Tension is who you think you should be, relaxation is who you are. ~a fortune cookie

I have a theory that the reason there are so many geeks fascinated by the medieval time period is because of the peaks and valleys of stress in the technical industry. For many, either you are utterly stressed or bored out of your skull. We (and I say “we” because I consider myself part of this group) long for simpler times. In Utopian terms, there were two main phases you were in.

1) You were putting on armor, grabbing a long stick with a deadly bit on the end of it and dealing with your problem.
2) You were celebrating the fact that your problem was dealt with, feasting on whole animals, and listening to musicians sing tales of your courage and strength.

The reality is, there was plenty to stress about. To name a few: disease, foul odors everywhere, Vikings showing up and wreaking havoc, frightening medical practices- and, worst of all, lack of instant access to reliable information on any topic. Also, being under siege for years is a whole new level of boredom and stress.

My point here is that computer geeks often have stress which leads to odd ways of dealing with it – I know I did. It was based on a technique that Native Americans would use when they were suffering from grief or anger or any emotion that they could not get under control.

First, he would fast for a day or two just to let his body know that he meant business. Next, he would go down to a riverbed and search for a rock that "called to him." After that, he would take this rock and go far out into the woods, grip the rock as tight as he could and visualize himself pouring all his negative emotion into it. Finally, he would bury the rock and walk away, leaving whatever was troubling him behind.

If you are an insomniac like me, this may make more sense. The goal is to have a memory of something you can latch onto instead of whatever is bothering you repeatedly forcing itself into the forefront of your mind. You just remember burying the rock when the emotion pops up and eventually it fades away.

I was not about to fast or bury a quarry’s worth of rocks to deal with stress, but here was my procedure. On my walk home at the end of the day, I would press my hand against a certain cement pillar and leave my work stress there. If I started to think back about my job, I would remember the pillar. And, believe it or not, it worked pretty well for me.

When we moved houses I needed a new pillar. After giving it much thought, I decided on a weird sculpture-thing I would be passing by every day. The next evening, following my pattern, I placed my hand on it and, to my surprise, it moved. I grabbed it and experimented and realized that it was meant to spin and, also, the main pieces rotate on their own while the base is spinning.

This is way cooler than the pillar. On particularly bad days I would get the whole thing spinning as fast as I could, nearly slamming myself in the head a couple of times.

I still don’t know what the sculpture-thing is or what it’s supposed to represent. I’ve included a short video below – if you have any idea of the true meaning of my stress totem, I’d love to hear it.

Keep your friends close, your enemies closer.

When I want to do 'hill work' (aka running up hills to make your legs stronger), I usually go to Lafayette Reservoir. It has a very hilly trail that winds around a ridge, but my preferred route is the 2 3/4 mile paved loop hugging the water-line.

Distraction helps me run which has resulted me in naming most of the hills around the loop. For example, the first hill leads to a children's play area with a castle-like structure, so I call it "The Drawbridge".

Increasing my total distance is my main goal for the day so I plan on four laps around the pond (a new personal record.) I pop on my headphones, take a deep breath and start trotting.

On the third lap the exertion catches up with me. My mind starts to go into that state of,  "Why am I doing this, again? Isn't there a computer game you would rather be playing right now?" I mentally slap myself a couple of times and concentrate on keeping pace - then I see it.

Dead ahead is the hill I call "The Beast", the steepest one of the loop. I let up my pace  and promise myself that if I can just keep moving it will be all over shortly. An elderly couple at the top see me panting upwards and move to the side allowing me to pass. I catch movement on my left in my peripheral vision and realize I am being passed.

She is Asian, in her early twenties, about six feet tall and is running like she means business. I assume this is her first lap since she isn't really sweating and doesn't seem tired at all. While training to run I have learned to discard my ego, so I could care less that she is passing me. That is, until I get to the top of the hill.

The couple at the top of the hill is still waiting for me to pass. The husband, who reminds me of Mr Miyagi, is looking at me with disgust. My iPod volume is cranked up so I can't hear what he is saying to me, but I catch the last few words which are "...by A GIRL!". He scowls, points his finger at me and then at the girl. The message is clear : don't let a girl beat you. (Side note: this song starts playing and is the theme song for what happens next.)

Exhaustion does strange things to your brain- something inside me snaps. Suddenly, my entire focus is inside a mental box. There is no pain inside the box. There is no fatigue inside the box. There is only one thing with me inside the box : "catch the girl."

I pick up my pace and she comes back into view as I turn the corner. The old man laughing behind me, I concentrate on her feet and match her rhythm (tap, tap, tap, tap.) I copy her stride and assessments of the situation bounce around my head : she's younger than I am, she's a more experienced runner, she's just started her run today, she's got a longer stride. My brain processes all this information and spits out the response.

She is history.

I increase my pace a 1/8 count to her rhythm (tap, tap-tap, tap, tap) and slowly gain on her. She turns over her shoulder, sees me and speeds up. I recalibrate the beat and compensate. We approach the series of long winding hills I call "The Dragon's Spine" and I hear a sound that could be me gasping for air or could be the wind.

About a mile later, we approach a flat picnic area I call "The Meadow" and the walls of the box crash around me. Clutching my stomach, I yell, "You win!", and grind to a halt. In response, she turns and gives me a thumbs up and sprints away even faster.

That's when it sinks in: she was never worried about me passing her, she was worried about me giving up without pushing myself to the limit.

I finished all four laps and went home thinking about the lessons I learned: there isn't dishonor in losing to a girl, a perceived opponent could actually be your ally, and if you spend all your energy on the monsters you won't be able to even walk through the meadow.

Good sliding versus Bad sliding

(Context note: This was January 2008.)

After many months of discussing going up snowboarding, I found a great deal through Sliding On The Cheap  and got a package with room, lift tickets and some restaurant coupons. (If you like to ski or snowboard I highly recommend signing up for their email list to save a buck.)

In a previous post, I mentioned that I don’t like driving in icy road conditions and let Wife drive if at all possible. I let her handle the driving and I manage the stereo, snacks and comic relief. We arrive Friday evening, have a blast Saturday and drive back Sunday morning.

After sleeping in and lazily eating breakfast we realize that there is a storm coming in and we will be racing it over the summit. As we approach the grade, there are workers forcing people to pull over and put on chains.

I look to Wife to take care of this since I assume this falls squarely in the “driving in icy conditions” category, which is her domain. She looks at me and asks, “Where are the instructions for these things?”

I do not like the sound of that. My gut starts to churn and my breathing gets faster as I begin the first stages of freaking out. After some messing around, we get the chains on and are waved through to go up the hill. Traffic proceeds slowly but nicely up the windy mountain freeway.

After traffic comes to a brief stop, Wife steps on the gas and the tires just spin in place. She checks that she is in a low gear, slowly steps on the gas again and the tires spin and the car stars sliding toward the mountain. I begin phase two of freaking out which is also known as “wanting out of there so bad that I am contemplating just running for it.”

All traffic in both directions is stopped as we try to figure out what to do next. I feel like I did when I was a city boy that had just moved to the mountains. Two truckers come marching up to the car and assess the situation without asking if they are needed. The one with the Budweiser ball-cap looks at me and laughs. He says, “Those chain monkeys at the bottom of the hill put the chains on the wrong tires! They need to go on the front!”

I could have fessed up. I could have taken accountability for the major mistake, but I ended up saying, “Oh, man. I can’t believe that.”

They take matters into their own hands and get the chains on the front tires even though we are in an awkward position. I had visions of the car suddenly sliding into one of the men and crushing them – thankfully nothing like that happened. We got over the summit and down the hill and the chains started breaking off. At my insistence we just kept driving, ruining the set of chains in the process.

Sunday evening we got to tell people about how great the mountain was – sunshine, new snow, no crowds. People would mention that they heard traffic was horrible and I only mentioned to a select few the full story.

(I’ll say it now, if anyone was affected by the traffic that day, I am sorry. That was me. Won’t happen again.)

You can't escape the weirdness (aka Bachelor Party, part 2)

(Context note: This is a flashback to several years ago, hope I got the details right and you enjoy.) 

Our next stop was Main Street, Placerville. You may have picked up from a previous post that this is a very ‘old-timey’ town and that vibe really comes across when you drive down Main Street with its antique shops, hardware stores, bakeries and other things you’d expect in a horse-and-buggy main street.

For context, once a year, people dress up in 1800s clothing and ride in an actual wagon train down Highway 50 for a week and have things like tomahawk throwing demonstrations. You can read more about it here.

There is a "Lounge" on Main Street called “Gil’s” which is our next destination. It’s a dive bar, but not nearly as much as Irish Pub. There are a few other people mingling about but they all seem friendly and keeping to themselves so we go in and have a beer.

We sit at the bar and chat with each other, the bartender, a few other people in the vicinity and things are going along nicely. The best man stands up to use the restroom and, as if on cue, the conversation takes a hard left turn.

A skinny older man with a grizzled beard is talking about where he lives which is out toward the hills. One of the groomsmen notes that he lives in the same general direction which prompts this question:

“So, you’ve seen them, haven’t you?’, he asks.

“Seen what?”, the groomsman asks back.

“Well, they say they are green, but they’re actually grey. Well, I guess some are more blue, but mostly grey.”

I was half-listening. I sense tension, turn, and am now full-listening. We are confused and look questioningly at him.

“The little men! You know, they come down to the woods out there!”, he explains. There’s a little bit of a desperate crazy look in his eyes.

Then it sinks in – he’s talking about aliens. I am willing to just humor him, but the groomsman sitting closest to him wants to leave no confusion as to how he feels about it and says, “I am turning around and not talking to you any more.” And then, true to his word, turns around and takes a sip from his beer.

The man begins to freak out, he slams his hand on the bar stating that he is not crazy, that they are out there and we all know it is true. I start to get a bit nervous as to what he is going to do next when the best man comes back. It should be noted here that the best man is what you would call a ‘big guy’. 'Physically imposing' would also be accurate.

He stands behind the frenzied man and asks, “Do we have a problem here?”.

The man turns around, looks the best man up and down, turns back to us, back to the best man, to the bartender who shrugs and then angrily says “No!”, after which he picks up his beer and moves to a part of the bar that’s out of eye-sight.

We decide once again that it’s time to change venues. From that point onward the night was pretty uneventful, a few more friends met up with us, we had a few laughs, a few conversations about life, marriage, family and the TV show X-Files.

The next day I took my wedding vows and it seemed downright normal.

We get it, you're as free as a bird. (aka Bachelor Party, part 1)

(Context note: This is a flashback to several years ago, hope I got the details right and you enjoy.)

It’s the day before my wedding and I am stressed.

I don’t have the “pre-wedding butterflies” that I have heard so much about, it’s more of a fatigue with the seemingly endless details that go into having a wedding. The tuxes and flowers and food and location and weather forecast and music and invitations and dresses and THE dress and … you get the picture. The groomsmen in the wedding take me out for the traditional last night out with the guys.

It’s still a semi-secret but I have planned a honeymoon in Ireland, so it seems appropriate that we go to Irish Pub.

That’s the entire name, not Molly Malone’s or O’Neill’s or The Elephant and the Castle or something – simply “Irish Pub”.

We park and the four of us walk past two men having a smoke by a pickup truck parked near the door. One of them laughs and yells to us, “Hey! You guys don’t have any guns on you, do you?” We shake our heads no and exchange confused looks.

Walking into the pub, I realize that it doesn’t fit my stereotypical idea of what an Irish Pub looks like. In fact, it looks like a full-on country-hick back-woods dive bar. There is loud music playing and I look over to see one man on stage singing “Freebird” into a karaoke mike with all of his heart. I look toward the bar and see that all bottles of liquor behind the bar are one of two things – Wild Turkey or Jack Daniels.

Ignoring all the blatant warning signs that this is not what I expected, I approach the bar and order a Guinness.

“A what?”, the bartender yells back. I repeat myself and he continues to be confused as to what I want.

“Ok, what beers do you have?”, I yell. He responds, “We have Bud … and Bud Light!”

I blink and Freebird starts to reach its crescendo. I ask, “Do you have any imported beers?” He looks a little disgusted and says, “I think we have a Heineken in back!”. Right about now I feel committed to at least ordering something so I say, “I’ll have that!”

He comes back with a lukewarm bottle of Heineken that has a nice layer of dust on it. I pay the man and tuck into trying to finish it as fast as possible so we can get out of there. One of the groomsman orders a Bud and I decide to say out loud, "We need to get moving as fast as possible."- just so there is no confusion.

A new song is starting and there appears to be some sort of argument as to who is going to sing Sweet Home Alabama. It sinks in that there are two things to worry about: first, that there may be an altercation over whether this is going to be a solo karaoke night or everyone taking turns. Second and more concerning, we may have a Lynyrd Skynyrd marathon going on and I don’t know of anything good coming from that.

I leave some warm beer in the bottle, put it on the bar and say, “Let’s go.” and walk out. I think to myself that if pubs in Ireland are like that, I am about to give my new bride a severe let-down.

Historic California, Part 3 - Emeryville

Working in Emeryville, I used to take the opportunity to explore my surroundings. I found some pretty interesting things, but this post is specifically about the Bay Street Mall.

The Bay Street Mall in Emeryville is fancy. It’s got condos built into it so you can look out your balcony and watch people wander in and out of any number of the expensive big name stores. Perfumed air comes wafting out of each entrance you pass and security officers go whizzing by on Segways.

Then, one day I heard that Ohlone Indians were protesting the mall and declaring a "don't buy anything day". Thinking that was an odd place to protest, I looked it up and the reason they are upset is that the mall is built on one of their burial grounds.

One thing that movies teach is never build anything on top of an Indian burial ground. However, I never saw any pots flying through the windows of Williams-Sonoma. I never saw any books acting strangely in the Barnes & Noble. No furniture magically putting itself together and taken apart at IKEA. So, I come to the conclusion that maybe it’s the specific store or stores that sit right on top of the burial site that would be the one to avoid.

Bay Street Mall has 65 stores, 10 restaurants and a movie theater, but there is only one establishment that sits right on top of the burial site. One business that risks the vicious anger that movies say will come upon them for their disrespect. And that place is : Victoria’s Secret.

I find the thought of haunted lingerie hilarious. I imagined a storyline of a husband buying something special for his wife and it tormenting the family by showing up in odd places. “Honey, why is there a bra in the casserole?”

So, in conclusion, that is what I think about when the topic of California history comes up: hanging, cannibalism, and lingerie.

Seriously, though, I like where I am. I try to take advantage of being near a wonderful city like San Francisco, and even find great places and people even closer to home in less recognizable cities like Walnut Creek, Concord, Danville, and all the others.

I guess there’s “gold” everywhere you go, not just the mines in the California hills – in the people, the places, and the stories. Personally, I think there’s richer mines out in Europe, but I totally understand when people say they’d rather try their luck in my sunny backyard.

Historic California, Part 2 - Donner Pass

Warning: The following post is not for the weak of stomach, it involves topics such as cannibalism, murder and those hats that are made out of a raccoons.

This story also takes place in the mid-1800s with a caravan of people headed to California to take advantage of the boom after the discovery gold. I’ll summarize, but I highly recommend the book “Ordeal by Hunger” by George R Stewart. The story itself is fascinating and shows that there can be some true heroes in horrible situations. It's when life or death decisions are on the line that shows what type of person you really are.

I’ll summarize the important facts: A caravan leaves Illinois in April 1846, George Donner is the leader. A lot of these people are not prepared for hard travel (i.e. are pretty wealthy and bring things like a piano for their house in California. This sort of thing slows them down because the huge heavy wagons are slower and get stuck more often.) They try a “shortcut” which ends up costing them three weeks. Rather than turn back and wait the winter out in a fort, they decide to race the winter to the Sierras – and they almost make it.

It’s late October, a blizzard hits and they are trapped. They split up into three groups and either build cabins or try to head down the mountain on snowshoes. Historians’ best guess is that the snow got up to 22 feet (that’s almost 7 meters for those on the metric system.) This is where the meat of the tragedy begins. Some try to get down the mountain to form a rescue team for supplies, which results with some people dying and others not able to convince anyone to go back uphill in the monstrous weather. The ones that stay are completely out of food and with people dying from cold and sickness resort to cannibalism. It’s important to note here that during this time period murder is illegal, but cannibalism is not. A lot of the conjecture of what happens revolves around whether or not someone “helped” someone’s passing in order to sustain themselves.

In any case, when February rolls around, relief efforts come to get them. Battle hardened men are getting sick left and right. One camp in particular only has one survivor, fit and healthy, which is suspicious under the circumstances. It’s obvious he turned predator during the winter, but they can’t prove murder so he walks away a free man. He ends up moving down to San Jose and opening a successful restaurant, proving once again that truth is stranger than fiction.

I visited Donner State Park where one of the cabins was built. There is a big statue there with a description of what happened and a list of survivors. I can’t think of it as anything other than a monument to lack of planning, horrible decisions and the depths one can sink to in a crisis.

My friends in Europe always wonder why I start snickering when we go to a kebab restaurant. It’s because of this story and the item known as the “Doner Kebab”. It makes me want to start screaming “It’s made out of people!”

Next up – a Native American burial site!

Historic California, Part 1 - Placerville

The back-and-forth in the comments of this excellent blog spurred me to write a few stories of when I tried to really dig into the historic monuments of my home state, California. I am going to split this into three parts: Placerville, Donner Pass, and a surprise outcome of a Native American burial ground.

There are definitely Native American sites, but they are hard to find, not promoted very well, and few in number. I suspect this is for two reasons: First, the people roamed around rather than build fortified cities meant to withstand attack and last for hundreds of years. Most of my experiences of the culture are paintings on caves and things like divots in a large flat rock used for grinding acorns a very long time ago.

Second, I think there’s a bit of subconscious guilt along the lines of “Um, yeah, there used to be a whole lot of people here.”, so most of the investment in historical preservation goes to “American” history. However, I haven’t really researched this, I may be wrong, but it’s a gut feeling.

I spent four years of my late teenage life in a city called Placerville. It’s also where I met my wife so I have a fond memory of it, but I am not inclined to live there ever again. I am too addicted to convenience and technology to call the wooded hills my home, but it has some historic significance.

Most of the California monuments begin in the mid-1800s when there was a huge influx of population to mine for gold that was discovered in the El Dorado Hills. Placerville is somewhat near where gold was discovered so its stories begin around that time period.

It has the nickname of “Old Hangtown.” The story goes that there were some thugs that were terrorizing the town, killing people that crossed them, hanging out at the saloon gambling and generally being a nuisance. The miners get together and give an ultimatum to the town saying all professional gamblers have 24 hours to get out (translation: Hey, you guys that hang out in the saloon and gamble all day? We are talking to you. Leave.)

One of the leaders of the miners gets mysteriously shot while walking near the saloon. The rest of the miners take this as the answer to their ultimatum, haul out the gamblers and hang them all from a tree outside. The saloon owner comes out and starts yelling that he is going to have them charged with murder for killing his customers with no proof. The mob doesn’t like hearing that, get another rope and hang him too. (Note: I find this an excellent example of a good time to keep one’s mouth shut.)

Now the saloon has a dummy hanging from a noose outside and a bright neon sign that it is a historic monument. I went in and it’s what is known as a “dive bar”. Nothing special. After that disappointment, I decide to up the ante on the California history front with one of the most infamous and tragic stories about a migration to the West.

Up next – Donner Pass!