Tuesday, June 19, 2007

The Worn, the Wise, and the What?

I’m just tired, okay?  We had a fun, fine weekend with the Portland relatives, including a delightful picnic with family (partly not mine) and friends (including one guy I am told I met a decade ago but neither of us remember it, and some nice random strangers who happened to show up with toddlers).  Since then I’ve been working my ass off and there is no end in sight.  So: I’ve decided to launch a couple of limp tepid balloons at the b’sphere and then give myself a bit of a breather.  I need to get through the next week and a half, at the very least, without overextending myself other than at the occasional yoga class.  Besides that, though, I think I’d be doing us all a favor if I just caught my breath, blog-wise, and let the creative juices well up again from wherever they originate, and whence they have lately retreated, leaving me in my work-worn state sadly parched of said juicy creativity.  I’m sure that nothing could make me write a bunch of entertaining crap more effectively than telling myself I don’t need to for a while.  Let’s see how that works.

Meantime, some parting gifts for our studio audience:

I’ve gotten into some new reality television, of a nature so lame and craven that I won’t even name names IRATE MASTUR KELS HITCHEN.  I can’t even say that I learn anything from these pieces of televised gummy rat.  It’s just brain-emptying entertainment.  However, I do flatter myself that I watch Survivor in part because I find it educational.  The last season ended months ago now, and for most of its duration I learned FLAT JACK SQUAT from it.  Then, with a sudden pedagogic burst, I suddenly learned three cool things in the very final episode, and since you are probably too clever by half to have wasted your time watching all that dumbness to glean such a bare mote of wisdom, I’ve distilled it down for you:

The prior season had been touted beforehand because it began with four racially-separated groups.  Would that impact the final results?  Not really, it didn’t.  The final three were a mixed bag – two Koreans who had bonded through common culture, of whom one was the leader and one was along for the ride, and one latino dude.  The Koreans had gotten rid of the other Asians; the latino hadn’t formed any relevant bond with the others of his genitive ilk.  It came down to a contest between the Korean and the latino, and the Korean won.  The race card had been thrown away long before.  So, this most recent season, there were two teams of mixed races, a good variety of skin types and nose shapes, and all three survivors in the final three were black.  Lesson: race is no more relevant than you make it out to be.

One of the “final three” survivors had gotten there by being really nice and supportive.  In the end she got no votes.  Lesson: Being nice is not in itself enough a lot of the time.

On the final episode, ejected players get to ask questions of the remaining three who made it to the end.  Many of those asking the questions were rude, confrontational, and barely coherent in their vituperation.  Lesson: if you’ve used up 14 minutes and 30 seconds of your 15 minutes of fame, don’t spend the last half-minute you’ve got acting like a jerk.

Wow, wasn’t that enlightening?  No?  Hey, shut up, I’m still talking.  And what I’ve got left will leave you wondering why they don’t demand a license before they let someone like me have a blog like this.  I’ve been sensing an ultimatum lately, something that would force me to make some kind of choice.  What is it?  I can’t tell yet, but it’s had me working up the following list of “OR” ultimatums!  Enjoy it, and I’ll see you here when I look here again!

OR-VILLE:

Fish or cut bait
Shit or get off the pot
Sink or swim
Kill or be killed
Publish or perish
Look or leap
Truth or dare
Shirts or skins
Pitch or catch
The lady or the tiger
Chainsaws or grappling hooks
Alien or Predator
Civilization or discontent
Whip or will
Funk or fied
Wright or Reddenbakker

What a relief.  Later, dudes. 

Friday, June 15, 2007

Earwigs and Onion Rings: What My Brain Does to Me

I’ve had a tune stuck in my head all morning long, and it’s pure torture.  I’m really hoping I can move it out of my brains and into the Ethernet by sharing it here, so here goes:

Froggy went a courting, he did shout oy vey, gevalt
Froggy went a-courting, he did shout oy vey, gevalt
Froggy went a-courting, he did shout
Anthropoid amphibian freaks me out, gevalt, oy vey

No dice.  Still lodged firmly in my thinkbone like a toothbrush shiv in Paris Hilton’s bony fist.  So instead I’ll mouth off, blog-wise, about the Sopranos finale.  And it doesn’t matter if you never watched a single episode, or if you memorized the damn thing and know every nuance and read every commentary on this significant, if not universally appreciated, moment of television – I have to share one point about that final scene.

For those who otherwise wouldn’t care, and there’s no spoilers here, the final scene takes place in a low-key diner.  The Soprano family sits down to supper and starts eating onion rings.  What do the onion rings mean?  I’ve read that they are an analogue to communion wafers, but for the love of a fried bulb, that just doesn’t make any sense at all.  I have my own theory, which might be best referenced by the song title “Zero to the Power of 10 (= Nothing at All)” (and anyone who doesn’t know that tune really is due a copy of Tull’s Minstrel in the Gallery, but that’s another story).  But who cares.

My point is, damn, those onion rings looked good.  It’s been a long time since I’ve had a plate of rings and I got a serious craving for them from watching Tony et al eat all of them.  So when I found myself overwhelmed with lunch options yesterday, I just naturally gravitated to the Ferry Building and Taylor’s Natural Refresher.  I waited ten minutes in line, and then fifteen minutes while my cheeboogi ‘n’ rings got fried up properly.  By the time I sat down with my lunch tray I was pretty much out of lunch-hour time and very much ready to chow down. 

So, here’s the thing: the burger was decent – not breathtaking, but good meat, well-cooked, reasonably garnished and possessed of adequate integrity (ie it didn’t collapse or disassemble as I ate it).  And the rings were also okay, a basket of a dozen or 15 good-sized circles of caramelized onion in beer batter and plenty of cooking erl.  The first three rings were really satisfying.  But then I went and ate the rest of them.  So long as they were in my mouth, everything was fine.  But as soon as I swallowed the last of them and stood up to leave, the regret began.  I was so laden with fried goo that I spent the rest of the afternoon wishing that I’d just resorted to my typical smoothie instead from City Kinetics just up my alley.  I felt greasy and gross till I fell asleep. 

The moral: The Sopranos may have been the best thing on television, or maybe it wasn’t; its finale may have been its finest hour or maybe it was a big rip-off.  However, onion rings are definitely better on television than they are in my belly.  Tonight I’m baking Tilapia and steaming some plantain and avocado, and maybe by the weekend I’ll feel like making pancakes for dad’s day.  But they’re fried, so I’m still on the fence.  However, it’s a deliciously maple-y fence, so I think I know which side I’m going to fall on....

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

One Month Later: Reclaimed Relaxation

I’m back, as if you cared, from a day at home precuperating from a cold I could tell I’d really get badly if I had gone to work.  You like that, “precuperating?” Prophylactic rest to avoid future illness?  You love it, admit it.  Go on and use it.  Don’t even give me credit.  Why should you be any different than the rest of the world? 

Ah yes, the bitterness of a man whose 65%-of-a-blog-post got erased when Windows decided to do an auto-update on me last night and erased an open and foolishly-unsaved screen.  My delight boils over like scalded milk on a cast-iron stove.  Today is to be chock-full of rigors and workosity, though I do fully intend to get out for my afternoon Ashtanga session at the Y.  Plus I’ve got four budgets to read, three site visit letters to revise, and a handful of random humus to scatter to the fields of my labors.  After which, of course, all I need to do is vacuum, dust, repaint, replaster, and probably re-roof my apartment in anticipation of the visit this weekend (starting Thursday) of my sister and her lovely family.  Oh, I’m relaxed already. 

So relaxed, in fact, that it’s time for me to hearken back to a time – was it only a month ago? – when K and Z and I ventured up to the north coast for a weekend away.  I’ve got a handful of notelets about that weekend and I’m going to re-experience them now by sharing them with you.  And you, my friends, being stuck here for the ride, are, to coin a phrase, ride-stuck.  Next time make sure you get a window seat so you can escape at a traffic signal or something.  Meantime, here’s what you missed when I left you for a weekend last month:

Accommodations:

* We stayed at a fun little cabin-cluster in Little River, the “Fools Rush Inn” (no really), where each residence had a name derived from a local landmark or town, in mostly alphamabetical order.  We stayed in the “Gualala” cabin, and it rocked.  It ranked a full step ahead of the Humboldt cabin, and just barely behind the Farallon cabin.  It was even right across the drive from the Albion cabin, so that means we were basically even with #1, right?

* The cabin was heated by a gas-fueled fireplace with fake logs and a thermostat, so when the temperature dropped a hair below “cozy” (it was a remarkably balmy weekend, for sure) the fireplace burst automatically into flames with a cheerful “whoosh” of igniting fumes and consumed oxygen.  Very cheerful, if not always calming or expected. 

* The next morning as we drowsily broke our nocturnal fast, we were jolted into full wakefulness by the sound of footsteps pounding across our roof, small but heavy and fleet.  Was it a raccoon?  A vole?  An iguana?  Well, not likely an iguana, but we have no idea to this day what was using our roof as a footpath.  We only know that it really seemed to know where it was going.  I’d like to think it was a gnome, but I like to think a lot of stuff. 

* I’ve grown used to getting soap at my hotels, but this time the soap was a bit more exotic: “Sweet Bouquet #3/4 Indian Face/Body Soap.” I wonder what a full Number 1 face/body soap would be like, because ¾ was not bad at all.

* The place was run by a guy who had a reputation from on-line reviews as a bit of a coot, and when he had returned my telephone call to make a reservation he announced himself to me as “CIA.  And FBI.  And IRS,” before admitting his true identity.  I therefore feared for his being a true coot, or “troot.” But in fact, he was younger than I expected and only showed signs of preliminary cootness.  I consider it a “prototcoot” sighting, both rare and wonderous.  Good for me, eh? 

Moving on to my notes on other places and personages on the trip:

* We drove several times past the Philo School of Herbal Energetics before I really believed what I read on their sign.  I’m still not sure what they do there, but I’d have to say, the lower end of the Anderson Valley looks like a damn fine place for whatever it might be.  For all the New Englandism of the Mendo Coast, the ol’ P-SHE really confirmed that this was Northern California. 

* A few quick tidbits: Fort Bragg – unexpectedly and very pleasantly mellow and interesting.  Booneville Hotel – lovely place, great food, and one of the nicest cats I’ve ever met in a public setting.  On the wending road back home – a galvanized wikiup, which is a phrase I am aching to apply to something in my own life but the obvious reference escapes me.  And finally, the glory of a deep coastal ravine and alluvial outflow that was shamefully tainted by my inability to overcome the giggles at the name, “Jack Peters Creek.”

Category three, which is the last one I’ve got – Activities:

* We had supper at a low-key diner one night, overlooking all of Mendo town and the cliffs and sea.  Of course, Z basically wanted none of the food and nothing more than to play with crayons, which brought to my attention that crayola crayons are one hell of a lot more weirdly-named than they used to be.  First, give yourself a crayon-name test, and then check the official site’s chronology of names.  The bizarritude of these names was amplified by Z’s having received at the fantabulous Navarro Winery, a set of coloring pages and some crayons from the Quill (“So Fast, So Simple” – not unlike myself) Corporation.  Those crayons had names like “black,” “blue”, “brown” and “red.” There were 8 different colors and I recognized every name.  Is that a good thing or a bad thing?  I pick good.  That’s why I’d have made such a great hobbit.

* While vacating, I availed myself of my vacation p.j.s – specifically, some purple paisley drawstring deals that make my lower extremities scream “relaxation” at full volume.  However, as has been the case with too many of my clothes lately, a button seems to have fallen off of them while I was wearing them.  The next morning Z gleefully sought to jam his tiny finger in my navel, as is his wont, only to find that the missing fastener had actually lodged itself there in my omphalos.  It was, I believe, my very first honest-to-god belly button.  I hope that it will be my last, but Z, who was delighted by his discovery, would probably cast his vote otherwise. 

* On the way home, Z played with a book full of pop-up and tab-pull-motion figures of Elmo and his hairy monster friend Zoe from Sesame Street.  By the time we stopped for snacks down in Cloverdale, we discovered that he’d removed all the moving parts of that book and basically filled the back of the car with shredded muppet.  I had to congratulate him – I’d been itching to do just that for months, and he finally picked up the hint.  Good going, Z-man. 

Yep, that little trip down vacation memory lane was just what I needed.  I’d better get back to some actual work now.  If you’ve got some “instant vacation” snippets to share, I could definitely use them.  I’m pretty sure I’m going to tense right up again within an hour or so. 

Monday, June 11, 2007

Gorilla Run: All Banana, No Hammock

so, saturday was the neighborhood childrens’ art fair.  a lovely time, lots of candy and fried food and squealing and chaos of the most cheerful varieties.  No photos, which is just as well, because it wasn’t very photogenic.  It just felt like a small town - an amazingly diverse and creative small town.  Z had a great time and then slept like a rock on ambien.

sunday was a little weirder: we headed out to see our good friend (and (apparently erstwhile) blogger) shuffle his simian self at the great gorilla run.  Folk get into their gorilla suits (what?  you lost yours?) and run 7K to benefit gorilla habitats.  Then the gorillas run 7K to get me to clean up my goddamn spare room so my sister and her family can stay here later in the week.  But that wasn’t so photo-friendly an event so here are my shots of the GGR in GGP, with the following disclaimer: like a big dummy I set the camera to the wrong speed and my photos are consequently sort of fuzzy.  I guess that’s fitting, but I still feel dumb.

The race leaders, running full out like the jungle warriors they are.

Just as strenuous but less efficient, these guys were brachiating and cavorting for all they were worth.

Everybody got into the act.  The presence of a fez was particularly meaningful to me.  (and it was real, not dynamically added!)

Here’s our hero Pete, unabashedly bareheaded at the lakeside.

The view up JFK drive, as the noble beasts charge forth from the fogbanks.

Among the best images of the day, though the photo does not do it credit: six gorillas in a pedal-surrey, chasing a bicycling banana.

And, under the category “it shouldn’t be a total loss”: chuckles gets artsy at the playground:

Plus, of course, the grinning non-apey visage of my dear boy Zach, who enjoyed the whole damn thing just fine, tyvm.

I think that’s enough for this morning.  Looks like it’ll be a good’un.  Enjoy it!

Friday, June 08, 2007

A Matter of Perspective

Today, as Peter Gabriel sang once, is Different.  I don’t head off on the bus to my office downtown - instead, I only go to Japantown and there I’ll catch a ride with some colleagues to the memorial service for the director of my program, who succumbed to brain cancer last weekend after fighting it for 18 months.  Judy was a good boss, a great woman, and a true champion for a program that started with her and has now truly taken on a vibrant life of its own.  She’s barely been at work for nearly two years, but her office is still “Judy’s office” and her imprint is evident on everything that we do.  She is missed.

Her memorial is at Fort Mason, a large complex down off the marina.  That’s fitting - Judy loved the water and the bird that flock to its shore.  It looks like it’ll be a grey day, which is good for Judy’s fair complexion.  She will be surrounded by friends and family, which is good for her inherent sociability and as a testament to her skills as a relationship-builder.  I’m not looking forward to it, but I am glad that I’ll be able to go.

Ft Mason is quite near the Palace of Fine Arts, which brings to my mind some notes I took a few months ago about that building when we were visiting near it.  It’s a monumental edifice, a towering dome supported by columns that extent to either side in elegant arcades.  It resembles reconstructed ruins, with its through-lines and classical friezes and openness.  Originally built for the Pan Pacific Fair in 1915 or so as evidence of SF’s return as a great city after the temblor and conflagration of ‘06, the structure was not built for permanence and by the 1990’s it was getting pretty run down.  As part of the rehabilitation of this landmark, the city had a new roof installed on top of the dome.  The new roof is very distinct from the old one, much shinier and brighter, with a curious orange cast to the concrete.  At night, uplit, it looks fantastic.  Sometimes during the day, though, it doesn’t blend in quite properly with the original, old, faded construction.  But during our visit there not long ago I did reach three observations about that gorgeous building and its setting, and today those thoughts seem to resonate so I will share them:

The structure does look like it’s wearing a strange orange hat when the light hits it wrong.  But at sunrise and sunset, the air is filled with yellows and golds and oranges, and the new roof doesn’t just blend with the original structure - it enhances it, lends vibrancy and color to the whole construction.  What looks right at sunrise can look very wrong at noon, but by sunset it just might prove itself to be right after all.

The PFA sits in a beautiful park fronted by a duck pond. Ringing it on three sides are some of the most beautiful and sought-after homes in post-quake San Francisco - Edwardians, moderns, craftsmans… one particular place seems out of place, though - an almost garish moorish-venetian fantasy with ogees and lancet windows and no sense of self-restraint at all.  Walking past it on the sidewalk, I opined that it was just too much, an architect’s self-indulgence.  However, it’s directly across from the towering dome of the PFA, and when I stand at the back of that dome the corinthian columns and acanthus bushes frame that weird, fantastic house; the dome’s elaborate interior designs and the structural friezes that surround its cap are echoed in the folly of the house across the street, and from that angle, no better design for that home could be imagined.  What looks wrong from the wrong angle can be completely right from the right angle. 

During our little visit to the PFA I separated from K and Z for a few moments, and then came back to catch up with them.  I could have taken two little paths across a lawn, but instead I cut across and forged my own way.  Halfway through this hypotenuse route I stopped and looked around: the columns and caryatids and gleaming dome, the gentle rock-steps leading down to a swimming enclosure at the bay’s edge, the kite-flyers on the green and the myriad masts of yacht-club toys clinking and bobbing around.... had I taken the path, I’d have missed this comprehensive perspective.  Having made my own way, I got to see it all, and in a way that each element brought out new details and qualities in the others.  Sometimes the best path is the once you invent for yourself. 

The boy is starting to mumble in his crib; I’ve got to get myself ready for my morning and him for his.  Have a good weekend and keep yourself open to the beauty that chooses to reveal itself to you.

Wednesday, June 06, 2007

Eww… Jesus Doo

Once again I take my cue from he who exceeds me in wisdom, snarkitude, and site hits (although I do have a +5 for seekers of classic cereal boxes or nunchuck butts).  Mr. A’Plenty has written thoughtfully and insightfully (or even incitefully) of what, in the event of his appearance among us, Jesus would actually do, regardless of the myriad lanyards, bumper stickers, and self-rightous talk radio callers who, by posing the question rhetorically, imply that they actually know the answer. 

Well, what would Jesus do?  I suppose the first answer, drawing from the classic story told of Abraham Lincoln, would be “scratch desperately at the inside of his coffin.” However, assuming his assumption and all that that entails, and after a suitable period of Vegas-style “I’m not dead” frolicking, I do think there are a few things in our world today that Jesus might just undertake – and for each one, an antithesis which he would spurn like a waif spurns cheesesteak.  (Which Jesus would totally eat, assuming sustainable harvesting practices, an amoroso roll and sweet-n-hot peppers.  He’s holy, not stupid.)

I have given these matters all the serious thought that they merit.  That is to say, I played mental ping pong with this idea while riding home on the bus until I remembered that I’d brought my sudoku book.  I have memorialized the results of my cogitations, and now I foist them on you.  Ignore them if you wish, but remember: if Jesus shows up, wouldn’t you want to know what he’s up to? 

Jesus would/ wouldn’t:
Bring home ice cream / finish all the goddamn ice cream
Yoga / Bowflex
Tour / Sell tour shirts
Tivo / Wii
Blog / Mass-forward graphic-heavy e-mails “that will make you smile”
Vote regularly / Invade anybody
File share / spam
Shop organic / take my sandwich from the breakroom fridge even though I clearly wrote my name on it
Use turn signals / Install spinners and hitchballs
Speak Aramaic / Speak Latin
Share a powerful message of personal potential / Make lists

Tuesday, June 05, 2007

Three for the Road (Yellow Brick version)

It’s late and I feel like I need to get in touch with the part of my life that almost makes sense but really just makes me giggle.  To which end:

* I realized today that our three Netflix flix were, as of this morning: Yellow, Brick, and Cars – which is, in large part, about a road.  And my bedside reading is Wicked.  Coincidence?  I think not.  Ozfest, here I come! 

* Some company is trying to publicize its line of hair products with giveaways near my office – hot drinks and scrunchies.  I have no compunction about getting myself a free cup of coffee on their dime.  It’s pretty bad coffee but it’s still nice to have something to sip as I stroll my leisurely way to work.  However, I think they went a little too far chasing me down today to foist two packs of hair scrunchies on me.  As I looked with befuddlement at the elasticized bands in the palm of my hand, the shill took stock of my shiny, shiny scalp and backpedaled: “They can be for your girlfriend, maybe!” I think I’ll give my wife first shot, but if she says no, I guess I’m on the market.  Professional, polite, and possessed of hair bands… how could any woman say no? 

* Here at work I help administer grants.  One of the operative documents in this process is our booklet of the general provisions of our grants.  Another important operative in this process is the new accountant we just hired, Mr. Lee.  That seems too formal, his name is Robert.  When he was looking for information on certain provisions of grant administration, I went and got him the booklet of the general provisions of the grants.  When I handed it over, I found myself saying, “Robert Lee – general grant provisions.” Then I choked on my own geekitude and was never heard from again. 

Till later, I mean.  On which note, enjoy your evening.  I can’t do everything for you. 

Saturday, June 02, 2007

View from the Top

Long time no see, EE composition pane!  This has been my hiatus month, and a less relaxing hiatus I couldn’t wish on anyone.  Being this busy isn’t a bad thing, unless there’s something else one wants to do… like blogging… so I’ve had to take my pleasures, such as they are, where I could find them, and when I could.  It’s certainly left me tasting the stress in the back of my jaw more than once, especially when I was far from any opportunity to do anything about it.  At such times, I’ve taken solace in remembering a few really relaxing moments.  One of these, I experienced only quite recently, and since I’ve taken so much from it over the past 10 days, I figgered I’d just share it up with you-all, for being so patient and generous with me.  No no no - you’re welcome. 

I looked it up before I even left for work- power yoga, 6:30 pm, two blocks from my office.  I brought cloths and everything; I was looking forward all day to a new class, a high impact prana-ing, a hardcore callisthenic schvitz.  It had been weeks since anybody ordered me into repeated vinyasas till my heart sang and the sweat dripped into my eyes.  This was going to be good.

I left work at 5:30 because I needed to see a friend and get some videotapes back to him.  (thanks, dave.) We chatted till it was time for us both to leave – him, home; me, 12 blocks back east to the Y.  I went to the nearest bus stop, where an appropriate ride was just leaving me behind.  The next two busses went to the stop on the far side of the intersection, so I moved there.  The next bus stopped where I’d just been before.  I was losing a lot of time.  I did catch a bus, finally, and it was slow – very slow.  Too slow.  I wasn’t going to make it.  I hopped out again, ran to the underground line. Downstairs the station was teeming with ballgame crowds.  I fought my way to my train and it got me three blocks from my destination pretty quick, but despite fast walking, climbing up the escalator two steps at a time, and taking every possible shortcut, I was pretty sure I’d blown it.

I arrived at the desk, pulse racing from the exertion of just getting there.  “I understand,” I said somewhat archaically to the three women chatting behind the counter, “that a power yoga class is this very moment being taught here.” I paused as they collectively verified and confirmed this fact.  “Is it too late for me to join?” Their six eyes swiveled to the clock: 6:40.  By the time I got changed and on my mat, it’d be 6:45 at the earliest.  Not really the way to go.  Their eyes returned to mine, larded with commiseration.  “I’m so sorry,” one of them said.  “But really, we have a lot of other stuff you can do here – work out, whatever….”

“Yes,” I agreed, “but I didn’t bring any shoes.” The women’s sympathetic faces fell another degree or two, and then the one suggested, “It’s such a nice evening, though; what about hitting our sundeck for a stretch on your own?”

The sun wouldn’t be setting for an hour or so and it was a ridiculously warm evening – clear skies, light breeze, and a grin of a crescent moon on high.  “I’m not familiar with this ‘deck’ you speak of.” I replied, thinking it over for a second.  “Deal. Let’s do it.” I paid my tariff, got directions to the deck on the fifth floor, and was on my way.

The fifth floor was pretty damn minimal: an elevator, a staircase, a storage room, and a door to the deck.  The deck was about the size of a basketball court cut in half lengthwise, with most of the center portion full of bulky HVAC equipment.  I walked the perimeter.  I noted that it was coated in a rubbery material, something like what I see under the climbing bars on playgrounds.  On the east side it just abutted a taller part of the same building, with five or six more stories of windows looking down on me and out into downtown.  The west side, however, offered an open view into a forest of office buildings, malls and roofs.  The terrain was quite familiar to me, but the angle was new.  Sunlight cast gold leaf onto a thousand walls and windows.  I took a deep breath of the warm wind and settled in at a spot with a particularly broad view forward. 

Let’s step back for a moment.  It’s not just that I live in one of the most beautiful cities in the world – even in our fifty square miles of land there’s plenty of bits that just aren’t that nice, and many more that are nice enough but nothing special.  I, however, have the exceptional good fortune to reside in a corner of town where, when I compel myself to exercise, I am confronted with the best that SF has to offer: running in the manicured wilds of GG park, biking through the Presidio and across the GG bridge to the dramatic cliffs of the headlands; stumbling out of my gym at six freaking thirty in the A of M, I can clear my lungs of stale sweat-laden air at the edge of Crissy Field with the bridge catching dawn rays to my left and the wrenchingly beautiful Palace of Fine Arts cutting a silhouette against the rosy rays on the right… All in all, I am entirely spoiled when it comes to aesthetically-pleasing environs for my athletic exertions.  That’s where we’re starting.

So: I’m on the somewhat gritty but beautifully situated roof of the gym, at 7 o’clock on a balmy evening.  I’m in my jersey-cloth shorts and my Booberry ™ shirt, unshod and hatless.  (I repeat: hatless.) I lay out a towel and do my preliminary hip-openers; as I recline I notice that the roof is warm beneath me – whether from an afternoon’s baking in the sun or from crawlspace HVAC equipment makes no difference to me.  The heat penetrates my spine and I feel my neck and forehead relax.  I’m drinking the warmth through my back and the breeze feeds my senses.  This bodes well. 

I stand up strongly and begin my sun salutations – five As, three Bs.  I’m feeling my own heat now, kicking into plank, pushing hard from posture to posture.  I can’t remember all the poses, what to do next, but I crank through the ones I recall. I do some balances – better than I usually do.  I hit some strength poses, some deep alignments. I toss in a salutation between every sequence; I nail them so vigorously that I chafe raw spots across the tops of my feet against the rubberized roof.  The exertion makes me too warm and the shirt comes off – it’s against gym policy, but I’m free of those fetters up there and alone.  I conclude with a long headstand, toes pointed to the pale moon as it brightens against the now-dimming sky, legs motionless in the quiet breeze, a city’s worth of sound winding down on the streets below me and a new vitality pulsing straight up from my hands and head to the soles of my feet and out to the heavens above.

The workout took half an hour, plus a shivasana cool-down.  The class would have been twice as long.  But I was still enjoying my time on the rooftop a solid week later and beyond.  I don’t think I’d have gotten half that much satisfaction had I done what I’d planned to do.  For a change, being late for class made me on time for life.