My last entry, about my trip to the Russian River Brewing Company, was such an inspiration that I'm going to revisit the topic of beer today. As you may have figured out, I love beer. If it were up to me, beer would join the 5 food groups (can it displace 'legumes,' please?). There are, of course, terrible beers out there. These beers taste at best like river water and at worst like a dog's rear end. I shall not speak further of this swill outside of the context of drinking games, for these beers are generally without value unless distributed and consumed in a competitive environment.
That brings us to excellent beers, of which there are many available in the Valley. Just check your local Bevmo or Whole Foods, and you can find a smorgasbord of outstanding microbrews (also referred to as 'craft beers' here). But where should you start if you're clueless about beers that actually taste good? Here are five great introductory beers for Silicon Valley beer drinkers looking to move from 'crappy' to 'good but accessible' beers (this list is certainly not exhaustive):
1) Lagunitas IPA- An excellent IPA for drinkers becoming acquainted with the joys of bitter beers. One of the most accessible IPAs I've ever had. Props to my friend NI for introducing me to this beer and writing about it on his blog (mamacoke.blogspot.com, and search for entries tagged 'beer'). It's a local Bay Area beer as well, so buy a 6-pack and support an outstanding local brewer.
2) Samuel Smith's Oatmeal Stout- A British stout, the Sam Smith's Oatmeal Stout is one of my all-time favorite beers, and it is certainly my favorite specialty stout. I'm almost embarrassed to admit that I like the Sam Smith so much around my beer snob friends, largely because its flavor is so accessible to novice beer drinkers. If you get to sample the Sam Smith's Oatmeal Stout and other commonly available oatmeal stouts (like Young's or Anderson Valley's Barney Flats Oatmeal Stout), you'll notice that the Sam Smith's oatmeal flavor is particularly pronounced compared to the other options, giving it a richer flavor and more pleasing aftertaste (at least, in my opinion). And, of course, if you don't like the Sam Smith's because it's too oatmealy, just downgrade the oatmeal flavor intensity by turning to Young's or Anderson Valley's instead, which are both great too.
3) Rogue Dead Guy Ale- You can't go wrong with most Rogue brews, and the Dead Guy Ale is one of Rogue's classic beers. The Dead Guy Ale is a lighter, honey-colored ale with moderate bitterness that will intrigue newer beer drinkers. More advanced hop-heads will likely prefer other Rogue offerings, like the Shakespeare Stout, Imperial IPA, Brutal Bitter, Chocolate Stout, or Santa's Private Reserve, but the Dead Guy Ale is a West Coast signature beer (from Oregon) that can't be missed.
4) Moylan's Brewery Kilt Lifter Scotch Ale- A strong beer at 8% ABV, the Kilt Lifter is a copper-colored, sweet brew from the Bay Area. The Kilt Lifter's sweetness and thinness makes it more palatable for newer drinkers who may have trouble with bitter, dry, highly hoppy, or thick beers. It's really only a slightly-above-average scotch ale when compared to the many scotch ale offerings one can find across the country, but it's the best one I've had in the Valley. If anybody knows any better scotch ales available in the Valley, I'm all ears.
5) Deschutes Black Butte Porter: Sweet, rich, and malty, the Deschutes Black Butte Porter is a chocolatey beer that's so good you can't put it down until it's done. A popular favorite with A-level ratings on beer review sites like Beer Advocate, nearly everyone who likes dark beer will like Deschutes Black Butte Porter. Even if you think you don't like dark beer, you will probably like it. Even if you don't like beer at all, you will probably like it. Honestly, if you don't like Deschutes Black Butte Porter, there may be something seriously wrong with you. If you don't like it, you may or may not be able to find love in this lifetime. Just kidding. Maybe. Anyway, just drink the Deschutes porter, try anything else by Deschutes afterward, and be angry that Bend, Oregon (the home of Deschutes Brewery) is so far from Silicon Valley.
Although serious hop-heads may look at this list and say, "What about more complex beers? No Dogfish Head 90 or 120 Minute IPA? No trappist beers like Westmalle or even Chimay? No sour beers like Rodenbach Sour Ale? Boo. Boo on you, Valley Jester. You are a bad man, and I don't like you," it's still worth discussing beers that can bring joy to your life even if you aren't a dedicated beer nut. So, to readers who have not yet joined the beer fanatic ranks, I recommend that you save that Bud, Coors, or Keystone for 'college night'-style nostalgic drinking games with your friends. For non-competitive drinking, you'll be much better served by the options above and their alcoholic brethren. You can also see the beer experts at Beer Advocate, mamacoke.blogspot.com, or at your local Bevmo for more personalized help. And, of course, if you want my opinions on any particular beers, want any other recommendations, or want to point me in the direction of a great beer you've had and I haven't mentioned, feel free to leave me a note in the comments section. For now, though, I'm signing off.
I'm gonna blog you softly/I'm gonna blog you gently/I'm gonna blog you sweetly/I'm gonna blog you discreetly . . . And then, I'm gonna blog you hard/Hard/Hard,
Valley J
Monday, June 2, 2008
Sunday, June 1, 2008
My Russian River Journey
Yesterday, as promised, I traveled with two friends to Russian River Brewing Company (RRBC) in Santa Rosa, CA (near Sonoma). I have made the trip several times before, but yesterday's journey may have been the best. For those of you with attention span issues, I'll quickly list some of the things that made my trip to Santa Rosa great: fantastic beers of all kinds, sleeping in public, excellent historical accounts of World War II, buffalo wings, pesto pizza, tipsy ambling through town, A&W root beer floats, folk covers of rock songs, and $0.75/hour parking.
To give some context, Saturday was the 4th anniversary of the RRBC brewpub, so my friends (I'll call them CM and AT, which will make them virtually anonymous to anybody who doesn't know me personally) decided that we should plan to get to the brewpub for its 11:00 AM opening in order to beat the crowd. Given our distance from Santa Rosa and anticipated difficulties finding parking, we were on the road heading north by 9:00 AM. As it turned out, we got into Santa Rosa, found parking easily, and made it to the brewpub right as it was opening. Instead of finding a line of people waiting to get in, however, we found the establishment almost empty. We took seats at the bar next to the only other patrons there, an older couple who seemed intent on carrying several gallons of beer home in growlers. Having no objections to the empty environment, CM, AT, and I sat down and began drinking shortly after 11:00 AM. I understand that the concept of drinking at 11:00 AM on a Saturday might be unsettling to some people, but I assure you that with the right beer in hand, those people would think differently.
For those of you who have never had a RRBC beer, RRBC brews are generally outstanding. RRBC India Pale Ales (IPAs) are fantastic, ranging from the relatively mellow Russian River IPA to the citrus-laden Blind Pig IPA to the bitter and hoppy powerhouse Pliny the Elder IPA. I started the day off right with a Pliny the Elder, which packs a punch at about 9% alcohol by volume (ABV). Then, I moved on to the Blind Pig, taking the intensity down a notch in order to prepare myself for the impending arrival of buffalo chicken wings, pizza, and beer bites. Once I completed my food consumption, I capped off the midday's drinking with an OVL Stout, a thick nitrogenated Irish stout that tasted like an alcoholic milkshake, another Pliny the Elder, and a dark, Belgian-style, limited-edition Rejection ale, which tasted like a drier version of Dogfish Head Brewing's Raison D'Etre (if you've never had a Dogfish Head beer, you should reexamine your commitment to living a fulfilling life, because based on the information available, you seem to be falling short).
By 2:30 PM, I had ingested a mere five beers. However, two factors conspired against my sobriety: each beer had between 6% and 9% ABV (crappy mass-distributed American beer tends to run in the 3%-4.5% ABV range), and I recently lost 41 pounds following my discovery late last year that I had become a big fat guy. As a result, by the early afternoon, I was hammered. CM, our driver, was faring only marginally better, so we decided to depart from the brewpub and kill some time while we sobered up.
The first stop was a Barnes & Noble bookstore, where I found myself a foot stool, sat down, and read about Nazi military organization in WWII for an hour or so. I know, I bet you read the same book in college after playing one-too-many drinking games. Or maybe alcohol-laden intellectualism isn't your bag, in which case, I encourage you to find another suitable drunken hobby. In this case, though, my ability to absorb Luftwaffe deployment strategies after the equivalent of 8-10 Bud Lites was slightly impaired, so my friends and I walked across the street to the 'Sober Park.' The 'Sober Park' isn't much of a park, but it has park basics like a fountain, a few benches, and tiny patches of grass just large enough for the smurfs to play a rousing game of football. Luckily, there was enough room for me to lay down in the grass and promptly take a 'rage nap,' leaving me feeling rested, considerably more sober, and extremely dehydrated.
CM had also recovered well during that time, and we all agreed that he was fit to drive. We retrieved CM's car from the garage, hit the road after paying a whopping $5 in parking fees, and made our way back toward Silicon Valley. We listened to CM's obscure artsy music in the car, blabbering about our professional and personal lives, and generally enjoying each other's company until we came to Marinwood, a city south of Vallejo. Two miles past Marinwood heading south from Santa Rosa, there is an A&W restaurant, one of the few in the Bay Area. When we got to the right exit, we pulled off the highway and into the A&W parking lot, turned off the car, and meandered inside to get root beer floats. The root beer floats were, in a word, heavenly. The frosty mugs, fresh and frothy A&W root beer, and thick vanilla ice cream combined to make for an outstanding experience. I swear I've never had a root beer float that good in my entire life. If A&W opened up a restaurant in the Valley, I'm quite confident that the place would rake in a fortune, particularly over the summer months. If anybody knows of an A&W establishment closer to the Valley than Marin County, please share in the comments section (and for that matter, if anybody knows of a Sonic or Chick-fil-a within driving distance of the Valley, I would be interested in hearing about that too, since I've never had the privilege of dining at either of those well-reputed establishments).
After indulging in our root beer and ice cream treats, CM, AT, and I got back into the car and continued south, getting back to the Valley by 6:30 or so. It was quite a day. In two weeks, we may be heading to Boonville to visit the Anderson Valley Brewery, where one can get the delicious Barney Flats Oatmeal Stout, among other tasty beers. It takes twice as long to drive there, but if I have even half as much fun as I did at RRBC, I'll go home a happy man.
For now, I'll leave it at that. Until next time, your very own Silicon Valley beer and dim sum nut is signing off.
Here I am/ blog you like a hurricane,
Valley J
To give some context, Saturday was the 4th anniversary of the RRBC brewpub, so my friends (I'll call them CM and AT, which will make them virtually anonymous to anybody who doesn't know me personally) decided that we should plan to get to the brewpub for its 11:00 AM opening in order to beat the crowd. Given our distance from Santa Rosa and anticipated difficulties finding parking, we were on the road heading north by 9:00 AM. As it turned out, we got into Santa Rosa, found parking easily, and made it to the brewpub right as it was opening. Instead of finding a line of people waiting to get in, however, we found the establishment almost empty. We took seats at the bar next to the only other patrons there, an older couple who seemed intent on carrying several gallons of beer home in growlers. Having no objections to the empty environment, CM, AT, and I sat down and began drinking shortly after 11:00 AM. I understand that the concept of drinking at 11:00 AM on a Saturday might be unsettling to some people, but I assure you that with the right beer in hand, those people would think differently.
For those of you who have never had a RRBC beer, RRBC brews are generally outstanding. RRBC India Pale Ales (IPAs) are fantastic, ranging from the relatively mellow Russian River IPA to the citrus-laden Blind Pig IPA to the bitter and hoppy powerhouse Pliny the Elder IPA. I started the day off right with a Pliny the Elder, which packs a punch at about 9% alcohol by volume (ABV). Then, I moved on to the Blind Pig, taking the intensity down a notch in order to prepare myself for the impending arrival of buffalo chicken wings, pizza, and beer bites. Once I completed my food consumption, I capped off the midday's drinking with an OVL Stout, a thick nitrogenated Irish stout that tasted like an alcoholic milkshake, another Pliny the Elder, and a dark, Belgian-style, limited-edition Rejection ale, which tasted like a drier version of Dogfish Head Brewing's Raison D'Etre (if you've never had a Dogfish Head beer, you should reexamine your commitment to living a fulfilling life, because based on the information available, you seem to be falling short).
By 2:30 PM, I had ingested a mere five beers. However, two factors conspired against my sobriety: each beer had between 6% and 9% ABV (crappy mass-distributed American beer tends to run in the 3%-4.5% ABV range), and I recently lost 41 pounds following my discovery late last year that I had become a big fat guy. As a result, by the early afternoon, I was hammered. CM, our driver, was faring only marginally better, so we decided to depart from the brewpub and kill some time while we sobered up.
The first stop was a Barnes & Noble bookstore, where I found myself a foot stool, sat down, and read about Nazi military organization in WWII for an hour or so. I know, I bet you read the same book in college after playing one-too-many drinking games. Or maybe alcohol-laden intellectualism isn't your bag, in which case, I encourage you to find another suitable drunken hobby. In this case, though, my ability to absorb Luftwaffe deployment strategies after the equivalent of 8-10 Bud Lites was slightly impaired, so my friends and I walked across the street to the 'Sober Park.' The 'Sober Park' isn't much of a park, but it has park basics like a fountain, a few benches, and tiny patches of grass just large enough for the smurfs to play a rousing game of football. Luckily, there was enough room for me to lay down in the grass and promptly take a 'rage nap,' leaving me feeling rested, considerably more sober, and extremely dehydrated.
CM had also recovered well during that time, and we all agreed that he was fit to drive. We retrieved CM's car from the garage, hit the road after paying a whopping $5 in parking fees, and made our way back toward Silicon Valley. We listened to CM's obscure artsy music in the car, blabbering about our professional and personal lives, and generally enjoying each other's company until we came to Marinwood, a city south of Vallejo. Two miles past Marinwood heading south from Santa Rosa, there is an A&W restaurant, one of the few in the Bay Area. When we got to the right exit, we pulled off the highway and into the A&W parking lot, turned off the car, and meandered inside to get root beer floats. The root beer floats were, in a word, heavenly. The frosty mugs, fresh and frothy A&W root beer, and thick vanilla ice cream combined to make for an outstanding experience. I swear I've never had a root beer float that good in my entire life. If A&W opened up a restaurant in the Valley, I'm quite confident that the place would rake in a fortune, particularly over the summer months. If anybody knows of an A&W establishment closer to the Valley than Marin County, please share in the comments section (and for that matter, if anybody knows of a Sonic or Chick-fil-a within driving distance of the Valley, I would be interested in hearing about that too, since I've never had the privilege of dining at either of those well-reputed establishments).
After indulging in our root beer and ice cream treats, CM, AT, and I got back into the car and continued south, getting back to the Valley by 6:30 or so. It was quite a day. In two weeks, we may be heading to Boonville to visit the Anderson Valley Brewery, where one can get the delicious Barney Flats Oatmeal Stout, among other tasty beers. It takes twice as long to drive there, but if I have even half as much fun as I did at RRBC, I'll go home a happy man.
For now, I'll leave it at that. Until next time, your very own Silicon Valley beer and dim sum nut is signing off.
Here I am/ blog you like a hurricane,
Valley J
Friday, May 30, 2008
Yes, That Was Me Wading Through Garbage a Week Ago
Last Saturday, I spent over an hour wading through garbage in order to keep my new apartment. You see, the day before, I signed for a new apartment with my girlfriend in an upscale, downtown Silicon Valley location. It was quite a coup for us: this particular building is very popular and rarely has openings, and I managed to find a flat becoming available at exactly the right time. All I needed to do to lock down the place was to get my previous two earnings statements (showing my total pay and deductions) and to bring those statements into the leasing office on Saturday. With those steps out of the way, the apartment would officially be mine.
Naturally, that seemingly simple scenario didn't play out as initially expected. In a random fit of paranoia during the previous week, I ripped up my most recent earnings statement and, fearing identity thieves, randomly distributed the pieces in two separate trash bags. Yes, I know that is a ridiculous thing to do. In the grand scheme of 'Ridiculous Things I Do,' though, it's a rather minor offense. It was so minor, in fact, that I had forgotten about it entirely by the time I signed for the apartment.
In a spell of rationality, I thought to myself, "Surely I can bring in the previous 10 earnings statements in order to substantiate my alleged income. After all, the people at the leasing office just want proof that I make as much as I say I do, and 10 statements should do the trick!" Sadly, upon returning to the leasing office with a stack of statements in hand, I learned that unless I could provide my most recent earnings statement before the office closed that day, the folks at the leasing office might give the apartment to another candidate.
At that moment, I realized that rationality had been entirely thrown out the window in favor of adherence to rigid bureaucratic rules, a realization I quickly identified as familiar from every single day at work. Desperation, another common workplace feeling, set in. Knowing there was only one thing I could do, I drove home, fished out trash bags from the dumpster, and began looking for the remnants of my last earnings statement.
After nearly an hour of careful sorting through protein bar wrappers, used tissues, and stale hot dog buns, among other delightful artifacts of Silicon Valley home life that had come to reside in the trash, I managed to locate roughly thirty pieces of ripped-up earnings statement that had become sopping wet from immersion in unmentionably ghastly rubbish liquids. I'm bad with any tasks requiring fine hand-eye coordination, so I managed to cajole my girlfriend into assembling these soaked shards of earnings statement into a coherent whole. In about fifteen minutes, she managed to recreate the entire original earnings statement and tape it together without smudging any of the print. It may not have been a feat worthy of canonization, but it definitely earned her a free Jamba Juice on my dime, which is a satisfying reward in its own right (although I must admit that we probably would have gotten those Jamba Juices regardless of her statement assembly performance).
Anyway, we made it back to the leasing office and, thankfully, the woman helping us there took the reconstructed earnings statement, deemed it acceptable, made a quick photocopy, and sent us on our way. My girlfriend and I overcame serious obstacles to save our new apartment, and it felt good. The eventual Jamba Juice celebration felt even better. If you've ever had the now-defunct-but-still-available-by-request 'Peenya Kowlada' smoothie, you'd understand how glorious a celebratory Jamba Juice can be. Seriously, try it.
I'll leave the story at that for now. Tomorrow, I'm traveling with friends to the Russian River Brewing Company (RRBC), a classic getaway for me and my pals, so my next entry may be an introduction to the world of high-intensity fine beering, with sides of commentary on A&W root beer floats and chicken wings. More to come on those topics next time. For tonight, I'm out.
Blogging you with a sweet tenderness that makes you seriously question your other blogging relationships,
Valley J
Naturally, that seemingly simple scenario didn't play out as initially expected. In a random fit of paranoia during the previous week, I ripped up my most recent earnings statement and, fearing identity thieves, randomly distributed the pieces in two separate trash bags. Yes, I know that is a ridiculous thing to do. In the grand scheme of 'Ridiculous Things I Do,' though, it's a rather minor offense. It was so minor, in fact, that I had forgotten about it entirely by the time I signed for the apartment.
In a spell of rationality, I thought to myself, "Surely I can bring in the previous 10 earnings statements in order to substantiate my alleged income. After all, the people at the leasing office just want proof that I make as much as I say I do, and 10 statements should do the trick!" Sadly, upon returning to the leasing office with a stack of statements in hand, I learned that unless I could provide my most recent earnings statement before the office closed that day, the folks at the leasing office might give the apartment to another candidate.
At that moment, I realized that rationality had been entirely thrown out the window in favor of adherence to rigid bureaucratic rules, a realization I quickly identified as familiar from every single day at work. Desperation, another common workplace feeling, set in. Knowing there was only one thing I could do, I drove home, fished out trash bags from the dumpster, and began looking for the remnants of my last earnings statement.
After nearly an hour of careful sorting through protein bar wrappers, used tissues, and stale hot dog buns, among other delightful artifacts of Silicon Valley home life that had come to reside in the trash, I managed to locate roughly thirty pieces of ripped-up earnings statement that had become sopping wet from immersion in unmentionably ghastly rubbish liquids. I'm bad with any tasks requiring fine hand-eye coordination, so I managed to cajole my girlfriend into assembling these soaked shards of earnings statement into a coherent whole. In about fifteen minutes, she managed to recreate the entire original earnings statement and tape it together without smudging any of the print. It may not have been a feat worthy of canonization, but it definitely earned her a free Jamba Juice on my dime, which is a satisfying reward in its own right (although I must admit that we probably would have gotten those Jamba Juices regardless of her statement assembly performance).
Anyway, we made it back to the leasing office and, thankfully, the woman helping us there took the reconstructed earnings statement, deemed it acceptable, made a quick photocopy, and sent us on our way. My girlfriend and I overcame serious obstacles to save our new apartment, and it felt good. The eventual Jamba Juice celebration felt even better. If you've ever had the now-defunct-but-still-available-by-request 'Peenya Kowlada' smoothie, you'd understand how glorious a celebratory Jamba Juice can be. Seriously, try it.
I'll leave the story at that for now. Tomorrow, I'm traveling with friends to the Russian River Brewing Company (RRBC), a classic getaway for me and my pals, so my next entry may be an introduction to the world of high-intensity fine beering, with sides of commentary on A&W root beer floats and chicken wings. More to come on those topics next time. For tonight, I'm out.
Blogging you with a sweet tenderness that makes you seriously question your other blogging relationships,
Valley J
Monday, May 19, 2008
My First Bay to Breakers: A Bizarre Journey
On Sunday, I went to my first Bay-to-Breakers in San Francisco with extremely high hopes. For those who are unaware, Bay-to-Breakers is ostensibly a 12K race through San Francisco, but it's primarily known for the massive drunken walking parade that follows the racers through the city. "It's the most fun you'll ever have in San Francisco," one of my friends said. Another told me, "James, it'll be one of the most fun times of your entire life." After living through it, I'm not sure either of those statements are accurate for me, but I will say that I'm better off from going. In fact, even though I didn't have as much fun as previously promised (it wasn't bad overall, but it didn't live up to the hype), I did glean some useful lessons from the day. I call these 'My Five Bay-to-Breakers Lessons':
1) In a departure from conventional wisdom, I learned that it's acceptable (and even laudable) to take candy from strangers in certain circumstances. In the case of Bay-to-Breakers, by 'candy' I mean 'beer,' and by 'strangers,' I mean anybody with a pulse. It was a lesson learned early and applied with hearty vigor throughout the day.
2) Beautiful cities are not meant to be used as giant public restrooms. Port-o-potties may have been created by God to save us from the horrors of public urination, but alas, the Lord must have gotten tired of making port-o-potties for San Francisco a bit too early because there were only about 40 available for a crowd of 100,000. I hold the event's organizers responsible for the massive shortfall in bathroom facilities. As punishment, I demand that the organizers stand in the back of a long bathroom line for hours, only to have the toilet clog when it is their turn, sending them to the back of another bathroom line. Such a Sisyphean punishment would surely cause the number of port-o-potties at last year's event to skyrocket.
3) Random naked people are rather unpleasant, despite rumors to the contrary. In the throes of Keystone Light-driven ecstasy, one might think, "Wow, lots of naked people- how liberating and fun!" But it doesn't feel liberating to see many naked people wandering around, as I did on Sunday. It feels uncomfortable, slightly disturbing, and even vaguely nauseating, particularly since the naked people walking around aren't generally built anything like Adonis or Helen of Troy, to say the least. So, word to the wise: keep your clothes on unless somebody has specifically asked you to take them off. I have abided by this maxim successfully for years, and the world is undoubtedly a better place for it.
4) You can run from fatigue with the help of energy drinks, but you can't escape it for long. To get to Bay-to-Breakers from the Valley, I arose from my approximately 3-hour-long slumber around 6:30 AM to catch a train leaving between 7:00 and 7:30 AM. Between waking up and climbing onto the train, I drank a Java Monster energy drink. Roughly half an hour later, my hands were shaking, my heart was beating rapidly, and I felt like I could run the 12K Bay-to-Breakers race with a 5 min/mile pace. It was a euphoric feeling similar to that of getting off a Southwest Airlines flight after landing at Chicago Midway airport without crashing and bursting into flames. An hour later, while walking toward the race, my physical state took a turn for the worse. Without any prior warning, the back of my head started to throb, as if someone had smacked me in the back of the head with a brick a few hours earlier. My eyes became photosensitive, and my eyelids began closing involuntarily. In less than two hours, I went from unconsciousness to minimal consciousness to freakish hyperactivity to minimal consciousness again. Was my fleeting escape from fatigue courtesy of the Java Monster worth it? Given the post-hyperactive crash, I don't think I would have consumed that Java Monster again. If I may digress, though, the Java Monster was delicious, particularly for an energy drink. Get one from your local supermarket if you have a few bucks to spend and the desire to feel like Steve Ballmer at a Microsoft developer's conference for an hour or so (for those who don't get that reference, search for 'Steve Ballmer developers' on YouTube and watch every video returned. It's worth it.)
5) Don't take the Caltrain to any major events in San Francisco if you can help it. Seriously. I love public transportation in general because it's good for the environment and generally pretty affordable. That being said, imagine how jellybeans feel when they are crammed into a jar. Or imagine how those 20-odd clowns feel when they're stuffed into a tiny car in the classic 'clowns in a tiny car' circus trick you may remember from when clowns didn't scare the bejesus out of you. Such arrangements sound delightfully spacious when compared to my trip south from San Francisco on the Caltrain. Due to the extremely cramped arrangement in the car, which involved about 100 bodies fitting into a space made for around 30, I may or may not have been accidentally violated by a rotund 35 year old man, a 19 year old blonde woman who wore a hat that could double for a red frisbee , and a rather pleasant golden retriever named 'Jackie' who seemed blissfully unaware of her owner's frustration at the situation. For the next big San Francisco event, I suggest finding alternative transportation options or taking a ludicrously early or late train, if you have no other choices.
Anyway, I'll leave it at that. Feel free to leave your own Bay-to-Breakers lesson or insight in the comments section, if you have one or more.
Blogging you in a way that makes you say "Oh yeah, that's nice, that's the spot,"
Valley J
1) In a departure from conventional wisdom, I learned that it's acceptable (and even laudable) to take candy from strangers in certain circumstances. In the case of Bay-to-Breakers, by 'candy' I mean 'beer,' and by 'strangers,' I mean anybody with a pulse. It was a lesson learned early and applied with hearty vigor throughout the day.
2) Beautiful cities are not meant to be used as giant public restrooms. Port-o-potties may have been created by God to save us from the horrors of public urination, but alas, the Lord must have gotten tired of making port-o-potties for San Francisco a bit too early because there were only about 40 available for a crowd of 100,000. I hold the event's organizers responsible for the massive shortfall in bathroom facilities. As punishment, I demand that the organizers stand in the back of a long bathroom line for hours, only to have the toilet clog when it is their turn, sending them to the back of another bathroom line. Such a Sisyphean punishment would surely cause the number of port-o-potties at last year's event to skyrocket.
3) Random naked people are rather unpleasant, despite rumors to the contrary. In the throes of Keystone Light-driven ecstasy, one might think, "Wow, lots of naked people- how liberating and fun!" But it doesn't feel liberating to see many naked people wandering around, as I did on Sunday. It feels uncomfortable, slightly disturbing, and even vaguely nauseating, particularly since the naked people walking around aren't generally built anything like Adonis or Helen of Troy, to say the least. So, word to the wise: keep your clothes on unless somebody has specifically asked you to take them off. I have abided by this maxim successfully for years, and the world is undoubtedly a better place for it.
4) You can run from fatigue with the help of energy drinks, but you can't escape it for long. To get to Bay-to-Breakers from the Valley, I arose from my approximately 3-hour-long slumber around 6:30 AM to catch a train leaving between 7:00 and 7:30 AM. Between waking up and climbing onto the train, I drank a Java Monster energy drink. Roughly half an hour later, my hands were shaking, my heart was beating rapidly, and I felt like I could run the 12K Bay-to-Breakers race with a 5 min/mile pace. It was a euphoric feeling similar to that of getting off a Southwest Airlines flight after landing at Chicago Midway airport without crashing and bursting into flames. An hour later, while walking toward the race, my physical state took a turn for the worse. Without any prior warning, the back of my head started to throb, as if someone had smacked me in the back of the head with a brick a few hours earlier. My eyes became photosensitive, and my eyelids began closing involuntarily. In less than two hours, I went from unconsciousness to minimal consciousness to freakish hyperactivity to minimal consciousness again. Was my fleeting escape from fatigue courtesy of the Java Monster worth it? Given the post-hyperactive crash, I don't think I would have consumed that Java Monster again. If I may digress, though, the Java Monster was delicious, particularly for an energy drink. Get one from your local supermarket if you have a few bucks to spend and the desire to feel like Steve Ballmer at a Microsoft developer's conference for an hour or so (for those who don't get that reference, search for 'Steve Ballmer developers' on YouTube and watch every video returned. It's worth it.)
5) Don't take the Caltrain to any major events in San Francisco if you can help it. Seriously. I love public transportation in general because it's good for the environment and generally pretty affordable. That being said, imagine how jellybeans feel when they are crammed into a jar. Or imagine how those 20-odd clowns feel when they're stuffed into a tiny car in the classic 'clowns in a tiny car' circus trick you may remember from when clowns didn't scare the bejesus out of you. Such arrangements sound delightfully spacious when compared to my trip south from San Francisco on the Caltrain. Due to the extremely cramped arrangement in the car, which involved about 100 bodies fitting into a space made for around 30, I may or may not have been accidentally violated by a rotund 35 year old man, a 19 year old blonde woman who wore a hat that could double for a red frisbee , and a rather pleasant golden retriever named 'Jackie' who seemed blissfully unaware of her owner's frustration at the situation. For the next big San Francisco event, I suggest finding alternative transportation options or taking a ludicrously early or late train, if you have no other choices.
Anyway, I'll leave it at that. Feel free to leave your own Bay-to-Breakers lesson or insight in the comments section, if you have one or more.
Blogging you in a way that makes you say "Oh yeah, that's nice, that's the spot,"
Valley J
Friday, May 16, 2008
An Ode to Dim Sum
Is it sad to love a dumpling more than most other worldly possessions? If it is, then I'm utterly depressing, because I'm a hopeless fanatic for dim sum. God help me.
You may not know about dim sum if you're not from China, the West Coast, if you don't dine out much, or if you have been living in a cave since childhood (and by 'cave' I mean 'the Deep South.' Just kidding. Kind of.) If you don't know about it, never fear: your life is about to be enriched by a blog post from an overweight white twentysomething salesperson. Congratulations. Dim sum may be the greatest thing to ever happen to you. Or maybe the greatest thing to ever happen to you will be meeting and marrying your spouse. Only time will tell.
'Greatest thing ever' debates aside, you're in for a great treat with dim sum. Dim sum generally involves haggard Chinese restaurant employees pushing around carts stacked with bamboo dumpling steamers and random tiny plates of Cantonese Chinese food. Diners flag down these carts and demand, in English or Chinese, to have food placed on their tables. The most experienced diners often combine hand signals and a barked order delivery style, much like a stock broker on the floor of an exchange trying to negotiate a trade with another broker across the trading floor. Then, upon delivery of food to diners' tables, the servers place stamps on the tables' order cards in order to record the food that the diners have ordered. English-speaking customers have no idea if they have been properly charged because the order cards and stamps are typically in Chinese, but that's part of the fun.
So, let's recap: disgruntled employees push food carts, you yell at them and make hand signals frantically to acquire food from them, and they charge you seemingly random amounts of money for their goods. That may not sound like fun, but trust me, it is. The decor and food acquisition process are fun in their own ways, but it's the tasty food that makes dim sum so excellent. Shrimp-filled steamed dumplings, called 'ha gau,' 'har gau,' 'har gow,' or whatever we English speakers want to call them (mangling a beautiful language that's thousands of years old in the process), are simply magnificent. Sui mai (don't even get me started on the multiple spellings), which are pork, shrimp, and mushroom-filled dumplings, tantalize from their bamboo steamer dwellings. Snoop Dogg might refer to these dishes and their dim sum brethren as 'The Chronic. ' A certain James Gumpper might refer to them as 'sweet units.' I need a term for them, so I'll go with 'ballerific.' The food's that good.
So, what's the moral of the story? Get yourself some dim sum, preferably within the next 24 hours. If you're in the Valley, check out Joy Luck Place in Cupertino. The lines are long, but it's worth the wait. Mayflower, a restaurant in Milpitas, is also a great spot. If you're in the city, there are tons of great options in Chinatown, but for more upscale dim sum fare (at premium prices), try Yank Sing. There are two locations (one on Stevenson, near the corner with New Montgomery, and another in the Rincon Center by the Embarcadero), and they're both excellent. I could go on and on with other great places in the Valley and in San Francisco (ABC, Pan Tao, etc), but the ones listed here are good to start for any beginners.
I'm sure I'll write more about dim sum in the future, but I think this introduction to dim sum's boundless glory should suffice for now. Until next time, keep it real. Oh yeah, and to Jenny Blake: thanks for the inspiration, and let's get ready for our 'Faces of Executives Cupcakes & Cookies'' bake sale.
Blogging you so hard you're sore the next day,
Valley J
You may not know about dim sum if you're not from China, the West Coast, if you don't dine out much, or if you have been living in a cave since childhood (and by 'cave' I mean 'the Deep South.' Just kidding. Kind of.) If you don't know about it, never fear: your life is about to be enriched by a blog post from an overweight white twentysomething salesperson. Congratulations. Dim sum may be the greatest thing to ever happen to you. Or maybe the greatest thing to ever happen to you will be meeting and marrying your spouse. Only time will tell.
'Greatest thing ever' debates aside, you're in for a great treat with dim sum. Dim sum generally involves haggard Chinese restaurant employees pushing around carts stacked with bamboo dumpling steamers and random tiny plates of Cantonese Chinese food. Diners flag down these carts and demand, in English or Chinese, to have food placed on their tables. The most experienced diners often combine hand signals and a barked order delivery style, much like a stock broker on the floor of an exchange trying to negotiate a trade with another broker across the trading floor. Then, upon delivery of food to diners' tables, the servers place stamps on the tables' order cards in order to record the food that the diners have ordered. English-speaking customers have no idea if they have been properly charged because the order cards and stamps are typically in Chinese, but that's part of the fun.
So, let's recap: disgruntled employees push food carts, you yell at them and make hand signals frantically to acquire food from them, and they charge you seemingly random amounts of money for their goods. That may not sound like fun, but trust me, it is. The decor and food acquisition process are fun in their own ways, but it's the tasty food that makes dim sum so excellent. Shrimp-filled steamed dumplings, called 'ha gau,' 'har gau,' 'har gow,' or whatever we English speakers want to call them (mangling a beautiful language that's thousands of years old in the process), are simply magnificent. Sui mai (don't even get me started on the multiple spellings), which are pork, shrimp, and mushroom-filled dumplings, tantalize from their bamboo steamer dwellings. Snoop Dogg might refer to these dishes and their dim sum brethren as 'The Chronic. ' A certain James Gumpper might refer to them as 'sweet units.' I need a term for them, so I'll go with 'ballerific.' The food's that good.
So, what's the moral of the story? Get yourself some dim sum, preferably within the next 24 hours. If you're in the Valley, check out Joy Luck Place in Cupertino. The lines are long, but it's worth the wait. Mayflower, a restaurant in Milpitas, is also a great spot. If you're in the city, there are tons of great options in Chinatown, but for more upscale dim sum fare (at premium prices), try Yank Sing. There are two locations (one on Stevenson, near the corner with New Montgomery, and another in the Rincon Center by the Embarcadero), and they're both excellent. I could go on and on with other great places in the Valley and in San Francisco (ABC, Pan Tao, etc), but the ones listed here are good to start for any beginners.
I'm sure I'll write more about dim sum in the future, but I think this introduction to dim sum's boundless glory should suffice for now. Until next time, keep it real. Oh yeah, and to Jenny Blake: thanks for the inspiration, and let's get ready for our 'Faces of Executives Cupcakes & Cookies'' bake sale.
Blogging you so hard you're sore the next day,
Valley J
Thursday, May 15, 2008
First Post: Very Sweet
I've been called a 'crazy nutbag' on a few occasions. I have a distinct feeling that after writing this blog for a while, I might get called that even more.
To be fair, I'm not a 'crazy nutbag' in any really negative sense. Unless you consider being a bad ventriloquist at work using a yellow stress-relief squeeze ball I've named 'Dr. Yellowhead' as my puppet or boldly proclaiming 'Who shotcha?' after a good call with a client to be negatives, I think I get called a 'crazy nutbag' in a mostly positive way. I'm an optimist, if you couldn't tell.
Anyway, I gave blogging a try once before, and I was absolutely terrible (honesty is the best policy...or whatever). I wrote political entries that were fascinating to me, but they bored the crap out of everybody else. I admit that I have a weakness for complex political analysis, but my inner Nietzschean will to power has conquered that weakness and nobly enabled my lesser instincts and traits to express themselves in public. That's a nice way of saying that I'm prepared to be a willful idiot on the Internet. Not that I'm going to be one all the time, but it's going to happen. Just wait, and you'll see.
But now, it's time to revel in my initial meaningless self-expression and new opening of myself to merciless criticism from complete strangers, if anybody decides to read this blog. Given my life in Silicon Valley, though, meaningless self-expression and merciless criticism don't seem that scary. Entry #2 is coming soon, so for the one person who knows this blog exists, keep your eyes out. Until then, this crazy nutbag is signing off.
Blogging you so hard you can't even take it,
Valley J
To be fair, I'm not a 'crazy nutbag' in any really negative sense. Unless you consider being a bad ventriloquist at work using a yellow stress-relief squeeze ball I've named 'Dr. Yellowhead' as my puppet or boldly proclaiming 'Who shotcha?' after a good call with a client to be negatives, I think I get called a 'crazy nutbag' in a mostly positive way. I'm an optimist, if you couldn't tell.
Anyway, I gave blogging a try once before, and I was absolutely terrible (honesty is the best policy...or whatever). I wrote political entries that were fascinating to me, but they bored the crap out of everybody else. I admit that I have a weakness for complex political analysis, but my inner Nietzschean will to power has conquered that weakness and nobly enabled my lesser instincts and traits to express themselves in public. That's a nice way of saying that I'm prepared to be a willful idiot on the Internet. Not that I'm going to be one all the time, but it's going to happen. Just wait, and you'll see.
But now, it's time to revel in my initial meaningless self-expression and new opening of myself to merciless criticism from complete strangers, if anybody decides to read this blog. Given my life in Silicon Valley, though, meaningless self-expression and merciless criticism don't seem that scary. Entry #2 is coming soon, so for the one person who knows this blog exists, keep your eyes out. Until then, this crazy nutbag is signing off.
Blogging you so hard you can't even take it,
Valley J
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