legs. That or a stick of dynamite. We took turns whacking ineffectually at the rock-solid couch legs. I took a screwdriver and stabbed vehemently at the meaty underbelly of the couch, hoping to tear away the upholstery and attack the skeletal framework of the couch, but I was defeated here as well by the strength of the fabric. I put down the tools, stood up, and we stared again. Here an angel intervened, I believe, because we both, seemingly on some unspoken queue, bent down and lifted the couch in some magically perfect manner so as to ease it out of it’s confines and upwards to freedom. Down was no longer an option, so we went up, preparing to toss the couch to earth from the second landing. We balanced it on the edge, agreed this really wasn’t such a good idea, thought about the possible repercussions – smashed sidewalk, some strange rebound that would send the couch careening into the parked car out front…

“we need some rope” said Mom, “so we could just lower it down slowly”.

“I don’t have any rope, do you have rope?”

“I do have some rope in my car”

I knew the car was parked a steep four blocks uphill. “hm”

Mom went down to look in the garage for something helpful – maybe some rope, and I clung to the couch hoping the neighbors stayed inside and that somehow, this whole thing could just be over and forgotten.

Mom got downstairs and called up “there’s nobody down here right now Gabriel – just dump it”

“are you sure?”

“yes just do it there’s nobody coming”

I began to maneuver the couch into position “are you clear?”

“Yes I’m clear just dump it!”

There was a slender tree branch reaching our way and offering perhaps a softened fall.

“I’m going to try to throw it through the tree – are you ready?”

“yes go now!”

“one… two…. three!” I pushed it out and away and watched it fall quickly and suddenly down, thud, and stop.  It felt so good. I ran downstairs and out front and together Mom and I righted the fallen couch, and seeing it unscathed and intact I felt sorry for having stabbed it and torn its apholstery – what a beautiful piece of furniture.  Mom seemed similarly impressed:

“It really is a nice couch – look it didn’t even get hurt.”

“shall we set it over here?”

“yes. Maybe the church will want it”

A pair of bums enjoyed a few subsequent evenings on the couch, and I watched from my window the next night as they laughed, smoked, and reclined comfortably. By Friday, the couch was gone.

Naked Time

November 28, 2010 / / 3 Comments
There’s a special moment in every morning, somewhere after the shower has been shut off and before the snap of elastic signals the secure arrival of underwear around your waist, when we are naked and alone.  Largely overlooked as insignificant, and almost always hurried, this is a moment that deserves reflection.

I’m a curtains-open kind of a guy – not one to close my blinds unless absolutely necessary.  I’m trusting, too.  What are the chances that there’s some creeper out there stalking me with binoculars through my exposed windows?  But just in case there is, when it comes time to drop towel and put on clothes after a shower, certain precautions must be taken.

There’s usually some corner of the bedroom that’s up to the task – somehow positioned so as to prevent prying eyes from spotting your private parts.  I can picture this place in most all of my homes, and the surrounding morning routine in that particular slice of my life.

My childhood bedroom was a converted garage, and the windows were high enough to preclude any breach of privacy.  These were free times – I could drop my towel casually, take my time selecting underwear, and get dressed slowly.

My dorm room at UC Davis always had the specter of a returning roommate, so I would change in the shower stall.

My first apartment in West Davis had a large window onto the walkway, but my room extended deeply to either side, so I changed in the corner just in front of the dresser, where the angle was acute enough to block any wandering eyes.  

My room in Barcelona had a window looking only onto the elevator shaft – again, a non-issue.  

Senior year I lived in a townhouse-style apartment.  My room had a very large sliding glass door onto a tiny little balcony, and there was no position that could be completely secure.  Home alone, I would use the large hallway above my stairs; not alone, the time of day would determine my routine.  With no immediate neighbors, daytime views into the depths of my room could only be achieved, in theory, by a most dedicated viewer in an apartment 200 yards away.  Or from a church, which I disregarded.  At night, however, my window a showcase for the goings-on of a lighted interior, I sometimes closed the blinds.  But sometimes I did not.  Sometimes I merely recognized the heightened danger, and made a cautious and rapid change: un-tucking my folded towel, leaving it draped skirt-like from my waist, bent half-way, I could safely release the towel, step carefully into my boxer briefs, and in one quick motion, pull the underwear vigorously upwards, dropping the towel as I straightened, and offering, if at all, a most fleeting glimpse of my behind.  

My first San Francisco bedroom faced an adjacent apartment building a mere stone’s throw away, and opened to a large window filling the entire Western exposure.  Across the yard was a young Chinese family, with a little girl who would often sit and watch us from her window.  This caused me to be more sensitive than ever to my changing habits.  Fortunately, I was blessed with a large closet perpendicular to the window, with a pair of hinged sliding doors that protruded a foot and a half when open.  Generally regarded as a pain in the ass, in the early morning light, as I prepared for work, these doors afforded welcome protection for the eyes of an innocent little girl.  I merely had to snuggle in against my hanging shirts to execute the towel drop and boxer application in complete privacy.

My current bedroom has perhaps the greatest window space to floor space ratio of all, and to execute a private change I’ve been forced into the very front corner of my room just behind the closed door, a narrow haven where  I must remain mostly erect and flattened against the closed door, else my behind protrude into the line of sight from across the street.

Motivated by the winter cold more than my modesty, I’ve begun to change in the bathroom before even exiting the bath.  Not only do I avoid the issue of privacy, I take advantage of the steamy warmth of the bathroom.  The only issue here is the difficulty in achieving complete dryness – with so much steam in the air, extra care must be taken with the towel before undergarments can be safely applied. Like it’s predecessors, my current routine is dictated by necessity, and, until now, established and practiced in mindless fashion.

It occurs to me that, since I learned to dress myself, this is the one moment in life when I am naked with myself.  What a shame it seems to hurry through this moment or pass it cramped in a small bathroom.  This space between wet naked person and fully clothed member of society is charged with vulnerability, vanity, and freedom.  I wonder if there is not some greater human value in this small moment – a slender thread connecting us to a primal past free from garments that so effectively define us, tenuously clinging to our modern, accelerated selves.

One day, an in-suite bath, ample acreage, and radiant floor heating will combine to provide me with a most agreeable post-shower experience, and cultivate a stronger connection with my natural naked self.  In the meantime, perhaps another rug for my bedroom floor, a set of heavy curtains, and the occasional nighttime use of my electric heater will suffice.
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