Daytime Television Sucks

Being a work-from-home entrepreneur sometimes means, well, working from home. Most of the time, I prefer to go out and work in a café, bookstore, or even library. Having people around me, even if I’m not interacting with them, feeds me. It energizes me and keeps me motivated.

However, I’m not always able to go out. Especially when it’s raining out or I’m trying to save cash. In those cases, I work from home, which sounds great, doesn’t it? If you’re sitting in an office after a sixty-minute commute through back-to-back traffic, I’m sure it does.

There is a dark downside though. Daytime television.

Just to set the record straight, I don’t regularly watch TV. When I was single, I didn’t even own a television set. Everything I watched was on-demand from DVDs, Hulu or elsewhere.

And admittedly, I’ve gotten addicted to a handful of shows, like Lost and Family Guy. But I skip the majority of shows on TV. Yup, I get all of my modern culture awareness from Lost and Family Guy. Explains a lot, doesn’t it?

So it is with great trepidation that I turn on the TV every day. No, I’m not turning it on for myself. I’m turning it on for my dog.

That’s right, my dog.

I have a fearful little pup that is prone to barking at outside noise. Or at least, the noise he can hear.

When the television is on, Jerry Springer blocks out the scary neighbors outside with scary neighbors inside. The screeching of cats outside is replaced by the screeching of The View inside. The rumbling trucks in the street are covered by the rumbling shmucks in The Bold and the Beautiful.

My dog doesn’t watch the TV himself. Even when there are dogs on TV, he’ll just do his own thing, like play with the Kong or lie at my feet.

Without the TV, however, he’ll stand by the window on alert. With ears perked, he’ll sniff the air and bark at impending intruders. “Danger close, danger close!” he shouts.

What does this mean for me? It means my eye will wander to the television from time to time. I’ll catch a glimpse of a pregnant woman DNA testing ten guys to find out who is her baby daddy. Or a stately old man discovering that his wife’s young lover is really his cousin’s twin brother who’s been lost at sea for years.

Then I’ll shake my head, sigh, and long for a cafe. Daytime television really sucks.

P.S. Fortunately, there is a feasible alternative. Music also shutters outside noise. Though perhaps my band choices – like Slipknot, Slayer, and Five Finger Death Punch – aren’t the best choices to calm a nervous dog.

View Comments

The San Jose Rock ‘n’ Roll Half Marathon

My eardrums pulsated. The music was loud. Energizing. I rubbed my hands together and jogged in place. The air was spiked with a spirited chill.

“I can’t believe I’m about to put my body through this punishment again,” I thought to myself.

I shook off the doubt and looked around me. Packed elbow-to-elbow was an assortment of runners of all shapes, sizes, colors, and ages. Like a box full of random toys.

“Runners, get ready!” shouted the loudspeaker. Everyone turned to face forward. “Get set!” My heart shuddered. “Gooo!”

We took off. The thunder of a thousand horses fought the booms of the bass drums. It made me forget I was doing another half marathon. For a moment, it was more like a chilly outdoor concert.

Though I already had breakfast, I popped in some power gel. Mushy and hyper-sweet, I mashed it around my mouth like peanut butter. I was aiming to beat my previous time of 2:08:45 and wanted every advantage I could get.

As the music faded, the race became more real. There was huffing and puffing all around me. Scores of runners zoomed by. I took note of some of them and wondered if I would see them on the side of the road later.

One guy soared by me. Then spat a big, juicy, wet loogie on the ground. Friggin’ guy. I had to leap to avoid it.

One girl looked like a ghost. She was as white as this background color. I almost thought she was wearing white stockings, until I realized that she was just, well, really really white.

Another guy, probably in his late forties with graying hair, zipped through the crowd pushing a baby in a stroller. Bystanders waved and cooed at the baby, who I presume waved back.

Another lady, maybe in her fifties, also surged by me. What the hell. I began to increase my pace. It’s one thing to be passed by a guy with a stroller. It’s another to be passed by grandma.

Honestly though, I totally give her props. She was extremely fit. I hope I can stay that fit throughout my life. Seeing her run by was both frustrating and inspirational.

After a few blocks of nothing but the thunderous pitter-patter of countless feet, we hit another live band. Their guitar chords vibrated my adrenal glands, filling my veins with liquid energy goodness.

I increased my stride. Fewer leg rotations, longer steps. The savings were immediate. I didn’t expend as much effort, yet was going faster. I felt more like I was gliding than running. People who previously passed me were falling behind now.

Then I saw Loogie Guy. He violently veered off the course and onto the side. His body arched forward and he started to dry heave. Yuck. I moved toward the center of the street, anticipating a wet sloppy sound to slap the street. Fortunately, it never came. Loogie Guy sure looked tired though. Maybe he was dehydrated from spitting so much.

Stroller Guy was also back in my sights. And just beyond him was the 2:00 pacer. My brain did a somersault. If I could maintain this speed, I could beat my record and even break two hours. I glided on.

While the longer stride did conserve energy, I still got exhausted. Fortunately, a drink station appeared every time I was on my few last breaths. Thank the gods of water! I sloshed liquid relief onto my face in the hopes that some of it would splash into my mouth. Luckily, enough of it did.

Each mile was clearly marked. I did the first half fairly well. Another power gel, lots of water and Cytomax, a long stride, and vigorous live music kept me on pace. My mind didn’t think I was in a chilly outdoor concert anymore though. By this time, it knew I was in a race.

The pavement punished my feet. Fortunately, I stuck an extra cushion pad in my shoes last night. Otherwise, I would have blisters the size of Texas on the balls of my feet right now. Yeeha.

My knees mentally thanked me for training on a partly dirt path. They were screaming at me right now, but were still thankful that training wasn’t always like this. And like my feet, they thanked me for that added cushion as well.

By the ninth mile, they weren’t thanking me anymore though. My feet felt like bloody stumps of flesh. I imagined my toes bursting like grapes in my socks. Nice image, huh? Just thought I’d share that with you.

But I didn’t stop. I didn’t take a break. I kept my mind focused on the 2:00 pacer in front of me. He was gaining distance, but I wouldn’t let him out of my sight. I started to doubt I’d finish before two hours, but as long as I beat my previous time, I’d be happy.

Another drinking station. Another gulp of Cytomax. Another splash of water. Another live band. Another toe burst, just like glapes (insert Mr. Miyagi’s voice here).

Then a station with power gel appeared. They were under a ray of light and glowing halo. No, not really, but I did feel like they were angels from Heaven as they handed me that delicious, scrumptious, life-saving goo.

My speed was dropping. The 2:00 pacer was fading away. I tried to get back into my stride but couldn’t. Then the power gel snapped into place. I didn’t race past anyone, but regained that stride, despite protests from my feet and knees.

“Sorry,” I told my feet, “but I’m going to finish this race, even if I pass the finish line with bloody stumps.” Really, I told my feet that.

The eleventh mile was tough. I passed a high school cheerleading squad that shouted and cheered and did high kicks, but even that didn’t help. There was no way I was going to beat two miles. So I aimed to just beat 2:08:45.

A police officer on a bike was riding parallel with us. “Can I get a ride?” shouted a woman in front of me. I wondered the same thing. The cop just smiled.

Familiar heads began to surround me. I say “heads” because I couldn’t see any faces, just the backs of people’s heads. These were the people at the beginning of the race. They were the ones that sped ahead. I had caught up to them.

Perhaps it was that realization, coupled with my competitiveness—or perhaps it was the power gel and water, I don’t really know which. But something flipped a switch around mile twelve. I still knew I was going to finish with bloody stumps, but I stopped caring. I stopped thinking about my toe jam (literally) and just wanted to continue gliding.

My pace started to increase. I started to pass more familiar heads. Some were walking now. Others were jogging slowly. I straightened up my form, kept my steps long, and tried to ride a current of air forward.

Mile twelve. The finish line was getting close. I knew it. I pushed forward, pain be damned.

But dammit, every corner I turned wasn’t the finish line. Where the hell was it? I was running out of power gel and Cytomax. Just pure adrenalin powering me now. That, and two stubborn bloody stumps.

Ah! Mile thirteen! I turned one more corner and finally saw the finish line. A wall of people outlined the final stretch. It was time to use my fast-twitch muscles. I sprinted the last 0.1 miles and crossed the finish line as fast as I could.

Woo, I finished! I looked at the clock. Did I beat my previous time?

Yup. And I beat two hours too! 1:56:36 baby! I ain’t about to do the Olympics anytime soon, but at least I gave myself a new personal record. I chugged some water and rubbed my knees. Each breath of air was like fire in my seared lungs. I walked on and grabbed some much-needed food to refuel my spent body.

My second half marathon. Nice. Next up, a full 26.2 mile marathon sometime next year. Bring it on!

View Comments

The Wear Sunscreen Speech

You know the Wear Sunscreen Speech, right? If not, where have you been? Under a rock buried in the sand behind an outhouse on an island with dark sunglasses at night? Tsk tsk.

The Wear Sunscreen Speech—sometimes simply known as the “Sunscreen Speech”, but originally called “Advice, like youth, probably just wasted on the young”—was written by Chicago Tribune columnist Mary Schmich way back on June 1, 1997 as a fictional commencement speech that she’d like to give if she were ever asked to.

For some reason, a mischievous student decided to send the speech around as a MIT commencement speech given by Kurt Vonnegut. Weird, huh? If you’ve seen that email, now you know who really wrote that speech—Mary Schmich and not Kurt Vonnegut (though Vonnegut could have certainly written something just as witty & profound).

You may have also heard the speech in song form by Australian film director Baz Luhrmann as “Everybody’s Free (To Wear Sunscreen): The Sunscreen Song”. This song gave the speech new life and a wider reach. Luhrmann had also seen the Vonnegut email and tried to contact him. But when one of his colleagues jumped on the web to track down Vonnegut, they found out about the hoax and how Mary Schmich was the original author. So he contacted Schmich, and the rest is history.

This speech is one of my favorite pieces. Chock full of advice like a rich & yummy granola bar, I’ve followed many of its nuggets before. They’ve directed my life like delicious road signs on my yellow brick road. Some of my favorite nuggets are:

• Don’t worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum.
• Do one thing every day that scares you.
• Floss.
• Don’t be reckless with other people’s hearts. Don’t put up with people who are reckless with yours.
• Get to know your parents. You never know when they’ll be gone for good.
• Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft. Travel.
• Respect your elders.

Great nuggets, huh? That’s what I got out of it. Here’s the full speech, so you can find your own nuggets. Bon appetit.

Advice, like youth, probably just wasted on the young

Ladies and gentlemen of the class of ’97.

Wear Sunscreen.

If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience. I will dispense this advice now.

Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they’ve faded. But trust me, in 20 years, you’ll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can’t grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine.

Don’t worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4 pm on some idel Tuesday. Do one thing every day that scares you.

Sing.

Don’t be reckless with other people’s hearts. Don’t put up with people who are reckless with yours.

Floss.

Don’t waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you’re ahead, sometimes you’re behind. The race is long and, in the end, it’s only with yourself. Remember compliments you receive. Forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how. Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements.

Stretch.

Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year- olds I know still don’t. Get plenty of calcium. Be kind to your knees. You’ll miss them when they’re gone. Mayber you’ll marry, maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll have children, maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll divorce at 40, maybe you’ll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don’t congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody’s else’s.

Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Dont’ be afraid of it or of what other people think of it. It’s the greatest instrument you’ll ever own.

Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but your living room.

Read the directions, even if you don’t follow them.

Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly.

Get to know your parents. You never know when they’ll be gone for good. Be nice to your siblings. They’re your best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.

Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.

Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft. Travel.

Accept certain inalienable truths. Prices will rise. Politicians will philander. You, too will get old. And when you do, you’ll fantasize that when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble, and children respected their elders.

Respect your elders.

Don’t expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund. Maybe you’ll have a wealthy spouse. But you never know when either one might run out.

Don’t mess too much with your hair or by the time you’re 40 it will Look 85. Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it’s worth.

But trust me on the sunscreen.

View Comments

A Boy and a Violin

It caught Jimmy’s eye immediately. “Hey, let’s stop in this shop.”

“Sure,” I answered.

The sign out front read “Antique Music Instruments” in a bold Art Nouveau typeface. I was surprised to see it in English. Most of the other Prague shop signs were in Czech, naturally. We walked in.

Inside the cozy little shop were rows of violins. Beautiful, intricately designed, and timeless, they sat on display like museum pieces.

The shop owner was seated inside, with a cello in her lap and a music stand in front of her. She quickly apologized in Czech and stood up.

“Ahoj! No, no, it’s okay. Please, keep on playing,” Jimmy told her.

She didn’t understand and just smiled.

“Um, mluvíte anglicky?” Jimmy asked.

“A little,” she held her fingers slightly apart and tilted her head. Then she said something in Czech.

“We didn’t mean to interrupt you. Please, keep playing.” Jimmy motioned towards the cello in her arms. “We would love to hear you play.”

She nodded and smiled, but didn’t otherwise move. The cello was still in her arms and the music stand at her feet. “Look? Come, see? Violins.” She motioned towards the magnificent display around her.

“Okay, thanks. Wow, there are so many violins here!” Jimmy exclaimed.

We walked around the shop and admired all the antique instruments. Note cards proudly displayed their names. And their prices. They were expensive, very expensive.

“Wow, look at some of these,” I marveled.

“Pretty awesome, huh?” Jimmy was admiring a case of oddly-shaped violins. “I’ve never played the violin before.”

“You play the cello though, right?”

“Yea.”

I turned to him. “Hey, know what you should do? Play the cello here!”

Jimmy looked at the shop owner. “Hmm. I wonder if I can. Maybe.”

The shop owner had put away her cello and was now standing at eager attention. When Jimmy looked at her cello, she said something and motioned towards it. “Play?” she said in English.

“Um. Naaah, that’s okay.” He smiled and backed off.

In the back were a few brass instruments, though the vast majority were violins. There were only a handful of cellos too.

After a good examination, Jimmy straightened up. “Well, okay. Thank you again very much. Dêkuji.”

The shop owner smiled and waved. “Thank you. Good bye.”

We left the shop. Jimmy was quiet and deep in thought.

“That was a pretty cool shop,” I said.

“Yea.”

“Too bad we didn’t see her play.”

“Yea.”

“You should’ve played man.”

“Yea.” Jimmy stopped. “I do kind of want to play. But I haven’t played in a long time. I don’t she’d want me touching her cello.”

I turned to him. “Dude, you should totally play. I’ve heard you play the cello before. You’re damn good. You’ve played before large audiences too! Also, she offered the cello to you. I think she’d like it if you played. You’d probably make her day.”

He looked over at the shop longingly. We subconsciously began walking back. “Yea, that’s true.”

“Here’s another thought. We’re in Prague dude. Prague. When will you ever get another chance to play the cello in Prague? How many people can say they’ve experienced that?”

“You’re right!” There was a fire in his eyes, a determination. He strutted back into the violin shop.

The shop owner was back at the cello. She stopped and looked up at us with a smile.

“Ahoj! Okay, I’ll play a little.”

Without a word, she got up and handed him the cello. Jimmy settled into the seat and practiced a few notes. “I haven’t played in a while,” he apologized to the shop owner.

“You play? Take lessons?” she asked.

“No formal lessons. I learned on my own.”

And with that, Jimmy began to weave a delicate melody. The shop was filled with a graceful sound that was warm and delightful. I noticed she was swaying a little with the music.

“Very good! Very good!” she cheered.

Jimmy blushed. “Thanks. Like I said, I haven’t played in a while.” He stood up. “I’d love to hear you play.” He offered the cello to her.

“Me?”

“Yes, please.”

She took the cello and sat down. We stood there as she began to enchant us with an aural feast. It was evident she’d played professionally as well. She gently swayed with each elegant swash of her bow.

Outside, a few tourists heard the music and peered through the window. A father and son came into the store. “Daddy, look! She’s playing!” the boy said in English.

All four of us American tourists stood in silent repose as the shop owner captivated us with her Sirens’ song. It was beautiful and mesmerizing.

When she finished, we broke in glorious applause. She beamed and bowed her head. “Thank you, thank you.”

The father and son left in high spirits. Jimmy, flush with the energy of music, fluttered around the shop. “May I play a violin too?” he asked.

“Violin?”

“Yes, may I play a violin? I’ve never played one before, but I’d love to try. I don’t need an expensive one, just any old junky one will do.”

She opened a glass case and gingerly pulled out an ancient, yet expensive-looking piece.

“Oh, um, okay. I don’t need one that nice.” She handed it to him as he was speaking. “But, um, okay, cool. Thanks.”

“You play? Take lessons?”

“Nope. Never played a violin before. So, I apologize in advance for any horrible noises I’m going to make.”

She smiled and watched him expectantly. I’m not sure she understood everything he said and seemed to expect a similar beautiful performance as before.

Jimmy carefully tested a few notes. Sometimes he got the right note. Other times it sounded like a cat dying. After a few practice swashes, he cleared his throat and nestled his chin in.

For his first time, he was surprisingly good. Jimmy’s one of those naturally-gifted musicians that can pick up any instrument and play a song after hearing it just once. While not as polished as his cello performance, he still weaved a delightful tune.

I applauded. The shop owner smiled and nodded. “Very good, very good.”

Jimmy handed back the violin. On that boy’s face was the biggest grin his head could hold. You could tell he was still high from his experience.

As he and the shop owner spoke enthusiastically about cellos and violins, I examined a case of violins. Wow, I thought. We’re in Prague. Jimmy just played the cello and the violin for the first time. Then the shop owner graced us with a private performance. How many people can say they’ve experienced that?

Do you play the cello or violin?

View Comments

A Viennese Mozart Symphony

“Hey look, there’s a Mozart symphony playing tomorrow.”

Jimmy followed my gaze over to the poster. “Mozart symphony, huh? That would be cool. That’s a very Vienna thing to do.”

I nodded. “It’s not too far away from our hostel either.”

“Let’s check it out online and see how much tickets are.”

We wandered over to a nearby Internet cafe. After a lot of digging, we unearthed the proper information.

“Hmm. That looks pricey.” Jimmy whipped out his phone and did some calculations. “That’s about $130 US dollars each for the worst seats, way in the back.”

“Hmm. That kind of is. I’m not the biggest fan of symphonies either.”

“Me neither. I mean, I’ll go to and experience one. But I wouldn’t necessarily pay $130 to see one.”

“True.”

We started at the screen for a moment.

“On one hand, it would be pretty awesome to see a Mozart symphony in Vienna,” I added. “How many people can actually say they’ve done that? Like you said, it’s a very Vienna thing to do.”

“Yea, I know what you mean. And we’re out here to experience the city and the culture as much as we can.”

“Totally.”

“The price does kind of suck though.”

“I’m beginning to feel ambivalent about going. If it was cheaper, I’d definitely be down for it. The price totally makes me hesitate.”

“True. Let’s think about this for a minute then. How much do you want to go?”

Jimmy sighed. “I’d like to go. It would be cool to check it out.”

“But the price, huh?”

“Yea, but the price.”

I nodded. “Okay. What’s the price of a symphony in San Francisco?”

“I have no idea. Maybe the same amount? Or a little less? I thought they were less than a hundred, usually.”

“I have no idea either, but I would hope they’re less than a hundred also. That means, experience-wise, that we could experience a Mozart symphony right back home in San Francisco too.”

“Yea, I know what you mean.”

“But it wouldn’t be Vienna.”

“No, it wouldn’t be.”

We continued staring at the screen.

“How do you feel? Do you want to go?” Jimmy asked me.

“I’m a bit ambivalent too, unfortunately. I’m still a bit jetlagged and am afraid I might fall asleep in the middle of the symphony. It’s what, three hours long?”

“Haha, yea, I know what you mean.”

“I might be able to stay awake if I sneak in some cappuccinos or something, I suppose.”

“Oh, you know what?” Jimmy declared sharply. “Even beyond staying awake and the price, do we have the right clothes for a symphony?”

“Oh crap, you’re right. I’ve got nothing but jeans and sneakers.”

“Me too. I wonder if they’d even let us in?”

I scratched my head. “Hmm. Possibly, if we’re way in the back. They’ve got to get a fair number of tourists watching these shows. Maybe they’re okay with it.”

“Hmm good point. Since we’re both ambivalent at this point, why don’t we walk to the Opera House tomorrow morning and ask if they’re okay with our clothes? That way, we can confirm if we can even go in or not. Then we can see how we feel about it.”

“Good thinking dude.”

We called it a night and headed back to our hostel. After a late night snack and a few beers, of course.

The next morning, we trekked down to the Wiener Staatsoper, Vienna’s famed Opera House. We circled the building but could not find an open entrance. There were signs in German, but none seemed to be what we wanted.

“Dude, I don’t think it’s open,” I lamented.

Jimmy tried another door. “I think you’re right.”

“So how are you feeling about this symphony?”

“I’m not so sure anymore. I mean, I still like the idea of seeing a symphony in Vienna, but I’m not as enthusiastic about it as I was yesterday.”

“Me neither. Since I started to crash and get tired late in the afternoon yesterday, I know I’m going to be dead tired tonight when the symphony starts. But the experience of a Vienna symphony does sound cool. I just wish I wasn’t so tired.”

“Yea, I know what you mean.

“Maybe we need to think about it some more. They’re not open yet anyways.”

“Cool, okay,” Jimmy nodded.

We decided to take a walk down to Belvedere Garden. A few tourists began to fill up the streets, but not many, since this wasn’t tourist season.

As we neared a gate into Belvedere Garden, a woman approached us. She was dressed in a formal 1800s costume, with the fake wig, frilly dress, and everything. It was as if she jumped out of a Mozart picture book. A scary Mozart picture book where they put on way too much make-up but don’t smell as bad.

She addressed us in German.

“Um, Sprechen Sie Englisch?” Jimmy asked.

“Ah, English! Yes, yes!” answered the woman. “Would you two fine young gentlemen care to experience one of Vienna’s premiere cultural institutions? If so, you’re in luck. Tonight there is a fine Mozart symphony playing here at the Opera House. It will be very lovely and quiet an experience.”

“Funny you should mention that.” Jimmy laughed. “We were actually just thinking about that.”

“You were? Well, think no more! You can purchase your tickets right here!” She showed us a brochure and flipped through it rapidly. “You can see how beautiful our grand Opera House is. There is magnificent seating everywhere. The seats right here in the front afford the most beautiful sounds. They acoustics at that level will give you the clearest, the fullest, the grandest experience ever. How many tickets would you like?”

Not being one to like slick sales speak, I tried to end the encounter. “No thanks. We’re still thinking about it. If we decide to go, we’ll come back to you. Thanks.”

Jimmy, being nicer than I, added, “You’ll still be here when we come back, right?”

She looked horrified, like we just rubbed dog poop in her wig. “Does a cow continue to have milk?”

We looked at each other. “Um, what?”

“If the milk is all gone, the cow cannot give you any more milk. If you come back later, there won’t be any more tickets left. Buy one now before they are all sold out. Everyone wants to experience a Viennese Mozart symphony. You should too, before you miss your chance.”

I rolled my eyes. “I guess we’ll take our chances. Thanks.”

We walked off in a hurry. I think I heard her huff behind us.

After a brief walk, we stopped near some statues and watched a hot girl walk by.

“That’s a short skirt,” I said.

“That is,” Jimmy said.

After the hot girl disappeared from view, the blood returned to our brains. “So what do you think about the symphony?” I asked.

“Well, now I’m a bit more enthusiastic about it. Hearing that saleswoman describe it made me rethink it. It does sound like a cool experience.”

“Cool. But I hear a ‘But’ in your voice.”

“Yea, ‘But’ the price. $130 bucks. Oh, and we forgot to ask her about our clothes.”

“I’m sure she’ll still be there later. I’m kind of surprised a symphony needs to employ salespeople to fill their seats.”

Jimmy laughed. “Oh yea, I know what you mean.”

“You’d think an event as elegant as a symphony would sell itself. Or at least hire classier salespeople who don’t need to stand in a park with an old wig and lots of make-up.”

“Haha, totally.”

We took a seat on some marble steps. The saleswoman was in view off in a distance. We saw her speaking enthusiastically to another caught tourist.

“You know what?” I started. “I think I know the source of our ambivalence.”

“Oh yea? What’s that?”

“There are no girls with us.”

Jimmy laughed, then nodded. “Totally dude.”

“If we were here with some girls, I think we’d both totally go. But just you and me, two dudes, going to a Viennese Mozart symphony together—I think that’s what’s causing us to hesitate.”

“Dude, that is so true. Not that you’re not good-looking and all, but if you were a chick, I’d definitely take you to the symphony.”

I laughed. “Same here dude. Maybe if you shaved a little and put on a dress… nah, still.”

“Haha, thanks man.”

“So it’s settled then. Let’s pass on the symphony for this trip. We can return here ourselves one day, with girlfriends, and watch a symphony then.”

“Agreed.”

And so concluded our Viennese Mozart symphony experience.

Have you experienced a Viennese Mozart symphony?

View Comments

Top Ten Break-Up Songs

My desert-island, all-time, top five most memorable break-up songs, in chronological order:

1. Chicago – Look Away
2. No Doubt – Don’t Speak
3. Bon Jovi – Misunderstood
4. Vertical Horizon – Everything You Want
5. Hoobastank – The Reason

These were the ones that really stuck around, replacing a warm embrace with melancholy verse. I didn’t pick these songs. They kidnapped my stereo and, by some cosmic hand, stayed in rotation during the painful Days That Felt Like Years.

Chicago – Look Away

The first one is always given a special place, because it was so young and idealistic. Everything seemed so infinite, so grandiose with the first one. Intense is a better word. Foolish is probably a more accurate one.

No Doubt – Don’t Speak

They say that relationships get easier with experience. What they didn’t say was that without wisdom, experience is like fiber—it will go right through you and clean you out. Maybe I’ve learned to deal with it a little better, but I don’t think I’ll ever get over a break-up any easier.

Bon Jovi – Misunderstood

Even the relationships I ended myself weighed heavy on my shoulders. How could they not? I’m a sentimental fuck. Some would argue I’m really a stupid fuck who doesn’t know a good thing when I see it, and I wouldn’t be able to argue with them. I would just walk away, with head and shoulders down.

Vertical Horizon – Everything You Want

I suppose I should be grateful that no girlfriend has ever cheated on me. At least, not to my knowledge. If that’s not the case, I’m not sure I want to know. The break-ups have been about incompatibility of some kind. I like to believe they were all civil, but it’s hard to believe that anything civil involves so much crying and snot.

Hoobastank – The Reason

There’s never a good time to end a relationship. And when we broke-up, I felt like throwing up. Then, a week later, I did. Has a sort of cosmic irony to it, don’t you think?

What’s really ironic is how happy I am when I bring back the memories. Good times filled with smiles, laughs, and hugs, and I breath it all in hungrily. The bad times, the ones with the frowns and tears, I try to block. I don’t want them to fog up the good memories.

It’s always hard immediately after a break-up. There’s always the mourning period where everything is less vivid, more gray, more bland and tasteless. Then there will be a recuperation period. There always is. I’ll look back and be able to look at the good and bad with a smile. Life will have hopefully taught me another lesson. And I will hopefully be a better person.

Until then, I’ll keep listening to my stereo.

What are your top ten break-up songs?

View Comments

My First Rock Concert

My high school took on a new level of coolness when they called the entire fifth and sixth grades into the auditorium one fine autumn day. They didn’t announce the purpose of the gathering, only that it was mandatory.

I shuffled in my seat and daydreamed about an announcement that summer vacation would start in December this year.

The lights dimmed, the curtains parted, and five guys walked onto the stage. Strobe lights flashed just long enough for our short MTV-bred attention spans to keep interested. A bass lick bounced as the guys began to gyrate in synchronicity. Then they started singing.

“What the hell is this?” yelled a guy to my right. Other boys chanted similar taunts.

The girls, however, didn’t respond the same way. They howled and screamed. “Ohmigosh! They are so hot!”

“They are so gay!” shouted another guy. His friend high-fived him.

A girl ran into the aisle. She stood there and teeter-tottered like the leaning Tower of Pisa. Another girl joined her and together they swooned. Then a third girl ran up to the stage. And that broke the dam.

A mass of girls poured from their seats and crowded the base of the stage, leaving guys behind them shouting, “You guys suck! Get off the stage!”

After the five guys finished a few songs, they bowed and introduced themselves. “Thank you very much! You guys have been great! Don’t forget us! We’re the New Kids on The Block!”

Yup. The New Kids on The Block actually played at my high school way before they made it big.

My high school’s Coolness Level: Major Suckitude.

But fortunately, my high school was able to redeem itself. Next year, during another fine autumn day, they called the fifth and sixth grades into the auditorium again. Purpose: a secret. Attendance: mandatory.

“Oh great, I hope it’s not another gay boy band,” lamented the guarded guys.

“Oh boy! I hope it’s another cute boy band!” hoped the giddy girls.

The principal walked onto the stage and announced that the rest of the afternoon’s classes were cancelled. We were to walk out the doors in single file and approach the teachers at each entrance. Each of the teachers had tickets for us.

Concert tickets. For Metallica. METALLICA!

My high school’s Coolness Level: Major Coolness!

My friends and I eagerly scooped up tickets and fled home. I grew up with rock and heavy metal and couldn’t believe that a high school would actually support this. Then again, if they supported New Kids on The Block, why can’t they support Metallica?

A friend’s mother volunteered to drive my friends and me to the concert. I was the only one of my friends who listened to Metallica regularly, so I lent them my tapes. They studied the songs and lyrics for days. If they had applied themselves this way to their homework, they’d all be geniuses.

This concert was right after Metallica released “…And Justice For All”, back when they were still putting out good and heavy music.

When we arrived at the stadium, we were amazed and intimidated at how many hulking, long-haired teenagers with facial hair there were. They sauntered around in a daze, smoking and drinking right in front of us. It was awesome.

We did our best to look tough. But that’s hard when you’re wearing a crisp new Metallica t-shirt from Sam Goody and more pimples than hair on your face.

Soon after we took our seats, something very cool happened. A girl was hoisted onto the shoulders of her boyfriend. She hollered at the crowd around her. Then she lifted up her shirt and exposed her breasts.

Our post-pubescent jaws dropped. “Oh man, I LOVE heavy metal!” declared a friend.

Then another girl responded similarly with a breast peek of her own. And another girl. And another. Everywhere we turned, there were exposed breasts.

“I am totally going to come to more rock concerts!” shouted another friend. We all nodded.

The lights finally dimmed. I sang at the top of my lungs to each of the songs. Metallica, who is known to put on fantastic live shows, served their reputation with justice. They did a mix of old and new songs and stunning solos.

A few of us brought along lighters, even though none of us smoked. When the ballads came on, we enthusiastically whipped out our lighters and swayed them.

As in any rock concert, Metallica ended after several suspenseful encores. The lights rose and we looked around for more exposed breasts. But alas, we did not see any more.

My ears were ringing days after the concert. Images of guitars, lighters, pyrotechnics, and breasts all lingered.

I didn’t quite look at my high school the same way anymore. I didn’t think it could redeem itself after the Major Suckitude of New Kids on The Block.

But it did. It reached Major Coolness. With free tickets to see Metallica. Cool!

Who did you see at your first concert?

View Comments

The Battle of the Bands: The Office Music Orchestra vs. the Nature Music Orchestra

Tap tap tap. That’s the sound of a keyboard, an instrument of the Office Music Orchestra. Phone rings, elevator dings, and cube conversations also make up this jolly arrangement.

The 101 North twisted and turned like a dizzy whirlpool. Had we driven any faster, we certainly would have added our lunch to the interior.

The vertigo was all worth it, however. As soon as we reached the base of the Point Reyes hiking trails, I noticed a different kind of music. The Office Music Orchestra was nowhere to be heard here at this scenic site.

“Hear that?” I asked Dave.

“Hear what?” He blinked and looked around. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Exactly,” I smiled.

There was a calming still to the air. I felt a fresh breeze that was as refreshing as a cool shower on a humid summer day. A long sigh fell from my lips, along with all the week’s stresses.

No angry managers, no urgent meetings, no last-minute crises. No more web, no more technology, no more cubes. Only nature and its soft, gentle rhythm: the Nature Music Orchestra. Shushing leaves and whispering winds dotted with the occasional chirp.

We took to the trail. It was a well-worn dirt path traveled on by many other Silicon Valley worker bees like me.

“Don’t you wish every day was like this?” I said out loud to no one in particular.

“Yea, this is really nice,” answered Clarence.

“This is nice, but I wouldn’t want this all the time,” added Serene.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I’d go nuts if life was always slow like this. This is nice once in a while, as a break from the usual hectic routine. But to do this every day for the rest of my life would drive me nuts.”

I mused on this for the remainder of the hike. The thought rolled around my tongue like a foreign delicacy. Every angle was tasted and savored.

The Work Hard/Play Hard ethic of NYC certainly left an imprint on me. Long Hours and I dated many, many times; it was a romance we cultivated on and off for years. Anyone who works for Silicon Valley knows her too, for she has many suitors.

That said, we often don’t notice an off-tune note until we’ve heard a few dozen on-tune melodies. A sunny day after a long line of cloudy ones is always met with celebration. Cold water always tastes better on a hot afternoon.

The Nature Music Orchestra was soothing indeed, but I would have never been able to appreciate its harmony had I not been subjected to the sterile sounds of the Office Music Orchestra first.

The stark reality of the value of contrasts was revealing. I smiled when it struck me.

Renewed with a deeper understanding, I took in a long, deep breath. I wanted to carry this back to the office, knowing it would help me appreciate the tap tap tap of a keyboard once again.

The Nature Music Orchestra was wonderful for its revitalizing qualities; the Office Music Orchestra had its own charms in encouraging a sense of accomplishment. I needed both of them, just as I needed sunny and cloudy days.

With another breath, I listened carefully to the music around me.

What do you hear when you hike?

View Comments

Summer Sanitarium

As I peed into the port-o-potty, I could hear Mudvayne’s guitars thrashing in the arena. The urgency of the frantic beats made me pee quickly. Then I stepped out and joined my friends.

We arrived just as Mudvayne was finishing their set. Not Falling was playing. One of my friends noticed a lot of girls wearing Mudvayne gear; most notably, Mudvayne purses on girls.

They closed with Dig and then it was a nice break while Deftones set up.

The sun was blazing down into the center floor, where a handful of rockers were meandering. Mudvayne only attracted a small crowd, not even enough to make a kick-ass mosh pit. Which is too bad, because I really dig Mudvayne.

The video screens on the stage displayed the album cover of Deftone’s latest self-titled release. Soon thereafter, the roadies finished reorganizing the stage. And then Deftones came on.

They launched with Minerva. Vocalist Chino Moreno’s family stood on the side of the stage. It was an odd juxtaposition to see young kids and obviously non-rocker ladies standing next to a blaring speaker.

We went down to the floor and watched Deftones up close. The crowd moved with the crunching guitars and wailing vocals.

After closing with Change (In The House Of Flies), Chino introduced his family. His son ran up to him and gave him a big hug. Aww. See, even hard rockers have a soft side.

We weren’t sure who was next. But the video screens soon gave us a clue. A technical-inspired stage set was built, along with a similarly themed image on the video screens. And on them, a subtle LP appeared in the corner.

That meant Linkin Park was due next. Unfortunately, we weren’t able to get back to the floor until after they started their first number, Somewhere I Belong. We tossed out a tray of nachos just so we could squeeze back towards the stage.

In the thick of the crowd, I could feel the pulsing energy in the air. Heads were banging, hands were pounding, bodies were bouncing. The twin assault of Chester Bennington’s howls and Mike Shinoda’s raps was driving the crowd wild.

I was pleasantly surprised to hear several songs from the Reanimation album. It seemed to give turntablist Joe Hahn something to do, I first thought. But to be honest, he seemed pretty busy throughout the entire set.

A mosh pit started behind me. Some guy began running into fellow rockers, pushing everyone aside. A few other guys pushed back. And ta da, a mosh pit was born!

Big sweaty guys began smashing into each other like bulls. The people on the edge of ring tried to stand their ground. If a mosher fell into them, they’d push him back into the pit.

They were all smiling. Despite the apparent aggressive acts, they were all having a good time. When one guy fell to the ground, another stopped and helped him back up. Then, smiling, he smashed into him.

During Crawling, the pit became more wild. A tall scrawny kid jumped into the middle and began mock kung fu kicks. He hit a towering ogre of a man in the head. And Mr. Towering Ogre was not happy about that. Neither was the rest of the pit, who deemed this amateur reckless and out of his element.

So they proceeded to knock the living shit out of him. They shoved and thrashed him around. When he tried to jump out of the ring, the edge watchers pushed him back in. He was knocked on his ass more than once. Finally, when the pit figured the kid had had enough, they picked him up and threw him out.

Linkin Park called on the crowd to sing along to Numb. This settled the mosh pit for a bit. People looked back towards the stage and sang along. I myself belted out the words as loud as I could. Everyone all did the same for In The End as well.

The set was closed with One Step Closer. As this song played, another smaller mosh pit broke out to my right. It was short lived, however. A kid with glasses got caught in the middle and someone bumped him in the nose. A spray of nasal blood quickly ended the pit.

The crowd dispersed and I rejoined my friends. We had been separated in the rush towards the stage. We knew Limp Bizkit was up next, and my friends, not being big Limp Bizkit fans, opted to head back up to the bleachers. I went with them.

When Limp Bizkit came on the stage, they were greeted with boos and hisses. I had heard that they left the stage in Chicago when fans threw bottles at them.

But they had their fans. A sizable crowd had formed in front of the stage and with Nookie, a sizable mosh pit started too. Break Stuff also got a huge reaction.

Fred Durst brought out a shotgun and began firing it into the air. Blanks, obviously. This stunt was the issue of much ridicule later on the radio stations.

Perhaps because of the cold reception, Limp Bizkit decided to play a Metallica tune. They started with Master Of Puppets, but stopped halfway through for some reason. The crowd booed and jeered them some more. Then they launched into Welcome Home/Sanitarium, which seemed to appease the masses.

They closed with George Michael’s Faith. Why, I have no idea. They left the stage after only playing a handful of songs.

Metallica took the longest to set up. The sky was dark and the arena was filled to capacity by the time they showed up. Metallica, being veterans of live performances, gave a kick-ass show of grinding guitars, growling vocals, forceful drums, and deafening bass lines accompanied by a healthy dose of pyrotechnics.

Replacing Jason Newsted at the bass was Rob Trujillo of Suicidal Tendencies, Infectious Grooves, and Ozzy Osbourne fame. With their new bass player, Metallica jumped into Blackened right away, inciting the crowd and numerous mosh pits.

No other band was able to suddenly calm the crowd down like Metallica and their ballads: Welcome Home/Sanitarium, Nothing Else Matters, and One. And when they played thrasher classics like Master Of Puppets, Creeping Death, and Harvester Of Sorrow, the mosh pits woke back up.

Vocalist James Hetfield paused between songs to thank all of the bands that toured with them. Every band received glorious praise except Limp Bizkit. James’ reply was, “Well, it’s your choice [to cheer or not].”

Off their new album, they played the title track St. Anger and Frantic. But not to upset their long-time fans, they included the crowd pleaser Search And Destroy as well.

Almost all the songs had the fans singing every word. Then Metallica followed their tradition of pretending to leave the stage, only to return when the fans cheered long and loud enough.

It was my friends’ first Metallica concert, and my third. I left the arena with a strained voice and bells in my ears. In the car, I searched endlessly for more Metallica tunes on the radio.

The Summer Sanitarium was one kick-ass show, and I carried my whimpering voice and ringing ears with pride.

What was the last live concert you’ve seen?

View Comments

A Beautiful Moment

It is on the Embarcadero that I see one of life’s beautiful moments.

It’s a subtle one. But then again, most of life’s beautiful moments are subtle.

Genghis pops in a CD. “These are all Asian American artists,” he declares, and skips over a few tracks. “This one is Julie Plug, a Filipino. This song was on Dawson’s Creek.”

The gentle tune of Julie Plug fills the car. It’s a deliciously sappy love song—just the kind you’d expect on Dawson’s Creek. Happy-go-lucky guitars, a catchy beat, and a melodic voice.

I look out the window and see a couple standing by the shore of the Embarcadero. Maybe their jackets aren’t enough for the night chill; maybe it’s love. Whichever it is, their arms wrap each other tightly.

They hop a light dance and bounce over to the rail, almost in tune to Julie Plug. There, they stand together, admiring the bright lights of the Bay Bridge dotting the night like it’s Christmas. Directly above is the glowing full moon.

The beautiful song frames the beautiful couple standing on beautiful Embarcadero, gazing up at the beautiful Bay Bridge, just beautifully.

View Comments