Playlists: Sarah 2

In the intervening couple of months between when I gave her the first playlist and when, with her encouragement, I presented her with the second, Sarah had listened to the first playlist all of once-- and even that time only incompletely. She said the feelings were too strong and when she got to the "sad song" (Sweet Avenue) she had to stop listening to keep from being overcome.

This second playlist is more relaxed than the first, as heralded by the opening salvo, "Congratulations". Gone is the anguish of Jill's presence in the tracklisting and the wistfulness of the previous has solidified into a sort of hypnotic romanticism, perhaps best embodied by "Back To Your Heart". Sure, there is a consciousness of vulnerability, as with "When the Levee Breaks", and there is the poignancy of "Across the Sea", but at its core this playlist is about reveling in that surreal moment of love, without expectation or fear.

Playable playlist
http://grooveshark.com/playlist/For+Sarah+2/81911055

I'd like to note that the Grooveshark playlists have some minor differences with the original, because not quite every song is available on Grooveshark. You can find the official tracklist here:
https://www.dropbox.com/s/yhdqadjt4bag6ht/Sarah2playlist.xls

Playlists: Sarah 1

It wasn't until the beginning of this year that I learned that you could make publicly sharable playlists on Grooveshark. Once that had happened, it was just a matter of time before I began to post playlists here. I intend to make a series of posts with my old archived playlists, with a brief depiction of the rationale that went into making each, and this will be the first.

I've decided to start this series with the first mix-cd playlist I made for Sarah, back on Valentine's day 2011, aka "Sarah 1". The making of this happened to coincide with when I got my first mp3 player, which meant a minor explosion of musical exploration for me at the time. This mix makes a pretty good spread of my musical tastes, with the exception of my most abrasive ones. As such, I feel it is a nice starting point for the series.

The mix is wistful throughout. Sarah's taste in older music helped inform the two most retro songs in the mix ("32 20" and "Our Car Club"), but the songs certainly also convey an ebullience of complex feelings that continues through the mix. A number of the songs were actually chosen with Jill in mind and are either serious love songs our outright breakup songs. "Sick of Goodbyes", "Outtasite" and especially "Weird Fishes" best represent this strain. Sarah knows this, which is why I am comfortable saying it here. Of course, the greater share of songs, when they are wistful, are utterly swept up in the moment, like "Ocean", "Sweet Avenue", "Strange Ones" and, of course, "Just Like Heaven". I spent many a wee hour of the morning walking home from Sarah's house, mp3 player plugged in, savoring happy thoughts. Frankly, this mix cd was composed in a state of new love's swirling bliss, and I think it shows. The rhythms are irrepressibly upbeat, and the singing is fervent. Even a seeming breakup song like "Fire for Awhile" practically drips with the seductive tender haze of new love.

Playable playlist
http://grooveshark.com/playlist/For+Sarah+1/81910856

Official tracklist
https://www.dropbox.com/s/r0u7rvh5l1qt2vt/Sarah1playlist.xls

If this all sounds pretty personal, that's because it is. Please enjoy this little piece of my life.

The Strange Summer

After I broke up with Sarah, you may have noticed that I made a string of increasingly distraught posts followed by a spat of furiously ragged polemics. This, of course, was no coincidence. I have been unhappy. Those uncompromising barbs came from a place of pain. While this is an explanation for those posts (as well as other correspondence from that time of similar tone), it is neither an excuse nor an apology. I won't retract them, because they are true and much of their value and truthfulness lies in their intensity of emotion. They are things I thought of saying much earlier, but they were catalyzed by that (unrelated) discontent, and I'm glad that they were.

I'm still unhappy, even miserable, and the nice or fun things I do now aren't fulfilling the way they should be. One friend suggested I consider a therapist. Another friend pointed out that being depressed is perfectly normal and that depression isn't clinical until it has persisted for over six months, something I have no expectation that it will do.

I am, as people go, an unusually happy, balanced person, but for now I am subject to that seed of doubt: "What if it was an illusion, a facade, a temporary cheat? What if I'm just a miserable person on the inside, and that's why I couldn't make it work with Sarah and that's why I won't be happy until I give up the hubris of my own way of thinking?" I've certainly had people insinuate as much at various (earlier) times in my life, people incensed by my glib, entitled, I-have-all-the-answers posture. I've brought such scrutiny upon myself. Further, I have no real proof that they were ever wrong. Part of that break-up was fueled by an underlying neediness in myself that I could never trace the source of, and that insecurity was definitely among the strains underlying my furiously ragged polemics.

There have been a number of other events this summer that, taken as a whole, have made for a very strange, muted, almost dreamlike summer.

My maternal grandfather died. My childhood dog died. My 63-year-old aunt, who has beaten breast cancer twice, had something cancer-like identified in her for the third time. Fortunately, I have since learned that it turned out to be a rare bone disease. I'm not sure how bad the bone disease is, but it's certainly better news than the likely death sentence that metastasized cancer would have been. One of my closest friends's boyfriend, who I knew and liked and who made my friend happy, killed himself. My friend was the one who found him. My mom and sister were in a violent car accident, in which their car rolled four times. The car, that we were once driven to middle school in, did not survive. Fortunately my mom and sister are okay.

None of these things have been my pain alone. My sister was good friends with the guy who killed himself, our childhood dog was officially her dog, and she's started a PhD program in the middle of Iowa far from everyone, including her own still-new boyfriend. My mom, who was the driver in that car crash, will worry about the recurring headaches that Bri got after the crash and losing your dad is a heck of a lot harder than losing your grandfather. Even with Sarah, the pain I bear is mirrored in her, and she has less of a support system. So, I can't feel isolated, but I do feel emotionally withdrawn and extraordinarily fragile. This summer has imbued in me a sense of mortality which I have only previously experienced in a few sober moments of childhood.

I said earlier that I seem to be an intrinsically happy, balanced person. I think most of the Vidrines are, come to think of it. I feel enormously lucky to be blessed with a sturdy, clever mind, good culture, and a rich array of people who care about me and who I care about in return. This summer has made me feel lucky, and for that I am thankful. I won't forget that this summer has also made me feel terrible. Both feelings will pass.

Fleeting Contact

Well, it finally happened. I saw her. My train was crossing the intersection of Church and Duboce and I saw her on the corner decide to wait for it to pass. For a second I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. She's dead, my mind said, she no longer exists.

But she did exist, standing on the corner, looking at my train. I thought, she's going to see me for sure, then she looked a different direction. I started waving a slow, plaintive wave, for what seemed like a long time, but was only a few seconds-- maybe a half-dozen waves. I stopped waving. She continued surveying the street. Her head stopped when it came to me, long enough that I was certain. I started waving again. She hesitated for a pregnant moment, then waved back. My train finished crossing the intersection and came to stop in front of my-- our-- old apartment, and then it was over. She crossed behind the train with the rest of the people on the corner, and I turned away from the window and sat back down in my seat.

I looked around the train to see if anyone noticed. I could feel myself breathing hard, feel my brain buzzing with exclamation points. I certainly felt like people should be looking at me, wondering what the hell was wrong with me. I tried to take deep breaths. Then I changed my music player to something cathartic. My phone buzzed with a received text and my heart leapt. It was from a friend about meeting later in the evening. Sigh.

When I saw her, I saw a shadow future pass before my eyes. Things that would not be. In those few seconds any fragile illusions that I was over the worst of this, that it would be as easy as I naively hoped a week and a half ago, drained like water from a suddenly cracked plastic bucket. It isn't over. It's not even halfway yet. In a way it was a relief. I will not feel like a sociopath or a bloodless traveler. My love is real and will be real in the future. I was never faking anything.

Things have gotten decidedly harder since Bri left on Sunday. My roommate is gone for a couple weeks and I still haven't cleaned up from Bri's visit. My apartment looks like I am. I am a mess. Music doesn't sparkle the way it did the first and second weeks, but I am at least as emotionally unbalanced. Or maybe my emotions are just more on-target. I miss Sarah and think about missing her on a regular basis now. Each time my mind grabs onto something specific about her, it's sad like sand oozing out between my fingers. I know I'm never going to remember it with that same clarity. If I ever remember it again, it will be an old memory. Alas, such is loss and such is the tragedy of time's passage.

One Week Before

In one week I will be moving. I've really enjoyed living here in Church/Duboce Triangle/Lower Haight; baby, TV, crazy people and all. Unfortunately, it is time to move.

I am moving because the lease is up and, more pertinently, because I am breaking up with Sarah. After loving the hell out of her for over a year and a half and some time living with her, we are parting mutually, amiably, plannedly and on the conclusion of a lease. I am moving into a room in a place I found on Craigslist with a roommate I just met and my closest friend in the city is moving away. Those of you who've been reading for a couple years may be wondering if this is deja vu. Unfortunately, it is not.

Brandon asked if it was awkward living with someone you know you're breaking up with. I said to him that once you're living with someone, a mutual, planned breakup is about the most graceful way to go out. Of course, the direct answer to his question is yes, though "weird" is a more accurate descriptor. The last few weeks have been emotionally all-over-the-map and I don't expect that to abate any time soon.

That said, I'm glad I moved in with Sarah last year. It made it a lot easier to leave Davis and move to a major city, something I really needed to do. I've had a great time sharing a room with her, exploring the city together and having someone to support and be supported by.

For many reasons, I really wanted to marry her. She's intelligent, beautiful, self-assured, fascinating, shares my values, has excellent taste, takes turns wearing the pants and makes me feel beautiful, both physically and mentally. She will bear beautiful, intelligent children and she will raise them well. I'm already envious of the guy who will have the privilege of fathering those children. Obviously, I've offered my services if she ends up marrying a girl.

I'm not going to get into why all those wonderful things weren't enough for either of us. Suffice it to say that we did our best.

I will be moving in a week to a room in *Upper* Haight, just a few blocks from the famous intersection of Haight and Ashbury. I will have a whole room to myself in a decidedly uncrowded two bedroom apartment. The apartment has plenty of natural light and a view of trees. On the other side, the building opens up onto the panhandle of Golden Gate Park. It is remarkably quiet inside and so far I really like my roommate-to-be. For the first time since I moved to San Francisco, I don't think I'll feel like I'm living as a temporary guest of the primary leaseholder. My commute will be a little longer and I will pay a little more in rent, but Upper Haight is a beautiful and fascinating part of the city.

So wish me well. Send me your love. Call me. There's a good chance I'll be calling you. Bri is coming up to visit me in a couple of weeks. I've been through this before, so I think I'll be okay. I'm putting my tray table up and my seat back in the full upright position.

January Update

Quite a few things in my life changed with the new year.

Howard finally moved from Davis. He's helping his parents out for awhile and then he's going to move to Santa Barbara and live with his sister.

I got a new girlfriend. Her name is Sarah. She is cool and things are going very well. We went to San Francisco last weekend and had a blast. Props to Mereb for his restaurant recommendation (Burma Superstar). I bought some random stuff in Chinatown (6.50 a pound for dried shiitakes!). We hung out with Matt and Cory and I finally got to see at least a part their brewing process.

I got a pea coat and an mp3 player for Christmas, both of which have been in near-constant use since I returned to Davis.

The mp3 player has caused kind of a music renaissance in my life. Basically, it's allowed me to listen to music of my choosing at work and in transit. I've been able to give a lot more music my undivided attention and I've started to intensively research and download music again. I've been working on developing a taste for emo and the Rolling Stones. Somewhere along the way I acquired a taste for Sunny Day Real Estate, Supergrass, the Beta Band, Fleetwood Mac's Tusk, the Jayhawks and the Vapors. I also reaffirmed my relationship with the Shoes and Wilco, finally listened to John Cale's solo work and finally acquired the two fabled power pop albums by the Searchers that I had been looking for since last spring.

Amidst all the fun and turnover, the application deadlines for various graduate programs have been rolling in. Which is why I'm apologizing for not posting anything else this month. It's not that my mind is not brimming with good post ideas, it's that I can't justify making good on them when I could be doing something so urgently useful. So, wish me luck. Heaven knows I can use all the help I can get to turn in a few halfway decent applications by their deadlines.

Eighty-Six Bottles of Beer on the Wall

I remember. Oh how I remember.

The last few weeks and indeed the last few months have been a time for reflection upon my time in Davis. It is, as I have already said, the end of an era. When Howard and Brandon and I moved to the Apple House, we started lining up beer bottles on top of our kitchen cabinets. A year later, when my mind was also looking backwards because of my upcoming graduation, I started telling Brandon stories I associated with various bottles. I realized how good a storytelling device they were and resolved to write this post in the future.

Yet another year later, Howard was the last of us original three to leave the Apple House and I got those charmed bottles. They had a crust of grease on their shoulders from their lengthy existence in that kitchen. I lined them up (mostly) chronologically and photographed them to tell you their stories. This is a long post, full of stories both momentous and trivial whose value lies in their significance to those who played roles in them.


Stella Artois was the first beer I ever bought. I got it while in the dorms through Brandon's high school friend Tyler. Tyler ended up introducing us to craft beer while we lived in the dorms because periodically he would visit his girlfriend Erin at UC Davis and we'd all hang out in Brandon's dorm and drink Tyler's beer. I remember it took me months to acquire a taste for any beer, but I left the dorms a fan of Sierra Nevada and Fat Tire.

My first visit to Nugget Market, I bought a battery of craft sodas, my interest a relic from my days in high school. I tasted them with my roommates one by one over the course of a week, setting the pattern I would later revisit with single-bottles of beer after I graduated.

The standout was an old soda I'd wanted to try since those high school days. Moxie has become synonymous with spunk and determination in vernacular and it frankly tastes medicinal. The thing is, it tastes medicinal in a completely awesome way. I'd drink it periodically if Nugget would freaking stock it again (more than can be said of all but a handful of craft sodas), but I haven't seen it on their shelves since.

Later that sophomore year, I got Allison's roommate Emy to buy us alcohol. She recommended New Belgium's 1554 from the Coop, which was excellent.

We became fans of Gordon Biersch Marzen among other things. We started saving bottles so that we might insinuate ourselves into brewing beer of our own some day. I remember Brandon thought Stone IPA was too bitter, but I tried to approach it with an open mind. He liked Red Hook, though, and three years later we had a pitcher of it with his family in Dana Point while they were visiting for a cousin's wedding.

I also remember when Allison's mom visited (but I forgot why) with a bottle of Skyy vodka and we made lemon drops at my house.


Our junior year Adam was old enough to give us the hookup. We liked Gordon Biersch's Marzen enough that we tried out Sudwerk's. I though it was relatively boring, but Brandon liked it.

Seagram's Gin should be in the lineup somewhere, because it was that year that Brandon and I started making martinis regularly, sipping them while we watched Seinfeld and Everybody Loves Raymond.

Howard's girlfriend Tammy turned twenty-one late in the year and I remember sipping Pyramid Apricot Ale with she and Howard at her apartment.

Soon after we'd graduated, the household turned twenty-one all at once. We stocked a bar and purchased some liquors I'd read about, including Rye Whiskey and Brazilian Cachaca. We had a cocktail party for Howard and I's birthday with our newly stocked bar. John Lazur, Adam, Greg Webb, Russell Manning and Jill were all there. Russell and Jill were dating that summer and I became friends with both of them through my involvement with DCD (the Davis College Democrats).

Brandon bought a Japanese White Ale called Hitachino's nest on some DCD escapade and I remember it tasted great.

Caius came to visit me that summer, twice. He made me a blackberry pie the first time and I documented a bike trip he and Brandon and I took up the American River. We also tried some beer and cider from the coop. Caius loved hard apple cider.


I took my new grill for it's first spin, grilling $4/lb New York Strip on the patio at Kingston Apartments. Brandon and I bought Pilsner Urquell on a whim. The steak turned out great. Though the beer was awesome, it didn't pair well at all. This inaugurated both my love of Pilsner and my long and unsuccessful search for the beer that would pair with American steak.

I also remember the love-at-first-taste I had with New Belgium's Skinny Dip.

When I visited home that summer, I bought Virgil's Cola at Farm-to-Market with my sister. The cola wasn't half as good as their root beer, but I had a great time hanging out with Bri.

Howard brought some Kirkland beer that he'd discovered at his hometown Costco.

I vividly remember shoving a wedge of key lime into a Corona on my way out the door to ride with Brian Ang and Matt Takaichi to see My Bloody Valentine in San Francisco. I remember sharing my jam jar of rye, the incredible volume of the show and the absolute hordes of kids dressed in their scene best.

Brandon and I ended up becoming big fans of Cachaca and the cocktail made from it called a Caipirinha. Before long we had to replace the old bottle we'd bought on my birthday.


At some point, John Lazur and I's boss, Richard, brought a few bottles of beer back from a visit to Jack Russell brewery. He told us that we could drink them together after closing up the chemical dispensary (John acted as manager for the closing shift). The two of us had a wonderful time discussing the beers. After that, we made a semi-regular thing out of it. John also introduced me to Dogfish Head brewery by giving me their fall seasonal.


Inspired by John, I hosted a "six-pack party", where guests where instructed to bring a six-pack of a beer they had never tried before. The hit of the night was Laura Nevins' Prohibition Lager, which I thought tasted like strawberries.

Before that fall, we made the big move from our run down apartment to a duplex that we called the Apple House. The last day of the move, Brandon went to pick up some McDonald's (having not unpacked the kitchen yet) and as such things go that time of year, a few friends dropped by and we had a housewarming party. Among those friends was Jill. We cracked open a sixer of Leffe, which Brandon claimed tasted exactly like creamed corn when he drank it in Europe with Tyler. Jill and I got to chat when the others made a trip to the store and the two of us hit it off. She'd broken up with Russell earlier that summer and I remember thinking to myself that I should go after her.

There were two impromptu get-togethers around our kitchen that September and Jill was at both. On one Jill formed her first opinion of Leffe and on the other I invented my Christmas Punch in the process of playing bartender to Jill, trying to mimic a cranberry vodka with limited ingredients.

Later in the fall I remember discovering Hefeweizen playing a drinking game with Sudwerk's at Don Gibson's house. I soon got bored with the style, though.


At the beginning of the fall my sister and Aaron Robinson visited for ORMF with Bri's friend Lauren and Aaron's then-girlfriend Jill Hardy. I cracked open one of my dad's more prized red wines (I'd taken a case to Davis with me).

The next day we went to the show and the brief romance I'd had with Lauren came back to life, Lauren's affection growing more pronounced when the the only one of the many Davis friends I invited to show up turned out to be Jill Miller.

A few weeks later, Brandon and I planned to visit our respective siblings in Santa Cruz. We hadn't found anyone interested in gas-sharing with us by that Friday, when by chance I ran into Jill between classes. I invited her and she said she'd come along. The three of us chatted enthusiastically the way there, bickering about whether Jill had good movie taste and agreeing to host a movie marathon. Lauren happened to have dropped by to visit Bri for the weekend, so the dynamic resumed. This time, though, while I put my arms around Lauren, Brandon put his arms around Jill. That night was when Jill decided she didn't actually like Leffe. The following night we picked up some "Oktoberfest" from Trader Joe's that Brandon and I agreed tasted a little like raw meat.

It wasn't until later, when Bri asked me if I liked Jill that I realized how obvious our chemistry was. Lauren certainly noticed. The similarities between the two outings are astonishing. In both cases, Jill was the only person of many invitees to show and Lauren happened to have dropped in on Bri. In both cases I was more ignorant of the dynamic than Lauren or Jill.

After we'd dropped Jill off at her house (and Jill and I had agreed to have a movie marathon the next weekend), I asked Brandon if he was interested in Jill. Brandon said definitely not and I said good, because though he had first dibs, I really wanted to go after her.

My new roommate Greg Webb had run a bruising independent campaign for ASUCD Senator. He announced that regardless of the outcome, he'd be hosting a "Moral Victory Party" and that he would drink a shot of tequila for every twenty votes he received. He got three hundred votes and was just eight votes short of winning.

We measured off the small amount of extra tequila from a fifth and Greg started to drink. Everybody drank (Brandon and I as always playing the role of bartenders extraordinaire), but Greg made it halfway through the bottle within an hour. We decided to move our small party to check out a handful of large parties we'd heard about. Greg was shouting a continuous stream of slurs and insults about the candidates that had beaten him, insisting that we go to the victory party for LEAD (the winning party) so that he could cuss them out in person. We steered Greg to my friend Kern's party. I had an involved albeit tipsy discussion with Jill about "las otras", trying desperately to convince her that she was my first pick. We danced together at Kern's party. By the time we left that party, our numbers had thinned considerably. By the time we arrived at Greg's friend's "wig party", it was just the three of us.

Drunken Greg looked like ET in a hot pink bob. We mixed and chatted, but mostly Jill and I's conversation continued. By the time we left, I was easily the most sober of our trio, Greg still weaving precariously as he continued hurling a stream of insults into the empty streets. Jill and I felt a sense of teamwork as we shepherded him home. For about half the walk I pushed Greg in a grocery cart. In the last leg of the trip Jill and I held hands. It was at that moment that I knew for sure that we had mutual interest, though later she would say it hadn't meant anything.

Jill and I had the long promised movie marathon and though it went otherwise swimmingly, Jill rebuffed my attempt to put my arm around her. We agreed to do it again the next weekend. The second time Jill's friend Lazzuly joined us and Jill snuggled up to me until I put my arm around her. We watched a couple of movies like that. Lazzuly left to get ready for a DCD party that night and I fed Jill a potato with cheese. We walked to the party holding hands.

At the party we danced only with each other. A DCDer named Shane mistook me for Colin Doyle, who'd been hitting on his girlfriend. He tipsily apologized for the mistake later, forcing not one but two bottles of Mirror Pond on me. I didn't care. By that time dancing had turned into making out and I was practically floating.

A few weeks later the Apple House hosted its Christmakah party. This was the third we'd hosted and by this time my roommates were pulling more weight in the preparation than I was (I who'd gallantly started the first one). That Jill and I were dating was made apparent to DCD that night. I busted out some of my dad's wine, making the mistake of letting a stranger open one of the bottles. The only way to salvage the resulting split cork was to push it into the bottle. I was pissed at the time, but I'm amused to see that cork half still sitting glumly in the bottle (the Chardonnay, btw). The next morning I asked Jill, (with a note of exasperation) "What are we?". She seemed surprised that I wanted to date exclusively. I was surprised that she'd allowed it to go this far without demanding some kind of commitment. I'd wanted a long term relationship all along (since that first hang-out at the Apple House) and wanted to lock her down before winter break.


That winter quarter, I took "Introduction to Beer and Brewing" with funny British professor Charles Bamforth. I was immediately excited by the sound of the bocks, starting off with the ubiquitous Shiner Bock.

That Valentine's day was my first worth celebrating and I pulled out the stops to make it special, more for me than for Jill. We went to Seasons for dinner and watched a playing of A Winter's Tale. The next day we decided to go to Napa, though it was raining. We bought a couple bottles of wine and some nice cheese, including the Chardonnay pictured.

I also remember having Adam over for a more modest incarnation of the "six-pack party". He brought Henry Weinhard and I got some Red Seal. Talk was good and the Red Seal was great.

That winter, my sister came to visit. I'd promised to bake her cookies if she visited me (and actually stayed with me, instead of spending all her time with Allison), a promise which she was quick to remind me of. I fondly remember sipping Red Tail while baking cookies (another terrible pairing) while it softly rained outside. I think probably the other time she came and stayed with Allison we drank the Kriek Boon, kriek being another beer style I'd been introduced to through my class.


At some point I hosted a beer tasting of various bocks. Allison, Jack, Brandon, Howard and Jill were all in attendance. I do love getting all my favorite people in one place. Add that to a wealth of delicious new beer and I'd have to call my state one of bliss.

After I graduated, Jill went to study abroad in Spain. I knew her being gone would be hard on me. She actually left the morning of my birthday. That afternoon I called John Lazur to come over and hang out. I made him try my newly invented Black Bayou with my purpose-purchased bottle of Maker's Mark, which isn't in the lineup because I still have some left in it.

We were having a great time chatting. One thing led to another and we cracked open a forty of Old English while Howard and Greg prepared a feast of different dishes all made with zucchini (you know how it is with zucchini). John left at eight or so and I passed out on my bed around ten. I woke up at four AM feeling like I'd been hit by a cement truck. Since I couldn't get to sleep I screwed around online and feverishly read the pulp fiction Jill had left me to read. In the next couple days I burned through her sizable stack of books, sleeping erratically and feeling like shit the whole time.

While Jill was gone I drove with my mom and sister to Wisconsin. Driving in shifts, we did it in thirty-two hours. It was the first time I'd been to Wisconsin since I'd turned twenty-one. I drank a local beer by New Glarus with my cousin Eddie, which felt like some kind of rite of passage.

I'd heard that Coca-Cola's formulation varied from country to country. I'd told Jill to bring back a coke from every country she passed through. She brought back a Spanish coke and a French one. I added in a bottle of Mexican coke and a can of Americana and we had an old-fashioned Apple House taste test. We couldn't really tell the difference between the Spanish and French cokes. For that matter, except the obvious difference of sucrose vs high fructose corn syrup, I couldn't detect a difference in the formula between the European cokes and our American one. The Mexican coke was definitely different. It drew the most polarized response, but we all agreed that it was "weird". It tasted warmer, like a fiesta (more cinnamon?). Whatever it was, I think Mexican coke was my favorite of the tasting.

Jill also returned from Spain with a taste for Spanish Tempranillo. We were always trying to drink it with pork. I'm not sure if we ever actually did.

On the edge of the picture is a bottle of Stone Pale Ale. Caius and I picked up a six pack of the stuff on our way to a backyard folk show. This must have been the summer before, because the occasion provided the inspiration for I BUI.


That summer, Jill's mom kind of turned on me without my realizing it. Jill wanted me to make my delicious grilled steak for her mom, so I made steaks for Jill, her mom and her friend Myranda Hunter (who happens to be my kind of people). I picked one of my dad's Bordeaux's for the steak (Jill's mom likes Merlot). Out of the gates I was criticized for burning the steaks. The night went downhill from there as Jill's mom became more drunk, more belligerent and more appalled by my nonchalance (any chance at diplomacy on my part being similarly buried in wine).

The night ended with Jill's mom telling Jill to break up with me and insisting that she was ok to drive home. Jill would hardly look at me until she got a text the next afternoon saying, "I was only kidding. Don't break up with the boy."

A few weeks later Matt Gribble visited me along his way from Stanford to grad school in Baltimore. I took him to a KDVS house show. He was pretty critical of the music, but he loved the lambic he'd bought (I did too, enough to ask to keep the bottle for my wall) and had a great time unsuccessfully chasing this scene kid who "wasn't out of the closet yet".

Matt Wingert finally visited me as he'd been promising for years. We chilled out with Brandon's brother Spencer and watched the first two seasons of the Venture Brothers. The last night we picked up a variety of mostly German lagers from the coop and he, Brandon, Jill and I had a tasting. The equation is simple: good beer plus good friends equals awesome. Works every time.


After a summer's growing anxiety about my continuing unemployment, I ran smack into the most unlikely of jobs. DCD had decided to encourage it's members to work for a housing measure on the ballot called Measure P. The project was sustainable and the campaign very well funded. I think somebody in DCD's leadership mistakenly hoped the club might get some portion of the $15/hour that the campaign was paying its workers.

Working the campaign was great. It got me out of the house and also off Jill's nerves (it was a hot summer). Flyering was a beautiful excuse to walk around Davis's idyllic neighborhoods. "Walking" and phone banking got me chatting with the town's residents. In addition to paying us well, the campaign was generous about taking us out to lunch. I acquired great respect for two of the three eateries we had accounts with: Steve's Pizza and Zia's Deli (the latter superb). Somehow, they even let us order beer for lunch, so I got a taste for Boont Amber Ale along the way.

I liked the hours, the people and the job itself. Because I was one of the few nonstudent campaigners, I eventually took a greater level of responsibility within the campaign. I organized walks, discussed strategy and even wrote campaign literature. I remember getting home completely windswept after acting as a bike messenger (eat your hearts out, fixie kids!) and immediately loving Sam Adams' Octoberfest, which fit the season and moment so perfectly. Did I mention October is my favorite month?

Towards the end of the campaign, the more regular among us went out to Little Prague for beers after a long day. On David Urhausen's suggestion, we got all three of the Chimay brews they offered. It was all very bittersweet, so I took home the most expensive bottle to memorialize the parting. Because Little Prague had recently decided to stop stocking Chimay, the bartender let us have a Chimay glass each for a couple dollars.

I gained an appreciation for the vast beauty of Davis those two months. I also gained an appreciation for the intelligent and ornery citizens of Davis, who voted our Measure down by a landslide. Things had to come to an end sooner or later. The campaign managers had slowly let on how unlikely it was that we'd win, but even they were unprepared for the decisiveness of the rebuke. It didn't sting as bad as the fact that the campaign ended. David hosted an end of campaign party with a keg of Sudwerk Pilsner, which was about the most jaw-droppingly awesome party provision I'd ever heard of.

Soon after I joined Jill and DCD for their Tahoe retreat, where young democrats from across the state rubbed shoulders. I don't think we brought it along, but I remember buying that bottle of Grolsch with Brandon around the same time. The beer itself was terribly skunked. The story of note from the retreat was my increasingly hostile disposition towards Andrew Peake. I'll just say that I guardedly liked him for a long time and that changed dramatically.

In December I finally retook the GRE (after bombing because I'd gone in cold). A weekend's prep and I increased my math score by 130 points. All told it was a raging victory for me. I cracked open Anchor's Christmas Ale with Brandon and Jill. It was quite good.

I decided to scale down last year's lavish Valentine's day celebration and work on a budget. Jill and I went to dinner with a coupon to one of our favorite Indian restaurants. The Indian lager tasted divine alongside the curry and the lamb special we ordered was quite delectable.


I remember buying and drinking the Red Bull Cola while still living at the Apple House, but I'm pretty sure I was already making arrangements to move out. The cola was really good. Pity it was too expensive to buy again.

Probably around the same time I remember drinking another Dogfish Head brew at Jill's house, this one inspired by ancient Mesopotamian beers. I'd started buying single bottles since Jill moved so close to the Coop and I discovered the cheap single bottles at Save-Mart. That trend would increase considerably once I'd moved away from my beer buddy Brandon.

My replacement at the Apple House was named Alberto. He took Brandon's living room and Brandon took my room, which Brandon was stoked about. Alberto brought with him a single bottle of Amaretto. I always coveted a taste, but never asked in my subsequent visits to the Apple House. Eventually it was added to the wall in my absence, and I find that somehow fitting.

Practical Intimacy

I have been having some very long conversations with some very good friends, partly because I'm bored/lonely and partly because I have something worth talking about. Going out with and living with Jill was an amazing experience. I think I matured a lot and learned even more. Because of our personalities it managed to be both intense (who on earth can handle THAT much time together?) and sober. Last week I managed to surprise even Howard with a few examples that demonstrated the degree to which we'd meshed our lives together.

One of my favorite things about moving in with Jill was the communality that far surpassed what I'd shared with my roommates. The prototypical example was washing our laundry together, because it allowed me to complete my partial loads of whites and reds (yes, bleeding opposite colors will dull each other so it makes sense to segregate them. my mom with the degree in painting says so, so there) and pretty much almost always have a full load of blues/darks on hand in need of washing. It also allowed me to wash laundry while she was in school or her to wash laundry while I was working.

Obviously the meshing went a lot farther. While we always split rent evenly along with every other major expense, we did away with keeping track of what was who's expenditure. The effect of this was to force us to compromise on what we spent money on. Considering that when I met her she spent her financial aid money freely on convenience food, generously on alcohol for other people's parties and gas to give people rides, this was actually quite a feat. We had sharp differences on how our parents had taught us to spend money. Compromise turns out to be surprisingly gratifying when it's grounded in goodwill and honesty. By the end of this past summer, our values (and not just spending habits) had moved a long way towards common ground.

Frankly, Jill and I had gotten much closer to embodying the "unmarried partners" tag we checked for a lark on the census form than I think either of us could have anticipated. Closer even than two of my best friends' relationships that have lasted over five years (this is opinion and not fact, but hey, Howard was impressed). Jill and I half-seriously joked that our relationship was stronger and more stable than one unnamed pair of newlyweds.

I feel like I got a window into what marriage must be. You console each other when the other's bummed, prod them to send in their graduate applications and they in turn make sure you're civil enough at social occasions not to make unnecessary enemies (go elitism!). I must confess the experience has left me eager for when I finally do get married. I'm pretty sure I'll love it.

The Chime of Silver

There's no easy way to get through a breakup, but every cloud has its lining. The silver lining of breakups is that they make music sound fantastic.

Did you leave those mopey, angst-ridden bands of your youth behind? Does that magnum opus no longer sparkle with the immediacy you remember? I'm here to tell you to take them for another spin in the midst of a breakup.

Talk about power. It's like there's a twisted monster crawling through those once-too-familiar chords making them seethe with new and dangerous life.

And if, after awhile, the music recedes into normality as you slip into the comfort of denial, just think about the person you've lost and all the things you'll miss about them and how you'll never have them again until your eyes begin to prick with tears.

The music will perk right back up. It will sing to you symphonies of life and love and pain. It will tell you stories of anguish like caverns and thorn bushes, of loss like the ocean and you, the boat on its storm-harried surface, flying through space with the deftness of the waves that chase you. And when those waves catch you, as they inevitably and repeatedly will, it will feel so good and right and the sky will open up and every star will burn so brightly that heaven will buzz with electricity and sparkle like the sea.

While a good sad-song mix cd has its charms, there's nothing like a depressing or just thoroughly perturbed album to set a mood and carry you through it in beauty. Here is the list of albums that have done right by me:

Radiohead - OK Computer and The Bends
Radiohead - Kid A and Amnesiac
The Beta Band - The Three EP's
Sparklehorse - Good Morning Spider
REM - Automatic for the People
Wire - Chairs Missing
His Name is Alive - Mouth By Mouth
Big Star - Third/Sister Lovers
Catherine Wheel - Ferment
Lady Gaga - The Fame Monster
The Smashing Pumpkins - Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness
Weezer - Pinkerton
The Rolling Stones - Sticky Fingers
-round 2-
John Lennon - Plastic Ono Band
Old 97's - Too Far to Care
Sunny Day Real Estate - The Rising Tide
Finn - s/t
Emmylou Harris - Wrecking Ball

Ever since the breakup I've had an appreciation for love songs that I've never really had, happy and sad ones both. I've long been a fan of songs about "new love", but the ones about old love finally speak to me. Also, I think I've been paying more attention to lyrics.

The Hey After

After nearly two years since our first date and having lived together since March, Jill and I broke up on the 28th after I moved her into her Santa Cruz apartment. It was an amiable breakup, as I mentioned previously. This is an edited version of my first correspondence with her since that fateful Saturday.

Hey Jill,
I want to talk to you SO badly, but like I promised I won't call you until the denial has passed more completely. Tell me if this is cheating too much. I graduated to using the correct tense in reference to our relationship, but I know it's still only partially sunk in.

I've talked about you a lot, such that I feel like I understand you and what we were better, but it was really just putting words to things I'd known deep down. I talked about all your flaws and all your good qualities and all the things I love about you. The tragic irony is that we broke up when the good things outweighed the bad by far (as they always did), something I've long said was true and something I've always been terrified you didn't truly believe. Bri says that amiable breakups heal cleaner and faster.

I think about you at least every few minutes. At the same time talking has confirmed to me that the things I liked about you far outweighed anything I didn't like, it also confirmed to me that breaking up was the right decision. My increased confidence in the wisdom of that decision has come hand in hand with doubt so severe I frequently feel like a ship without a rudder near shoals. I doubt the decision every few minutes. I'm constantly afraid that I'll betray myself and what I know is right to chase those things that I miss so much. Of the stages of grief, I think I've moved past outright denial through anger (which flashed in the last few seconds before you walked out the door) to bargaining. I keep trying to think of ways that I can have you again.

Bri's done a better job taking care of me than even you could have hoped, I think. That girl has wisdom beyond her years. She shamed me out of writing this letter (while tipsy) Sunday night. Now I'm taking advantage of having woken up before her, but I think her main point was that one day was too soon, even though the thought of you unpacking your room alone after your mom left was tearing me up.

We saw Avatar in 3D yesterday. It was everything you or anybody else said it would be. Twice in the movie theater, I forgot that Bri wasn't you next to me and did a double take. We made intricate plans to backpack to Santa Cruz from Monterey and plans to go home to SoCal. Both fell through, so now we're just going to chill for the remainder of the week. It's probably just as well. I don't think seeing my parents would be helpful.

As much as I look forward to the day when I can look upon these times with a knowing smile, I want to remember you and our relationship in all the beauty and color you and it deserve, and I will do you and it justice by embracing the pain of loss with curious wonder and a desperate thirst (anguisette that I am).

Please tell me how you're doing and call me if it'll help even a little. I'm sure you know I'm secretly hoping you will.

Love,
Max

End of the Davis Era

There's suddenly a chill to the dawn air again. To be sure, there are still hundred degree days ahead of us in Davis, but the worst of the summer is over. As with every year, I face summer's end with the melancholy of anticipated change.

This year I have particular cause for melancholy. Jill starts a PhD program at UC Santa Cruz this September. Brandon left for Washington DC in June and Howard will be leaving for home when his lease finishes at the end of the month. My job with Monsanto finishes this Friday the 13th and after that I don't know what I'm doing. I'm not going to Santa Cruz. I'm not staying at my house in Davis either. My lease finishes the same time as Howard's. I plan to help move Jill into Santa Cruz and then take the month of September off, backpacking with my sister and maybe surfing a little back home.

After that is anybody's guess. I've started applying to Monsanto full time positions, microbreweries and tech jobs. I'm at a stage at my life where I can take a job anywhere in the country. We'll see what comes of it. Cross your fingers. Whatever happens, even if I get a Monsanto job in Davis for the year, the end of this summer marks the end of an era. There's no longer anything left for me in Davis in terms of people.

Jill and I are parting ways when she moves to Santa Cruz. It was something we'd known was coming since we started going out, but it's been a year longer than originally envisioned. As you can imagine, too, it's something we've made an effort to blot out. It's coming quickly and soon enough denial won't be sufficient to insulate us.

My sister wisely pointed out that mutual breakups are hardly ever mutual. I think Jill would very happily do the long distance thing. I however, besides hating the idea of a long distance relationship, need more diversity of experience before I can contentedly commit. The idea of marrying my first girlfriend is many times more terrifying to me than a return to loneliness. Between you and me, that is saying something.

So I can look forward to either moving back in with my parents to a town I love but with only a handful of friends remaining or a year of gainful employment in a place completely without friends. Gosh, guys, post-college is a blast from start to finish. Tell me when it's over.

The Love Revolution

It seems an age ago that I was sitting with Marisa on our high school bleachers during lunch period, discussing love. It was a conversation that had been waiting to happen for a few months. She kept telling me, "I love you, Max." I never knew how to respond. I didn't feel like I understood what love was well enough to profess my love for someone.

So there we were, five years ago, Marisa finally asking me why I wouldn't say I loved her. I explained that I wasn't sure I loved anyone and that I didn't want to say so until I was sure it was true. She pressed on, "What about your family? Don't you love them?" She asked with the incredulity of a Mormon and ultrafriend. I thought for a minute, mulling things over, and decided, "I guess I love my sister. If I love anyone in the world it is my sister." "Don't you love your parents?"

So often love appears like water. Clear and invisible when we're standing still in the midst of it. I told her that I wasn't sure. I told her that I supposed I must, but if love was there I didn't know what I was supposed to be looking for. This was how I assuaged one of my best friends about refusing to say I loved her back.

I think at the time I thought she might use the word love too liberally. I was also wary because just a few months before my friend Caius had broken her heart by telling her he didn't love her anymore, concluding their brief, intense relationship. I didn't think love should be the sort of thing that could be recanted, so I gave the word extra caution, sometimes even hostility.

It wasn't until midway through college that I began to respond "I love you too" on the phone to my parents. By then there'd been enough motion and distance between us for me to witness the invisible bonds of love I had for my parents. It wasn't until a few months ago, between Marisa's return from her mission in Czech and my trip to the Lost Coast with Caius, that I finally admitted I loved my close friends. At the beginning of the summer I broached the subject of love with Jill and over the course of the conversation decided I loved her and told her so. That adds another first to the long list of firsts that Jill has on me.

Recently, I've been paying attention to older-fashioned uses of the word love. People used to use the word so much more freely. They talked about love of friends, cousins and their favorite possessions. Love is now used in romantic comedies as something earth shattering and singular. It may be irrevocable, but love is not singular. I think I've been shielded from the nature of love by hyperbole. I've been divorced enough from the source of the word that I've had trouble recognizing it in my own life. Love happens every day.

To some extent I guess I love everybody. That's not to take anything away from the people I first declared love for. They were first for good reason. I love you guys. I just think we should approach love in that old fashioned way. Not the way hippies treat love as if it's some supernatural, omnipresent, omnipotent force and not the way romantic comedies elevate romantic love to the point of alienating all other forms and degrees of it. I want to reclaim the word from poets, panderers and theorists back to the simple meaning it began with. I want it to refer to the affection we feel for the people around us.

Why Having a Girlfriend is Awesome

Someone to go to the farmers market with

Physical contact

I'm allowed to stare.

Another kind of shampoo in my rotation

Lazy Saturdays

Help on Restaurant City

Cooking from recipes

Summer's Nights

There's no common time so romantic as a summer's night. This is even more true in Davis, where night is the only comfortable time of the day. You may think I'm being dramatic, you may think I'm not being fair, but it's been true to me for years. Ignoring human-made holidays and momentary variances in weather, when you're really talking about the time and not anything else, there is nothing so persistently magical as when the land is cool and dark. The possibilities for mischief and holy moments stretch out like fingers across a wide, rounded back.

My obsession with music has passed. It came to me in the morning, ravaged me all day, and went along its way in the evening. Now that it's night, I'm not sure I'm sad it has gone nor am I convinced that it won't return, but I'm glad it came and left me full of color and taste. I'm haunted by its echos. Not the myriad minor bands that I strove to categorize and appreciate, but by the great bands, the bands that formed the only recognizable soundtrack to my college experience.

I'm finally riding my new bike Smoky again. He's inky black like night and dirty like me in summer. Road bikes are such a pleasure to ride. The other bikes get you from place to place, but without the exhilaration of Mercury's speed.

There's something creepy about the progression of summer nights from late spring to early fall. It likely has to do with the apprehension I've viewed the end of all things with, particularly things so open and beautiful as summer. Even now, I'm sensing the approach of September in the dark air. A sweeter smell, maybe? Not like spring's heady pollen, but a deeper, melancholy, more earnest kind of sweetness that has replaced high summer's smell of baking dry tan grass.

Picnic Day

So last week was Picnic Day, the greatest annual event in Davis. Every year a hundred thousand people or so flock to the university's (and city's) open house. Live music blasts from five stages at any given moment, all of the departments put on events and every imaginable animal show finds a place here. Undergraduates wander drunkenly through crowds of visiting families. This year my family came; that is, my sister, mom and the Norrises, family friends whose daughter is a freshman here. Everybody slept in my living room and everybody was delightful.

I joined KDVS for the Picnic Day Parade. The weather was a perfect, cloudless low 80 degrees (the last one I was in was a sodden death march).


I thanked Allison for babysitting my family and began to show them around. The sheepdog trials are the most awesome event at Picnic Day, which is saying something.


We lounged in the grass and watched the incredible spectacle. The dogs work like their lives depend on it.


I slipped off to chat with to Jill and her mom, who were by then pleasantly tipsy. We lounged in the grass some more and her mom, Ra, snapped a couple of pictures of the two of us. This one was a keeper.


I met back up with my unit for some more grass-lounging as we listened to the Battle of the Bands, where school marching bands take turns playing songs until they succumb to exhaustion.

I later showed the Norrises my radio station, capping off my favorite Picnic Day yet.

25 Facts About Max

Like so many things, my first reaction to the "25 Things" meme was haughty but after a few weeks continued exposure to people's various lists I came around. Without an obvious route to entertaining the audience I think writing about oneself is poor form. That may come as surprise considering my particularly intense self-love and the very fact that I write a blog. However, I feel that, properly done, blogs manage to entertain while simultaneously wallow in self-absorption. It's become apparent that "25 Things" share that quality. Thus, I present 25 Facts About Max:

1. I am didactic. I'm always explaining things to people whether or not they're curious, because if they aren't curious, they ought to be. I'm enriching their lives!

2. I am a critic. Like a movie critic, except of everything.

3. I love to argue. Or at least I have a hard time not instigating arguments and a hard time extricating myself from them. I enjoy the exchange of ideas and the friendly competition.

4. I love getting schooled in an argument. Of course I'm disconcerted at first, because that rarely happens, but it's nice to be reminded that I still have things to learn. Props to Aaron Robinson for schooling me in history this past October.

5. If I thought I had the talent my ideal job would be writing.

6. I'm so sick of hearing about and seeing Obama everywhere. Stop beating him to death! Nobody can hold up to these obscene expectations. He is not Jesus.

7. I bicycle everywhere and almost always take the stairs. This is motivated by impatience rather than by health or environmental considerations.

8. Apparently I have a bit of a lisp. I had no idea until this past summer when I was listening to a recording of my radio show and I mentioned to Brandon that it almost sounded like I had a lisp, and he was like, "Yeah, you do a little."

9. I'm an Eagle Scout. Everyone seems surprised to hear that one. Go figure...

10. I was taught to try anything once. I think my parents meant food, not everything. My dad was pretty disconcerted when I took a puff of his friend's cigar when offered, like I'd transgressed some bond of trust. I'm just extending the rule he taught me so well.

11. That said, addictive substances scare the crap out of me. It has only recently occurred to me that a coffee addiction might be a net positive.

12. I approach my life very analytically. I approach my politics very analytically. People tell me it comes off cold when I approach lifesaving legislation as a numbers game, who knew?

13. That said, I believe logic to be a flawed system. Socrates is a douche.

14. I am a moral relativist and do not believe that any principle is absolute.

15. I consider creativity to be a major component of intellect and I consider intellect to be the most important quality in a person.

16. I grew up in a household culture where we constantly made fun of eachother's quirks and flaws. I love people who can take that sort of abuse and I love still more those who can also dish it out.

17. In the early stages of my music obsession I sold my soul to allmusic.com for it's wisdom. Even now, you'll find my opinions of albums and artists to suspiciously mirror star ratings found on the site.



18. I'm fascinated by the androgyny of glam rock. I think it'd be totally badass to dress like the New York Dolls.

19. Four staples compose the majority of my calorie intake: frozen pizza, potatoes with cheese, chili with rice, and beer.

20. Freshman year I was named "honorary asian" by a group of asian kids on my floor, cause I was better with chopsticks and ate weirder stuff than they did. Later they revoked it, but it was for personal reasons. They just didn't like me anymore. Or maybe I sucked too much at Smash Bros...

21. I grew up helping my dad make wine, yet I prefer beer. Oh the shame. But wine is such a heavy drunk.

22. I own 31 vinyl LPs because it's trendy, but I don't even have a record player.

23. I think we are in the midst of the greatest golden age the world has ever seen.

24. The justification for every financial corner I cut (and I rarely buy required textbooks) is that I am saving up to travel.

25. My first kiss was within the last six months.

New Year's Update

I've got a girlfriend. I've been dating Jillian Miller for a couple of months now and things are going very, very well. Those counting will realize that that makes Jill my first girlfriend, so on top of absolutely adoring her I am also flushed with the elation that comes when everything is brand new.

I'll be doing a lot of reading this quarter due to my humanities heavy course load. Good literature always makes me want to start writing. Not blogging, mind you, I've always wanted to write the next great American novel. I will too. I've already got the plot outline so now I'm just fleshing it out. It occurred to me that the basic outline is a straight rip from the Star Wars saga, but no worries, most literature is anyways.

After two months of riding Brandon's bike while I procrastinated fixing a simple flat, I'm finally back on the Ash Maiden. After Brandon's beautiful monstrosity, the Maiden feels like a toy in my hands. I forgot what it feels like to fly.

Face Paint

Face paint is officially awesome.

Face paint is infinitely superior to masks. Breathable, flexible and compact not to mention emotive, face paint has the capacity to radically change your appearance with little money and full artistic license. Face paint can be deeply creepy or frightening without being static.

Of course, at college Halloween parties like the ones I visited this past weekend in Isla Vista, looking creepy and/or frightening is rarely the objective. For girls, Halloween is generally treated as an excuse to wear as little as possible. While guys are permitted a bit more wiggle room, considering Halloween mythology it is remarkable how nonthreatening the vast majority of costumes are. Come to think of it, Santa Barbara girls are no strangers to face paint, but the frightening result is sadly inadvertent.

I am a huge fan of holiday spirit and a hot nurse outfit just fails the Halloween litmus test. What happened to the desire to be thrilled by the holiday? Maybe these girls just thrill themselves at their own daring. I imagine standard costume-picking conversation to go something like this: "No way, that's just too slutty. I mean, that's over the line, even for you.""Oh, but yours is way sluttier than mine.""At least ours aren't as bad as so-and-so's.""Yeah!"

Don't get me wrong, I'm not bitter and I'm not opposed to cleavage. I'm just waiting to see a rabid playboy bunny with nasty, big, pointed teeth.

And I assure that you will find a truly creepy or frightening costume to be deeply rewarding. You are a living part of the Halloween dream. I was talking to this girl that night as a mime and she was quite friendly, but when I started hitting on her she practically ran away. Not one hundred percent sure that was the paint...

So dress not to impress, but to terrify those around you. I demand monsters! It is your holiday duty just as come December it will be to spread holiday cheer. Dress as a skeleton, a vampire, a zombie, as Frankenstein's monster or a sinister rabbit of pure evil, just recall what makes Halloween Halloween and not another costume party.

The Ash Maiden and Other Stories

For those of you who don't know, the Ash Maiden is my bicycle. The story of the Ash Maiden is a cherished one, and I will share it with you now.


During the summer after senior year in my preparations for moving to Davis I asked my dad about acquiring a bike. He related to me how his friend and his wife had resolved to exercise more and so purchased bicycles. Years later it occurred to them they would likely die of old age before touching those two bikes and so they asked around to see if any of their friends would take the ill-fated machines off their hands. My father, not being one to pass on an opportunity to enlarge his already-terrifying pile of unused possessions, gladly took them and left them out in the elements for two and a half years. Thus, I was faced with two sad looking bikes, covered in rust and grime. The first, least rusty one was decked out with mirrors, all-terrain tires, and all manner of useless contraptions. The second was a criminally shabby but functionally intact road bike of subtle, elegant lines. I don't need to tell you it was love at first sight. I used a wire brush to scrub most of the rust away, washed away the dust and applied WD-40 to every nook the beleaguered road bike had to offer. She was a grey 1980's Panasonic with upright handlebars, cracked whitewalls and a bike rack. I named her after a Grimm fairy tale, the Grimms then being a recent discovery of mine.


A few months ago I changed out the upright handlebars for the sleek, aggressive ones you now see. They're called bullhorns, and my dad was very concerned that I'd gore someone with them. Howard and I made them from a racing handlebar with a hacksaw. Hacksaw ftw.


Around the same time I completed my long-time goal of fitting the Maiden with more reflectors than God. You can see a bunch in the back, but at one point I had roughly twice as many (in the spokes, off the front and attached to my bike rack). When I replaced the rear wheel those douchebags at B&L didn't give me my reflectors back.

A new chapter in the life of the Maiden was written today when the last of her original whitewalls blew out, scaring small girls for miles around. I purchased a matching solid black tire on my way home today (yellowed whitewalls were never to my taste).

On Hope

Barack Obama has been criticized for his fluffy overuse of the word hope. Though I like Obama very much I know this criticism is completely justified. He is not the first to abuse the word, nor the first to bury a thoughtful platform in vapid reiterations of sugar-baited words. That the American public tolerates this indicates a problem with our use of the word. Many a sappy film's moral revolves around it, but do we think for a second what the word means or why it is assumed it is a virtue? I mean, surely everyone knows that hope is a double-edged sword. In the progress of life, mostly we make baby steps. But every now and again we run into a daunting gap, where a stark canyon deep and hard threatens us with a nasty fall. To proceed requires a leap of faith and risking that fall is better than halting progress. In short, progress requires hope. Too little and people stunt like mountain trees. Too much and people jump into every abyss without regard for reason. Thomas Edison needed hope to invent the lightbulb, but he didn't continue his attempts thousands of times merely based on hope. He kept trying because he could see the "light" at the end of the tunnel. People say that "hope keeps us going" and that is true, but I don't think most of us are hope deficient. We should never keep going when we're on a doomed path. You can hope all you want that the pretty girl will like you, but at some point you've got to call it a day. The same goes for slot machines.

Since cultural assumptions tend to be utilitarian we must ask ourselves why our culture promotes hope to the point of impracticality? The answer is that people like the sensation of hope. Independent of its practicality people enjoy hoping. This is a sensible human quality that encourages a needed trait. However this pleasant sensation makes "hope" ripe for romanticization. In public statements using a word like hope brings warm bubblies to the audience. This builds an irrational valuing of hope, which forms a feedback loop, producing a more and more positive connotation to a word whose definition never changed.

Hope remains a double-edged sword and on an internal level people naturally work to find the balance between those two edges in spite of a constant cultural barrage. So if we find the same balance regardless of a cultural barrage, what purpose do these inspirational speeches and story morals serve? I cautiously propose that the glorification of hope serves only as an exploitation of a knee-jerk reaction for the purposes of selling something.