From the moment I was weaned and started dining on solid food, I’ve disliked eggs. The taste, the smell, the texture, all of it. Nevertheless, every six months or so I take a bite off someone’s plate just to see if my tastes have changed… they haven’t, but I still hold out hope that one day they will.

That said,  I find this gastronomic steadfastness somewhat impressive — if not perplexing — given my otherwise ever expanding tastes.  Foods I once found so odious as a child — mushrooms, olives, raw spinach, brussels sprouts — I now find delicious and even difficult to live without. The egg, for whatever reason, remains odious.

But today’s blog isn’t about my adversarial relationship with the egg — though for the sake of working things out perhaps it should be — but rather my transcendent one with the brussels sprout… a far more rewarding and interesting one.

You see, up until about year ago, the much maligned brussels sprout — that bitter, gaseous dwarf of a cabbage — was as difficult to swallow as the egg. But unlike the ubiquitous egg, the opportunities to challenge my taste buds were virtually nil, being more a question of availability than cahones (see; will). Because seriously, who — outside of someone born prior to 1950 or a Belgian — would order brussels sprouts at a restaurant when they had a whole menu of other side dishes to choose from. I’m just saying.

But like so many other things in life, it’s often about timing or coming at something from a different angle. I was fortunate enough to be privy to both when my mom decided to go out on a limb and not only serve brussels sprouts to a potentially — and I’m being kind here — “non-receptive” audience (my sisters and I), but to resist her greater impulses and not to fall back on her traditional boil and butter method that she found so…well… traditional.

What came to the table that evening was nothing short of a wonder; not only was it not the traditional sprouts we were all dreading, but it was a revelation to boot. Ridiculously so, in fact, especially given where these sprouts previously sat on our list of things “we’d most not like to ingest at meal time”.

Crunchy, salty, olive oily; they were the perfect blend of texture and flavor. None of the characteristics that marred the vegetable prior to this method lingered — or rather, they were transformed into deliciousness.  And surprisingly, even cold the next day, with none of the crunchiness, they were still amazing.

Sometimes a bad reputation is earned by way of a misunderstanding, and I’ll state it here that the brussels sprout is a good example of that. The misunderstanding being, what method of cooking best brings out their hidden tasty goodness. Now, if you’re like most people I’ve met, you’re probably locked into a particular way of preparing these things, and that’s fine if you want to continue to perpetuate their bad reputation. But if you want to elevate their status into the pantheon of foods you just can’t live without and recipes that will wow and impress your friends, then put away that pot of boiling water, ditch the butter, break out the olive oil and fire up that oven… you’ve got roastin’ to do.

Oh, and when you’re doing your shopping for these lovely, green enigmatic things, make sure to bring a really big bag.

Roasted Brussels Sprouts Recipe:

Coat copious amounts of brussels sprouts with olive oil and place evenly onto a cookie sheet. Salt with sea salt to your liking (slightly salty seems to be best). Roast in a preheated 375° oven for around 30 or 40 minutes depending on the size of the sprouts or until golden brown (you want them to be crunchy on the outside and melt-in-your-mouth soft on the inside). Shake the pan from time to time for even browning. Eat immediately!

Bonus tip: They are also great cold or on salads.

Pau.

If you’ve been anywhere around Facebook lately then you’re probably well aware of the viral happening “25 random things about me” and in turn even contributed to its spreading.  If for some reason you haven’t been touched by this arguably benevolent virus and have no idea what I’m talking about, or you’re one of the seven readers out there who are scratching your heads at the word Facebook, let me briefly break it down for you.

About two weeks ago, Facebook, the popular social networking site, became host to what can only be described as a mass electronic chain mail… a virus, basically.  Members were “tagged” in a note by one of their “friends” with the heading “25 random things about me” that had — you guessed it — 25 random things about that person.  Upon reading it, the tagee was then asked to do a note themselves, re-tag the person who sent it and tag 24 additional friends whom they felt might like to know 25 random things about them. And so on and so on.

To say the virus was popular would be to miss the point — though the numbers are ridiculously impressive — what’s most interesting was not the level of “infestation”, but rather how it fits into and shapes our popular cultural zeitgeist and what that all means.  Time Magazine, in an online editorial, attempted to break it down, but their take on it was far less than favorable than mine.

Besides being unintentionally ironic (I think), the piece in its attempts to be sassy and humorously cynical (which it accomplished in places), failed to understand the greater significance of such “narcissistic” endeavors.  First and foremost, Facebook is a community — many communities to be exact — and as such, it’s all about communication and connection.  And while there are many ways this communication manifests itself — pictures, music, videos — 9 times out of 10 it’s through the written word.  In general it’s a glorified (albeit dynamic) form of public e-mail, but on occasion — as with the “25 random things” virus — it breaks free of this utilitarian constuct and becomes something else… literature.

Now we can argue what literature is until Harold Bloom comes around on Harry Potter — and perhaps if you do one of these lists you can put your definition there — but for me at least it’s hardly a question and the virus is a great example of how difficult it is to pin down.  In the same way that blogging might’ve originally challenged our assumptions and patience about what was important/valuable with its democratizing openness, so does this type of micro-blogging (for lack of a better word).

The Time piece, above all else, stressed that the virus/endeavor was a “narcissistic waste of time” and even attempted to back this up with arbitrary numbers. But what does that mean exactly? Is it a waste of time because it’s not a legitimate form of literary expression and therefore not worthy of engagement? Or that people shouldn’t bother sharing things about themselves because there are more important things to do?

If it’s the former, I don’t see what’s any less legitimate about this form of literature as opposed to any other.  As nonfiction writing goes, it’s been as interesting, funny, insightful and controversial as anything out there, and certainly no more “narcissistic” (whatever relevance this label has) than anything else on the web or in print.  And if it’s the latter, well, what can I say?  Take a look around at the world sometime and tell me how learning something about one another might be a “waste of time”… no matter how arbitrary the details.

Look, not everyone on Facebook chose to do one of these things in much the same way not everyone chooses to blog/write about their life or the world around them… or surf, or bake cookies, or meditate, or solve a Rubik’s cube, or wank for that matter. And that’s cool.  But if you did do one of these things and you tagged me in it, thank you… your insights, humor, ridiculousness and talent resonated with me in a way the best literature often does, and I’m all the better because of it.

Bottom line; if Facebook and its byproducts are such “narcissistic time wasters” and a threat to capitalist productivity, then perhaps there should’ve been an earmark attached to Obama’s recent stimulus package to shut it down.

#26.  I’m just saying.

pau

The number one universal rule in creating and maintaining a blog of any merit is consistency.  Interesting content is pretty key as well, but if your readers don’t know when said content will be available, then what’s going to motivate them to tune in? Knowing my own ADD when it comes to the internet, my suspicions are not very much.  With that in mind, my absence from the blogosphere this month was not out of defiance of this number one rule, but rather I was kept away because I had no voice (literally not metaphorically; metaphorically my voice is as chatty and strong as ever).

“Voice”, you say, “What’s that got to do with it? You’re not a podcaster”.

And you’re right, I’m not.  But when your voice sounds like Bette Davis after a weekend binge of torch songs, unfiltereds and helium huffing, NaturallySpeaking (my method of writing) doesn’t really want to put out (using the parlance of our times).  More to the point, the difference between what it thinks I’m saying versus what I’m actually saying is quite comical… Dadaist even.  Which is great if you’re Andre Breton or stoned out of your gourd, not so much if you’re a quadriplegic blogger.

So all that said and without further ado, rigmarole or excuses, I once again give you fasterbarnacle… phlegm free and fast as ever.

Pau.

I’m not gonna lie, I thought it’d be a lot easier to take a break from the track then it’s been, and not because I feel I need a break in some way, but because I’m a chill, take things as they come type of guy. I figured, “if life gives you lemons instead of mangoes, make lemonade”. And while no doubt shifting my energy from workouts to work has led to more than a few pitchers of lemonade, damn if my Holly Golightly attitude hasn’t become a little Tyrone Biggums these last several days (Breakfast at Tiffany’s and Dave Chapelle fans will get the reference). In other words, 3 weeks out and the jones for endorphins is making me a little cracky.

But it isn’t only the physical stuff I’m starting to miss — the chemical rush, the muscle burn, the increased heart rate — I miss the people as well. There’s a sense of community on the track — folks like myself who are there on a regular basis training, working out or just using their lunch break to get some exercise and chat with coworkers. On one level or another, I’ve gotten to know the Cal track coach (a big fan of shadow), the tennis coach, kids on the track team, campus workers, senior athletes and Olympians. It’s a diverse group of people, but we all seem to share an almost conspiratorial commitment to being out there.

When I began going to the track over a year ago, one of the first people I met was an 82-year-old masters athlete named Shirley who’s been running and training there for nearly as long as I’ve been alive. Almost every time we’re out there, she’ll slow to my pace (a humbling gesture to be sure) and for a lap or so engage me in conversation. This is a real treat, as she’s an enthusiastic storyteller who’s openly shared many colorful details about her life, her childhood, her husband’s medical problems, her travels and her athletic accomplishments.

When she first told me the story of her arrival here in Berkeley after the war, I assumed — showing my age — she was referring to Vietnam. But as the story progressed and was filled in with more details it became clear she was actually referring to World War II. This was a profound realization for me, as it sparked not only a sense of gratitude for being able to hear her story, but the stories of so many dear friends who’ve lived remarkable lives in other places and other times.

For many — outside of the team environment — the exercise/workout thing is a solitary experience. One may be surrounded by a hundred other people as they do their stationary bike or crunches at 24 hour fitness, but nine times out of ten we isolate ourselves by having an iPod pulsing away in our ears. There’s not anything wrong with this, it’s the nature of the beast (and besides what better way to motivate oneself than with music), but for me, at least, it’s different and in some ways I feel lucky because of it.

For good or for bad, I need somebody to accompany me to the track; among other things, I need help with my hourly pressure relief, somebody to clean up after Shadow (grass is the perfect toilet) and while close to my house, I need help navigating the uphill climb and busy intersection to get there. An iPod — given the circumstances — would almost seem alienating.

There are times, of course, when I’d like to to crank the Wu Tang or Devotchka and immerse myself in my objective, but those times are very very rare. Mostly, I just feel fortunate to be sharing the time with my friends like Carlos, Giovanna, Luke, Thelma, Shirley and the rest, gabbing about life and growing closer to my fellow human beings.

January 6th is the day the cast is supposed to come off and it couldn’t be soon enough. I’m not saying I drive by the track at odd hours of the night to get a sniff of the artificial surface, but it’s definitely crossed my mind.

Mele Kalikimaka me ka Hau’oli Makahiki Hou.

pau.

Sometimes you bring in the end of the year as a lion and sometimes you bring it in as a lamb; and while I won’t be pouncing into the into the new year as I imagined, my soft finish — upon deeper reflection — is actually quite hard-core and symbolic of how I’ve lived the last 11 months.

You see, last Monday, on my way out to push, I had what some might call a bit of an accident and ended up fracturing my hand (metacarpus to be more precise). At the time, I didn’t have any doubt it’d been injured — the dysreflectic shock that shot up my arm made sure of this — but I wasn’t sure as to the extent (no pain sensation has its perks), and since it’d been about a week since my last push (the holidays et al.) and I was already on my way to the track, I decided rather than turn around and call it quits, I’d do what any reasonable person would do and finished my workout.

Okay, now I know for some of you this might not qualify as something a “reasonable person” would do (and there’s even a little part of me that would agree), but for good or for bad I’m wired in such a way that if I have my mind set on doing something and I like it, I more often than not feel compelled to follow it through.

In the end, it turned out that whether or not I pushed had little to do with the degree of my injury, but for myself just getting out there and doing it left me with a certain sense of satisfaction, because as it stands now it’ll probably be a couple more weeks before I’m able to get out there again.

Ridiculous? Perhaps, but the year has been filled with such consistency and momentum, that willingly slowing it down almost seems like a sin. Doctors orders and a cast may do it, but short of that, I’m going to keep on moving.

pau.

A week ago past was one of those weeks that was bound to come, but that’d been conveniently relegated to somewhere in the back of my mind — Shadow, my 14 1/2 year old golden retriever, suddenly became quite ill. I suspect, at her age, this is something that shouldn’t be surprising, but Shadow hardly seems her age. Sure, she’s slowed down a bit, her legs are a little shakier than they once were and she’s a lot more white now than she is golden, but her heart and enthusiasm are so deceptively puppy like that it’s easy to forget her age. Last Saturday I was reminded.

One of the things that’s plagued Shadow these last several years is that she has a compressed vertebrae in her neck (strangely at C 4-5, the very spot of my injury), which two or three times a year will flare up and cause her great pain and mobility issues from anywhere between 24 and 36 hours. Though there’s no cause to be found as the trigger, usually time, rest and some children’s aspirin are the best medicine. On occasion — depending on the severity — a cortisone shot is required, but this is something I try to avoid as the side effects can be rather harsh. Think a stiff neck multiplied by a hundred and you probably approach what Shadow is dealing with.

So, a week ago Saturday was another one of these incidents, but as the day progressed it seemed like something else was going on. It was clear her neck was causing her pain, but her countenance and spirit were unlike anything I’d experienced before. Even still, there was little I could do at that point, other than give her aspirin and hope that by morning she’d be doing a little better.

Sunday morning came and while she definitely wasn’t worse, she didn’t seem a whole lot better either. Of greatest concern for me wasn’t so much her neck — though don’t get me wrong, I was worried about it — but rather the fact that she wasn’t barking and didn’t want to eat. You see, if there are two things that make Shadow Shadow, it would be first and foremost her voice — she’s a talker and she barks about everything (even more so since losing her hearing; what she wants, what she wants me to do, what she wants others to do, etc.); and second, her love of food — she’s got an insatiable appetite and literally loves everything (fruit, vegetables, smoothies, popcorn, dog biscuits, etc.). Having one of these things disappear is alarming enough, but both was head spinning and a real challenge to my normally zen/chill, up demeanor.

On Monday, given where she was still at (or wasn’t at), there seemed like no other choice than to take her to the vet. It’d been 48 hours and if it’d been only her neck, then historically speaking, she would’ve been showing signs of recovery. Tuesday, when the doctor was at last able to see her, she was pretty much the same and still hadn’t barked. She was eating a little bit now (she would’ve been in the emergency room if she passed up her new meals of canned salmon, cottage cheese, orso, kibble and organic chicken broth), but was drinking more than normal and consequently had to pee in the house couple of times. It was this latter fact that concerned the doctor most and so she ordered blood tests to determine if something else going on in addition to her neck.

When I got the results back the next day, the initial prognosis was a deflating one; Shadow’s enzyme and protein levels were exaggerated which might explain her heightened thirst, but it also pointed to the possibility of intestinal and liver problems. What was clear, was that in order to find out anything further, more testing would need to be done and an ultrasound would be the primary tool.

Needless to say, I was disheartened by this news and was confronted with a decision; the ultrasound would be an expensive procedure to be sure, but money wasn’t the issue (I’d sell my left kidney for her if I had to), the issue was what would the ultrasound show and then in turn, what would be the steps following. The main function of the test would be to see if there was any sort of growth or mass and if there was, to perform a biopsy and/or surgery as the situation warranted. And while under most circumstances this might seem like the logical thing to do, for Shadow this wasn’t an option.

As I said, Shadow is 14 1/2 years old and at this point in her life I would never subject her to the dangers of this type of surgery and the painful, prolonged recovery that would invariably follow. If she were four years younger, perhaps, but at this stage it would only be traumatic for her body. Golden Retrievers typically live 10 to 12 years and Shadow is well beyond that. Quality of life is something I value tremendously and would never in a million years subject more pain and suffering onto a creature I love so dearly.

Now don’t get me wrong, given what I just said, I still wanted to know what was going on and struggled mightily with going through with the test anyway. I wanted to believe that it would show me something else, that it would show me there was a pill she could take that would make her better and surgery wouldn’t be necessary. And if this was true, then by all means, I would have had her belly shaved and lubed up in a heartbeat, but this wasn’t true and I had to accept that whatever was going to be would be. I made a decision that, while I believe was the right one, left me feeling incredibly helpless with little to do but watch and wait and hope she’d get better rather than worse.

And then it happened, on Thursday night, for the first time in five days, she came bouncing back into the apartment after taking care of her business and barked for one of her requisite midnight biscuits. I was shocked, but her voice — as discordant and abrasive as it can be — was like the trumpet of Gabriel announcing the return the angels and I couldn’t have been happier.

On Friday, though she was still in recovery mode, she was barking and eating and things were definitely starting to return to normal. By Sunday she was back out on the track with me and even did a couple of laps before retiring to her usual spot under the olive tree, where she would impatiently bark at me until I finished my workout.

Having her back to her normal, engaged, enthusiastic self after such a worrisome week was one of the most heart swelling moments I’ve felt in my life. To say I was grateful beyond measure wouldn’t even come close to describing how I felt and a large part of that was because I felt as though a bullet had been dodged.

I know as well as anybody when you’re in pain or not feeling well, it’s difficult to be yourself — eating, laughing, even conversation can be a challenge — and I know this was a large part of what was happening with Shadow. But that said, for me, her caretaker, not knowing exactly what’s going on because she’s a dog and can’t directly vocalize it, is a frustrating and worrisome experience, especially when it’s something completely out of the ordinary.

The thing is, Shadow is in tremendous shape — for her age or a dog four years her junior — and I suppose this is what made this whole thing so difficult — I conveniently haven’t had to face the inevitable consequences of her aging. But again, facts are facts, and regardless of how in shape, spunky, healthy, happy or genetically special she might be, she’s still pushing the longevity envelope of her breed and is most definitely in the twilight years of her life.

I’ve had a lot of dogs in my life and I’ve been very close to all of them, but I’ve never had a dog such as Shadow. There’s a bond here that’s difficult to describe — that goes beyond beyond the fact that we’re always together or that as a service dog she’s been an incredible help in my life — she’s this strange furry, funny creature that’s become an unlikely extension of who I am. But even more than that, she’s a friend, a family member and a source of tremendous joy. For many people I’m simply known as the guy who’s attached to Shadow, and for my friends, well, I’m not sure they even see us as two separate entities. Of course, I’m fine with either of these things, because the truth is, it’s difficult to imagine her not by my side.

In their short lives dogs give us so much, unconditionally and with devoted enthusiasm. But as Shadow ages — and  she’s indeed aging — I know our time together will both change and come to an end. And while this will be an incredibly sad day when it does, this, I believe, is one of a dog’s final and greatest gifts — leaving us with the opportunity to see death not as a finality, but a continuation and essential part of this beautiful and ever changing world. In this way, they’re like stars who’ve gone supernova but whose light continues to shine long after they are gone. No doubt, Shadow is an incredibly bright star now so I can only imagine what will linger in her wake.

All this said, she’s still got a few more birthdays left to celebrate, and no doubt each one will be a gift.

pau.

Well, it’s been one year to the day since I first started this blog and I gotta say what a strange and beautiful trip it’s been. When I began this endeavor last October, my intentions were simple: use it as a tool to promote and facilitate my dream of making an open ocean sailing voyage somewhere around Australia, New Zealand and the South Pacific. My hope at the time was that if people found what I had to say and what I wanted to do interesting, they would forward the site onward to their friends and family, who would in turn forward it on to their friends and family, and so on and so on until it eventually reached somebody who was in a position to make the journey possible (i.e. a boat, the time, the wherewithal). And while this may seem like a crazy long shot of an idea, it was a jumping off point that served to make things real.

So where is fasterbarnacle now, and even more importantly, how is my journey progressing? Well, before I answer those questions I want to first acknowledge that neither would be anywhere without you; my readers, my friends, my family. Your support over the past year — in all manners — has been overwhelming and humbling to say the least. Your e-mails, comments and suggestions have been valuable and every one has been taken to heart. Thank you a thousand times over for being part of my world and taking the time to participate.

Now, to the above question. As I said, fasterbarnacle was originally envisioned as a jumping off point, but looking at it now it’s so much more than that, it’s a spark that not only ignited and fuels a dream, but change in my life as well. Perhaps above all else, it got me writing again — something I’d put aside for years in order to pursue other interests (though I’m not opposed to calling it procrastination or outright avoidance) — and this has been an unexpected pleasure. I’ve found writing in this format (a blog) — sharing whatever I like from the sentimental to the ridiculous — to be both challenging and rewarding, and something I can see myself doing well into the unforeseeable future.

Also, as some of you may already know, exercise has been another byproduct of this endeavor. And while on the surface it might seem as though it has little to do with the construction of this site, it actually has everything to do with it. For me, fasterbarnacle represents consistency and action, and physical fitness isn’t possible without either of these. The great thing about consistency is that it’s habit-forming and these days if I go any extended period of time without exercising, I start getting a serious jones on for endorphins. The downside to all this, of course, is that I’ve become somewhat of a zealot and if you’re one of my friends and I notice that you’re spending a little too much time sitting on your ass with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s in one hand and a remote in the other, you’re going to get called out.

Bottom line; there are things about this dream of mine that are beyond my control (i.e. the boat) and there are things that aren’t, and consistent writing and exercise are two that are.

Okay, so now on to the meat of the matter, my journey’s progression. About two weeks ago I sent out a second round of letters to 25 yacht and sailing clubs in New Zealand, Australia, Tasmania and Fiji, and as with the first round, I’m hoping they’ll eventually reach the right people. It’s important to note, however, that while a response from that part of the world hasn’t found its way back to me yet, it hasn’t dampened my spirits or dream in any way; it’s a cold call longshot from the get go and I’m wise enough to understand what that means. There are a very specific set of circumstances that need to line up for all this to come together and that might take a little time. That said, I’m also wise enough to understand the fluidity of life and to roll with any changes as they come and recalibrate where necessary. I have no idea if the trip will manifest itself in the way I originally conceived, but one way or another a grand adventure will ensue. I love the unknown and what will be will be.

To be sure, this last year has been one of the most interesting, successful and wildly exciting years of my life; I’m skiing again, surfing, sailing, writing, in best shape I’ve been in since my early 20s and I’ve got my eyes on a very big prize. In this and many other ways, fasterbarnacle has already taken me way beyond where I ever imagined my dream would and I feel eternally blessed to understand this.

A final word

Before I wrap this post up I want to leave you with a couple of cool examples that further illustrate the kind of impact you’ve had on my life from your forwarding of this site. First, I’ve had the opportunity to meet and sail with someone here in the Bay Area who’s provided me with some incredible, eye-opening and educational trips out onto the San Francisco Bay which have proven invaluable in shaping my understanding of sailing and the things I’ll need for a longer, more challenging voyage. And second, I’ve had the great joy to get reconnected with some old friends from my past — something I never would have expected in a million years, but arguably has been one of the coolest things about this whole endeavor.

So again, big mahalos for all your support and efforts thus far. I suspect this coming year will bring many more surprises and successes with some of them coming from another part of the world.

Aloha.

I’m finding lately that amongst my friends there are two types of people: those who would shell out their last cent for a good, quality roll of toilet paper and those who wouldn’t. This isn’t a judgment of character by any means, it’s merely an observation of where people are willing to cut corners and where they aren’t. Admittedly, until not too long ago, I had nothing but the cheap stuff hanging in my bathroom, but I must also add, in my defense, this was more by default than by choice (okay, some choice).

The thing is, I rarely buy my own toilet paper (or most sundries for that matter) and my friends who often do my shopping for me — for whatever reason — have been under the mistaken assumption I don’t like to buy anything that’s not on sale or that can actually be fit into a closet. I’m not complaining, I don’t see any reason — for example — to purchase a Reach brand toothbrush when I can get 107 Walgreens ones — which are exactly the same — at a lesser price. But that said, there are certain things where knockoff brands just won’t cut it and toilet paper, I’ve come to learn, is one of them.

Truthfully I probably wouldn’t have given this subject much consideration if my home wasn’t regularly filled with friends (a fair percentage of them being female) and I was the only one using my bathroom/toilet paper. But as I’m not the only one using my bathroom/toilet paper and I live by the philosophy “mi casa es su casa”, there’s a level of comfort that exists whereby my houseguests feel they can openly “critique” any product in my home they may or may not use. I have no problem with this, if I’ve purchased something that doesn’t work or is inferior to something else, I want to know about it. And by far the biggest and most vocal complaint has been about my choice of toilet paper.

Now I know what you’re thinking, how could anyone whose life is so centrally focused on their behind be so cavalier about their bathroom’s most important paper product (no doubt, the women out there have been shaking their head at my ignorance since the start of this piece)? And I can only say paralysis and a certain level of compromised sensation in the nether region led to my prolonged apathy. That said, we all see the light sometime and with a little help from my friends, I now have some of the best and cushiest TP money can buy. You may find faults with my soap dispensers, but you won’t feel shortchanged after making a pit stop in my place.

So here are some of the simple rules I’ve learned about choosing a quality toilet paper (in no particular order).

1. Know which of these three criteria matter to you most: strength, softness, or value
2. With the above in mind, be wary of “the deal”. 128 rolls for $3.99 might be tempting, but that savings will cost you where it really counts. Bottom line; you get what you pay for.
3. If strength is important to you (and why wouldn’t it be considering the task at hand), go with a 2 ply. Keep in mind, however, you can always fold a quality single ply.
4. If softness is your bag, the general consensus is go with Northern Quilted. But beware, word has it it’s kind of gone downhill of late. In lieu of this, go with something that has either angels or bear cubs on the packaging (kittens or baby chicks would be fine too) … preferably both or better still, some sort of amalgamation.
5. At all costs avoid any toilet paper that has a picture of two bald men on the cover, regardless of whether they’re smiling or wearing lab coats. In fact, avoid any toilet paper that has any sort of grown man on it (especially with a moustache)… you’ll thank me in the end.

And there you have it. I leave you with a quote from Oscar Wilde that not only applies to your next shopping outing for toilet paper, but I believe life in general.

“A cynic is a man who knows the price of everything but the value of nothing”.

Go forth and wipe with comfort and confidence.

pau

For those not lucky enough to know Telegraph Avenue here in Berkeley, either through intimate familiarity or reputation, I’ll share with you a story to illustrate its color. I choose this one not because it’s any more representative of the Avenue’s quirkiness, but because it compliments a general subject that’s arisen this month from an e-mail and conversations with friends — baldness.

Why the subject of baldness has taken root (no pun intended) this particular month is beyond me. But it began when a friend of mine imparted that the collateral damage of his steadily receding hairline and complementary back of the head crop circle from the testosterone he’s taking is less problematic and troubling than a noticeable increase in nose hair. Another friend of mine struggled with the merits of growing out his thinning hair versus continuing to shave it, with the concern that a longer more shaggy look wouldn’t suit him and he’d cut it out of frustration before he could find out (inside money says if he tries he won’t make it more than a week). And then towards the end of the month, I received an e-mail from a cousin who — among other things — shared with me his appreciation of having dodged his family’s balding gene bullet, since having a full head of hair came in handy while vacationing under an ozone challenged Australian summer sun.

Aside from the anecdote I’m about to share and some sympathetic head nodding, my contribution to the subject was limited. I do notice a bit of a “Nicholson” forming on either side of my temples, but that’s hardly enough to qualify as going bald (not yet anyway). And since I’ve yet to get to Australia, I’m not sure what my full head of red hair will do for me if and when I get there.

The nose hair lamentation, however, I can identify with. Why the male of the sexes needs more hair in their nose (or ears) as they get older is an evolutionary enigma that’s had me stumped for close to a decade. Even more puzzling is why some gentlemen refuse or can’t seem to keep it under control — I’m a quadriplegic for God’s sake and even my paralysis hasn’t kept me from maintaining a regular pruning schedule. The way I see it, if I’ve got to suck up my pride and ask somebody to get up and in there for me, I don’t see how nose shrubbery on the able-bodied can be excused. I’m just saying.

But I digress.

The Ave.

Telegraph Avenue is filled with “interesting” characters. It’s Berkeley, after all. It’s an odd mix of academics, eccentrics, radicals and the homeless. Often times, you’ll find someone is a mix of all four. Some of these folks I’ve gotten to know quite well — some by name, while others solely by daily passing nods and hellos. When you’ve been here as long as I have, have red hair, use a wheelchair and have a red dog, you tend to stand out as much as anybody else and connections of familiarity invariably form.

Still, sometimes you come across somebody you’ve never seen before and not because they’ve only just arrived in town, but rather they’ve chosen to fly under the radar and not be noticed. Why this is, who can say, but when you meet them you certainly won’t be short on hypotheses.

When my watch died a couple of months ago I needed to find someplace within walking distance to get it fixed. I knew of a jewelry shop on the Avenue and so I thought I’d try that first. On my way there, not more than five stores from my destination, I discovered an actual watch repair shop that I’d somehow overlooked for all these years; a barely there storefront squeezed comically into what seemed like a narrow walkway between two other businesses. It wasn’t very inviting place — a steel cage fortified the door and it’s only small window was barred and covered with a piece of cardboard (admittedly, Telegraph has its sketchy elements, but it’s hardly Times Square circa 1978). Still, despite the Fort Knox like security, a “we’re open” sign hung prominently on the door and a note above a doorbell reading, “ring for assistance”, suggested they were actually interested in customers.

Having a broken watch on me, I figured I qualified as business and went ahead and did as the sign suggested and rang the doorbell. After waiting a couple of minutes, but hearing nothing, I decided to give it another shot and hit the button again. Just as I was about to turn to go, I heard locks — maybe four — one by one disengage from the door, and a tall, spindly man in his 70s with the worst toupee I’ve ever seen, opened it and leaned out.

“Yes?” He said, looking down at me briefly and then up and down the street to make sure I didn’t have an accomplice who could rob him.

“I’ve got a watch I need to have fixed”. I said.

“Give it to me. Let me see it”. He said, keeping his distance, but extending his hand and wiggling his fingers in an inpatient beckon.

When I explained I was unable to get it myself and that he’d have to reach into the pack alongside my chair for it, he let out a groan and cautiously stepped from the door. As he leaned over me, a mix of sour body odor and cheap drugstore cologne entered my airspace and nearly made me gag. His toupee, from this closer vantage point, appeared to be backwards and was listing to one side, looking like a cheap, blonde Beatles wig from the sixties. I wanted to say something — to let him know his hairpiece was off and that perhaps in his efforts to get to the door, he’d placed it on carelessly, but not knowing how he would take such assistance (as it seems most toupee owners go to great lengths to camouflage the fact that they wear one), I thought better of it… that and the large side arm strapped to his belt. Anyway, I figured he’d either work it out later or that was the look he was going for — no sense in upsetting the man any more than I already had.

“Kinetic, huh?” He said, looking at the face of the watch and then flipping it over to scrutinize the back.

“Yeah. Can you fix it?”

“It’s a Seiko”.

“Yeah”. I said. But he wasn’t asking a question.

“Japanese garbage”. He said, putting the watch back in my pouch. “I don’t work on Seikos”.

But before I could say anything else, he was back inside and re-bolting the locks. What he had against Seiko or the Japanese, I can’t say, but even if he’d given me the time I don’t think I would’ve felt comfortable pursuing the issue — his side arm, rapidly falling toupee, nervous paranoia and quixotic distaste for timepieces from the land of the rising sun were all I needed to take my business elsewhere… no questions asked. The irony of it is, I bought my watch on eBay and so I doubt it was Japanese (or a Seiko) in the first place, more than likely it was a Chinese knockoff and probably the reason it wasn’t working.

And so ends my anecdote about Telegraph Avenue and baldness. The point of it all is in there somewhere and I suggest if you really want to find it, you look at it as sort of a “Where’s Waldo” kind of a deal. It’ll be more enjoyable that way and ultimately more rewarding. As for the watch, well…

Tick-tock, tick-tock.

Pau.

This week’s recommended buys/listens:

Smokey Rolls Down Thunder Canyon, Devendra Banhard Idiosyncratic freak folk.  A difficult one to pin down exactly; alternately comic and nostalgic, it’s a mix of 70s Laurel Canyon haze and modern indie quirkiness.  A favorite of mine in 2007.

Out My Window, Koushik 60s style sunshine pop with a hip-hop beat.  Though the two albums I’m recommending here are representative of modern nostalgia, they come at it from different directions. Here we have banging beats over fuzzed out guitars, B3 style organ and ethereal vocal runs.  it’s not production wizard pastiche, these are songs, but they definitely have a crate diving aesthetic.  Think DJ shadow meets Pet Sounds.

If there’s such a thing as the ideal surf conditions for a C 4-5 quadriplegic — and I now know there is — then Saturday, August 16th was it; 75° blue skies, 68° water, light winds and a 1 to 3 foot southwest swell. It had been 28 years since I last put on a wetsuit and sat on the sand waiting to enter a lineup — a palpable grom-like excitement snapped to attention by the smell of surfboard wax and neoprene warming under the morning sun.

From the moment that first doctor uttered the words, “you’ll never walk again”, this day has been the stuff of dreams. I’ve seen it unfold countless times — in various manifestations — in such detail and color it almost always felt real. Often I’d be standing — surfing as proficiently as I used to — doing roundhouse cutbacks, off the lips and getting barreled. While other times, I’d be wobbly, barely able to stand, as if walking for the first time since my accident. And still others, as I am now — paralyzed — but able to catch waves on my belly like a boogie boarder.

What rarely seemed to be in my dreams, however, was how it all came together. In my dreams, there was hardly any paddling, duck diving, sitting in lineups waiting for waves — any of that ancillary stuff. It was all about the surfing. But all that “ancillary” stuff is critical to catching waves, and it’s something I’ve given great thought to in regards to how I might surf in the real world as opposed to my imagination.

No matter what form they take, it’s a strange moment when your dreams come true.

This was a Life Rolls On and They Will Surf Again event, two organizations which — among other things — have made a mission of bringing awareness to spinal cord injury research and getting disabled folk out into the water to surf. At this particular Bolsa Chica event, there were about 150 volunteers — surfers, non-surfers, high school students, college students, parents, grandparents — most of whom were on the beach helping with registration, food, getting wetsuits on and off, etc, while others were in the water helping people surf. On this beautiful summer Saturday, it was inspiring to see so many people come together to help 20 individuals catch some waves.

Red. Blue. Green. Orange.

On arrival, surfers were put into four color-coded groups of five with the order the surfer would get to hit the water determined by where the surfer was on a list in their group. In other words, things were set up like a typical surf contest, with four surfers from each group in the water at the same time for about 20 minute heats. Once in the water, each surfer was accompanied by 8 to 10 volunteers who — depending on the surfer’s needs — were spread out in a boxlike pattern with spotters on the outside keeping an eye on the waves, spotters on the inside to get to the surfer if he or she wiped out, and a few others to help push the surfer into the waves (or over them as the case warranted).

I won’t lie to you and say I wasn’t a little frustrated by my heat draw. I was fourth in my group which meant I had to wait an hour before I’d get to enter the water, and this was an additional hour on top of my arrival time (did I mention the 28 years before that?). And while I’m not saying there’s a better or safer way to do it — perhaps because it was my first time they wanted me to check things out a bit before I got out there — as an ex-surfer, I knew with every passing moment the wind would become a little stiffer onshore and the conditions would slowly get bumpier. Less than ideal for the waves.

“Reminds me of your NSSA contests“. My dad said, sensing my antsiness and trying to comfort me a little. “A lot of waiting for a few waves”.

“Yeah”. I said, smiling. “A lot”.

And it was true, waiting is all part of the process. Sometimes you get an early heat draw, sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you get it glassy, sometimes you don’t. But really, truth be told, I would’ve waited all day and into the next week if I had to; a little bump wasn’t going to turn this quad around. Besides it gave me a great opportunity to meet and talk with some of the other more experienced crip surfers who’d been to these events before.

Triceps are everything

There’s an expression amongst spinal cord injury crips that goes something like this: quads want to be paras and paras want to walk. I’d amend that slightly by adding, high quads want to be low quads, but otherwise — in my experience — it’s pretty right on. The thing is, the lower your injury is on the spinal cord, the more motor function you have. If we’re talking about the cervical vertebrae, the difference in moving the trauma up or down one or two vertebrae could mean the difference between breathing on your own or not, or being able to get dressed and get in and out of bed on your own or not. This movement over a very small amount of real estate can have a huge impact on one’s level of independence.

To illustrate this further and maybe paint a clearer picture for those of you who aren’t fortunate enough to know a quadriplegic personally, Christopher Reeve’s injury was sustained around the first two cervical vertebrae and thus he required a respirator to breathe, whereas Jesse Billauer, the founder of Life Rolls On and the godfather of quad surfing, sustained his at the sixth. My level of injury is between the fourth and fifth vertebrae, and the difference between Jesse and myself is that he has the use of his triceps, wrists and maybe some pectorals and I don’t. How this difference translates to surfing is that where Jesse is able to support himself on his elbows, lean from side to side to control the direction of the board and see straight ahead, I’m unable to do any of these things. The use of triceps in this regard is the x-factor.

As they were bringing me out into the surf for the first time, I was trying to get my head around how this was all going to go down. It was obvious I’d be prone, but how I’d see or stay on the board was a complete mystery. As I mentioned above, I don’t have the use of my triceps so holding myself upright on my elbows wouldn’t be an option. Also since I breathe with my diaphragm, being on my belly would make it difficult for me to take a deep breath, and when you’re surfing being able to take a deep breath can be very handy from time to time. Fortunately, the board I was using had a hard piece of foam duct–taped to it and this allowed me to keep my head — albeit turned to one side — off the deck and able to breathe air instead of salt water. It wasn’t a perfect design by any means, but I didn’t expect it to be — I was on the board and that was another step closer to surfing.

Still, as we got closer to the lineup I wasn’t without apprehension; the waves weren’t big, but I was concerned that because I couldn’t see ahead of me, I wouldn’t be able to take a breath in time if we needed to go under or over a wave or if I pearled and wiped out. It wasn’t drowning that concerned me — my friend Natalie was riding tandem with me and between her and all the other spotters I knew somebody would to get to me — I just didn’t want it to become a “pump the salt water out of the redheaded quad day”. I wanted to surf, not be resuscitated.

But like everything else that day, it was about teamwork — this kind of surfing isn’t possible without it. When that first wave broke in front of us and everyone shouted, “breathe!”, I knew another obstacle had fallen by the wayside. Even though I lacked something essential like forward vision, the team did their best to make up for it. They couldn’t take a breath for me, but at least they could tell me when and how long I should hold it.

And then

I want to tell you that being in the ocean again — in this capacity — for the first time since breaking my neck was like a trip home. I want to tell you that after we punched through that first wave — the sound and sensation of the cool whitewater rushing over me — that everything came flooding back and I felt supremely comfortable. I want to tell you these things, because the ocean is my heart and soul and does feel like home. But what I was feeling was much more than that and conflicted as well. Wrapped up in my elation and stoke to be in the water again was a profound sense of vulnerability, that while foreign and uncomfortable, felt strangely appropriate.

I’ve always had a tremendous respect for the ocean, but I’ve never felt vulnerable in it — even when things got really heavy. The day I broke my neck, the day I floated there in the water — my home — unable to swim or save myself, as waves broke around me, was a humbling moment. Coming back to those sensations — that awareness (I still can’t swim to save my life) — felt more electric I suppose because of where I was now. I’ve pushed my boundaries before — confronted my fears — and I know those feelings well, and this wasn’t one of those feelings… this was not adrenaline. This was something far greater. This was — for lack of a better way to put it — the moment. And it was a lifetime in the making.

The three waves I caught that afternoon were small, but to me they couldn’t have been more perfect. On each wave I could hear my family, my friends and the team cheer as Natalie and I cut and rode towards shore. Most of these folks had waited as long as I had for this moment and the fact that they could be there with me — sharing it — meant as much to me as the experience itself. I’ve surfed alone on many great days and had many great sessions, but the days I cherish most — good or mediocre — were the days I shared with loved ones. This day was no exception and I’m forever grateful they could all be there.

A picture is worth…

Later that evening, I saw some photos my sister and cousin had taken of the event, and one in particular grabbed my heart and made me a bit dusty. It was of my parents — together — watching me at some point in the afternoon — either putting on my wetsuit or catching a wave — and both of them were crying. I’ve tried to imagine on numerous occasions what it must be like for them to have had their only son break his neck and how intensely they must feel both my challenges and successes as I’ve grown and lived with my disability. But truthfully, this wasn’t what got me about the photograph — though it’s making me a bit teary now — what got me about the photograph, was that I believe for the first time after all these years they truly — in the deepest, most profound way possible — felt and understood what surfing means to me.

Don’t get me wrong, my parents were supportive of my surfing at a very young age. They were always aware a good part of my drive and spirit were formed by surfing. They have adopted sons and my sisters have additional brothers because of surfing. My dad often got up before the crack of dawn and took me to my contests, my friends and I to Baja, Trestles and countless other surf breaks beyond the range of our bikes and skateboards. And my mom — God bless her — rarely said no to me going to the beach by myself in my preteen years, something a lot of parents wouldn’t dream of today (in her defense she always thought I was going to meet somebody). But still, given all this, deep down I don’t think they ever really, truly got surfing… not really. They knew I loved it — obsessed over it — but like most people who’ve never surfed, the sport — in all its entirety — was beyond their understanding.

Surfing — for me at least (and a lot of others around the world) — has always been a spiritual experience; if you don’t surf that’s near impossible to get your head around. And if you do, well, it’s nearly impossible to explain. Surf culture is about community as much as anything else, and when we have a profound experience within a warm, embracing community that experience can be magnified infinitely. What I saw in that photograph was the accumulation of all my parents’ experiences with surfing — years of being around it, seeing it, hearing about it, living it — reaching a place of understanding in an environment that was the perfect catalyst for just such an awakening. Take that and combine it with everything else about that day, our history and our love for each other and you have yourself a couple of parents who at long last found the true meaning of stoke. They may not surf, but they’re now part of the tribe. Who wouldn’t shed some tears?

Still, I suspect even now if you asked them what it was that made them so emotional in that picture, they might say something completely different from what I’m suggesting here. And that’s fine, because don’t believe it’s one thing. But I also don’t believe they would’ve had quite the same reaction had it been basketball, fishing or even a skydiving I was doing for the first time since my accident.

Recently I’ve given it a lot of thought as to why — at this age — these sports — surfing, skiing, sailing, skateboarding — still have so much resonance in my life. There’s no question aging or all those years spent in bed nursing pressure sores has something to do with it, but I think it’s much more basic than that. I broke my neck at a time when these sports literally meant everything to me and it was like having a meal snatched away before I’d even finished — my belly still growling and hungry. That said, I don’t pine for these things or feel my life is any less complete because I’m not doing them the way I once did — quite the contrary. Not being able to do them has sent my life on an incredible trajectory that I never would’ve been on otherwise. In many ways — though this might seem like a strange metaphor given the obvious — it’s like losing your sight and finding your other senses have become more acute. Now when I see or do these sports, their meaning and impact feels far more significant and — in a way I never would have expected — become a springboard to much higher heights.

And the future?

Unlike my skiing experience where the equipment is pretty much dialed in for my level of injury, this surfing experience was a “go with what we’ve got” type of a deal that ultimately worked, but could be greatly improved upon. Since that afternoon, I’ve begun brainstorming on how to do this, as I want to get out in the water again as soon as possible. I figure any solutions I come up with will benefit not only somebody like myself but ideally somebody with less function as well. And ultimately that’s the goal — making the experience as accessible and enjoyable to as many people as possible. If you know any shapers or anybody who wants to participate in this endeavor, point them in my direction. Contrary to popular belief, you can never have too many brains in the broth.

Epilogue

I’d be remiss in my duties as a blogger if I didn’t close out this piece with a little something about inspiration and its effect on action. As you’ve come to understand from above, my desire to surf again was a pretty heavy one. But because of my level of injury and my inability to swim, I could never quite figure out how to make it work and it eventually became a back burner fantasy — prominent and ever present, but nevertheless back burner.

The first time I saw that video of Jesse Billauer surfing many years ago was a watershed moment. Not only did it move me to see an ex-surfer get out there and ride waves, but as a fellow quadriplegic and champion of all things bold and pioneering, it’s significance wasn’t lost on me. Not only was it one of the heaviest things I’d ever seen in the sport (try negotiating whitewater or going over the falls when you’re unable to swim and have no use of your legs), but perhaps one of the most inspiring as well. Suddenly what was once difficult to wrap my head around, now seemed possible and it was only a matter of time before all the right pieces would fall into place. Our disabilities may have been different, but that hardly mattered, he had broken down the door and this is where things would start to happen.

Fast-forward many years, several adventures, some life-changing opportunities and a return to a location not far from where I broke my neck, and as I was sitting there on the beach waiting to get wet, surrounded by dynamic and beautiful people, I was entirely aware that this event, the 19 before it and others like it taking place elsewhere around the world, were the result of a single spark started by one individual.

This was inspiration evolving into action, and if there’s anyone out there who still doubts your individual power, I suggest A) you reread this blog and B) you check out one of these events.

Aloha and big mahalos to volunteers everywhere.