Today I went to the new De Young Museum for the first time. It was recently rebuilt and it's a pretty impressive structure, all metally and airy and textured and coppery, and that's just the outside. The inside is stuffed full of art.

Despite the fact that I'm an uncultured and unappreciative idiot, I am really good at museums. Whereas most people take forever to view a gallery full of art, my discerning eye can make split-second decisions, instantly determining what percentage of exhibits in the room can be ignored. And the answer is.... Most!

I don't think there are many people who can beat my Gallery Dash time.

Daisy had her heart set on getting the audio guide though. It's a computerized headset thing, that allows you to type in an exhibit number and listen to a short lecture about the given piece of art. It's definitely educational, but it really wreaks havoc on any chance of setting a Gallery Dash personal record.

The featured exhibit today at the De Young was a display of the "art" of Vivienne Westwood, who is apparently a famous fashion designer. Thus, there were several rooms filled with her groundbreaking t-shirts and hoop skirts that stunned the world, or at least the part of the world that could possibly be stunned by a hoop skirt.

I'll grant you that I'm astoundingly ignorant of fashion, and that I did a near sprint between occasional listens to the audio guide, but I'm not quite sure that Vivienne Westwood deserved a big exhibit at the De Young. For example, one of the audio lectures explained how Vivienne used unconventional fabrics, like dish towels, in her dresses and everyday items, like tin can lids, for buttons.

Does the use of mundane materials turn her clothing into art? If I put wood chips into my cereal, am I a museum-quality chef? What if I fill a blog with trite material like meaningless analysis and boring anecdotes, is that art too?

Sounds like I needs me a gallery showing.

Jobs I would be good at, if they existed:

• Googler: I'm pretty good at finding stuff on the ol' Internet. I have a good sense for when to keep digging past the first page of results, when to change my search terms, and when to pull out the yellow pages.

• Word Combiner: When someone around me says something like, "Man, I love donkeys. I'm a donkey lover.", I am always the first person to jump up and yell "DONKVER!"

• Time Planner: Usually you don't have all the data you need when trying to plan a schedule. Maybe there's a task involved that you've never done before, or perhaps you're unfamiliar with the traffic delays at a given hour or location. That's why time planning is more of an art than a science. I am, however, a time artist. A Timetist.

• Smart Assinator: I love to mock. I live to mock. I just need someone to pay me to follow them around and say things like, "You call that ass wiping?"

• Pregnant Pause Filler: Actually, it's not so much that I'm good at this job, but rather that it causes me emotional distress to leave these pauses dangling (unless I dislike the person who last spoke).

• Road Block Finder: Do you have a good idea? I'll tell you what's wrong with it!

I can't wait to be rich.

My life starts getting much crappier in 36 hours. That's about when the first (sub)contractor enters our house and begins systematically destroying all that is peaceful and good about my existence.

You see, our "remodel" "begins" on Wednesday morning. This is the process where a general contractor of our choosing harnesses the construction knowledge, man-power, and finesse of a pack of angry wasps to add another room onto our house. My wife has been wrangling architects, engineers, contractors, and neighbors for the last 18 months or so, and today the general contractor came by with a stack of papers for us to sign. He arrived, of course, half an hour late to our meeting, establishing a tone-setting Screw-You to kick off the project. We rewarded him with a $1,000 check.

That will be, by far, the smallest check we'll give him during this process, and commensurately, the most gentle ass-reaming he applies to us. Baby steps.

According to our contractor, the entire process should take less than 4 months and will cost a medium five-figured amount of money. I can't seem to find the web page that lets me translate those numbers from Contractor Speak into actual months and dollars, but I figure we'll be lucky to finish before winter and for less than $100,000.

How much is this process going to suck? Well, what do I like about where I live?

1) I can work at home in a quiet and productive environment.... GONE!

2) I can spend relaxing evenings in my living room without worrying about breathing in drywall dust or falling down a hole into my new "room"..... GONE!

3) I have the financial security of only having one mortgage..... POOF!

But, what do I get out of this process? Well, another room.

And why do we need another room? Well, we've got a lot of stuff, I guess.

Couldn't we have just tidied up instead? Maybe built some shelves?

Shut up.

I'm reading the newspaper comics to Daisy the other morning and one of the comics referenced inflation, a concept I assume Daisy is not familiar with. Because she requires my wisdom, I take the time to explain it to her.

Me: You see, prices generally go up over time. Stuff gets more expensive as the years go by.
Daisy: Not for you.
Me: What? Not for me? Yes for me. Why would you think this doesn't apply to me?
Daisy: Not with that stock you own.

Zing! Daisy was, of course, referring to the stock from the company I work for, that comprises the vast majority of my portfolio. It's current price is about 2% of its high. If Daisy has learned one thing from her old man, it's not to listen to his stock market advice.

About a year ago my boss twisted his ankle pretty badly playing basketball. He was on crutches for a while, and then for months was unable to do any physical activity that stressed his ankle.

BossMan is one of the fittest software developers I know, regularly lifting weights and doing various cardio exercises. He was never an enthusiastic runner, but he regularly scheduled running into his weekly workout regimen. However, once he became physically unable to run, suddenly he pined for it. I'd get periodic laments over IM from him about how he feared he'd his ankle would never fully heal. He'd moan and whine about how he really really WANTED to go running.

Sure enough, once his ankle healed, he approached running with a vengeance. Although he had never run further than a few miles at a time, he set a goal of running a half marathon, and trained for months through long spells of 100+ degree temperature. His commitment, forged in the pain of his ankle injury, carried him through to the finish line of the half marathon later that year.

I thought of BossMan often the last couple weeks while I recovered from my Achilles injury. I looked forward to the attitude shift I'd undergo, magically transforming running from a painful chore I do robotically three times a week into an exuberant expression of ability, fitness, and achievement.

Each day over the last couple weeks, I'd take mental stock of my attitude, looking deep within my shallow psyche for the first glimmers of enthusiasm. At first my excitement level hovered at its usual zero-like level. However, after a few days, I did notice a change. The longer I went without running, the more antsy.... no, that's not the word I'm looking for.... anxious? No, that's not quite it either.

Oh! Happy. That's the word. The longer I went without running, the happier I became. Suddenly, my lunch hours were free to go out to lunch, pick at my zit, or whatever the hell I wanted, and I surely did NOT want to go running. Running, you see, Su-uh-ucks.

Over the last few days, however, my ankle has been feeling much better. In fact, it felt about 100% better this morning. Apparently my too-short running vacation had come to an end.

So, despite the fact that it was the first rainy day in weeks, I strapped on my running shoes at lunch, and gingerly launched out on a run. I was hoping it would feel glorious and invigorating, and to be perfectly honest, the first 1/4 mile wasn't bad. Of course that first 1/4 mile is also downhill. Right after that, when the uphill started, running began to feel like its usual exhausting self. :(

It wasn't all bad news. After I had run about a mile, my achilles started to hurt again. It was very subtle at first, so I ran a bit further, but soon I chose to stop and walk home rather than injure myself further. Apparently my injury had not completely healed. Hurray! More running vacation!

Walking home in the rain did suck though. Although I was thankful that I had worn my warmest running shirt, which is a small and super-stretchy bright red long-sleeved baby made out of some technical fabric, it's not a good shirt for me. It's the type of shirt that athletic people wear and it makes them look like Superman. On me, it just boldly illustrates my complete lack of muscle tone, except for the occasional lumpy bit.

Rather than looking like a superhero, I resemble a understuffed sausage with some unappealing gristly parts in it. It ain't pretty. For obvious reasons, I rarely wear the pants version of this shirt.

But, tomorrow begins Running Vacation Part II. Hazzah!

Normally on Sunday nights I'm snuggled cozily in my living room alongside Hank, watching Battlestar Galactica, and making Scrabble moves on the laptop. Last night, however, I actually went out.

Yesterday was my friend, Bao's, birthday, so an informal party was held at Fly Bar, a hip beer and sake joint here in SF. I hadn't been to Fly before, in fact, I haven't gone to hang out in any sort of bar in a years. This was long overdue.

I strolled into Fly with Pablo and immediately noticed that I was the least cool person in the room. Thankfully this is a normal state for me. In fact, it's the same situation in my living room during my normal Sunday nights. There were just more people this time.

Bao is a good guy and a fun set of folks had gathered to help him celebrate his birthday. Bao is also, I learned that evening, a smooth mover with the ladies. After receiving a box of cookies as a present, Bao eased out of his seat and glided over to a table occupied by a couple of young ladies. We couldn't hear what he was saying, but apparently the combination of birthday cookies and Bao's charm was unstoppable. Within minutes one of the ladies was on his lap, and soon he brought them both back over to our table.

I was impressed.

Back when I was single, I did sometimes go out to bars and clubs and whatnot, and clumsily attempt to meet women. Usually this consisted of me hanging with my computer programmers homeys as we watched the brave programmer du jour attempt to break out of his comfort zone and approach a woman. This was always entertaining and rarely successful. Over the several years that I played this game, I got two dates out of it. Out of those two, only one of them would have slept with me, but she turned out to be both annoying and unattractive. Even a desperate computer programmer can occasionally summon some standards when he sobers up.

Anyway, I was very impressed with Bao's moves. He was as graceful with the ladies as he is with dolphins. When Hank dumps my ass, Bao will be my coach.

Our family is friends with another family that is currently going through some difficulties. They're enduring a crushing combination of medical, financial, and logistical issues that's making their day-to-day life profoundly challenging. The long-term picture is no simpler.

These are good, smart, nice people and've found themselves in a situation that they're unable to cope with.

So, what can they do? Build a drug selling empire? Sell the kids into slavery? Amway?

Oddly, they chose none of these options. Instead, they reviewed what resources they had available. Although they do not own a wheelbarrow or a holocaust cloak, they did realize that they have a set of intelligent and capable friends and relatives. So, like any corporation that needs guidance, they have gathered a select group of smart advisor and asked them to be the Board of Directors for their family.

Wisely they did not choose me for this role, because I am a perplexing combination of surly and goofball. Also, my giant zit, Pierre, would be a complete distraction during Board meetings. They did, however, ask Hank to join their family's Board of Directors, because she is smart, organized, thoughtful, and acne-free.

I think it's a pretty interesting idea, to gather capable people that you can trust with your private family issues, and ask them for ideas and guidance. I had never heard it formalized in quite this way. The Board is having their first meeting right now in our living room. I sure hope they come up with something smart.

This zit on my face is enormous now. It's growing ravenously. It's just a matter of time, before I'm just a person-sized blemish smashed face-first into the ever-expanding Zit-o-sphere.

Then it will consume us all.

My primary skin consultant, Hank, is out of town for a couple days on another one of her "business" trips. This time she's in "San Diego". Sure, sure. And in her absence, I'm "taking care" of Daisy, by making sure she gets to "school" and sometimes even "feeding" her.

Anyway, without Hank to consult on my pimple, Pierre, I'm been going into her Shelf O' Lotions and plucking out things that look expensive. I thought a couple applications of the glycolic acid lotion would do the trick, but the zit was undeterred. It gobbled up the glycolic, laughed, belched, and only seemed to grow stronger. Now I'm feeding it raw organic ground beef.

It's a lot of work.

So, come home soon, Hank. Pierre needs you.

I decided to do a video instead of typey-typey today.



Now that you've seen that, let me answer some questions:

Q) Do you know that sucked?

A) Yes. I tried hard to maintain the same level of excellence in the video as I do in my regular blog posts.

Q) Am you talking too fast or mumbling?

A) Both!

Q) Does your voice normally sound like that?

A) Not in my head.

Q) I'm going to inform the Center for Disease Control about your office.

A) That's not a question.

Q) Am you normally that... uh.... affected?

A) Kind of.

Q) Is this post in honor of your first real blog post being three years ago from today?

A) Really? Three years? Man, that's time poorly spent. Anyway, no, but thanks for noticing.

Wah. Waaaaaah! WAAAAH!

That's me crying about my stupid Achilles injury. My Achilles tendon is sore and I'm a big baby today.

I've had flare ups of Achilles tendonitis before. At least, I think that's what this injury is. I'm terrible at actually being able to pinpoint what on my body hurts. Leg Owie is the technical term I often use. Anyway, I've had this before and I've mostly been able to run through it. I've skipped the occasional run, but I even managed to run a marathon once on a mild case of whatever this is. Last week, however, after my weekend long run, I felt quite hobbled. I popped some Advil and skipped my mid-week runs so that I'd be fresh and ready for the next weekend long run. Also, I spoke with my friend Leonarda, who, despite her protestations, is my unofficial primary care physician. Technically she's a web designer / graphic artist / photographer, but she used to be a doctor.

Leonarda: So, what have you been doing to take care of your Achilles?
Me: Oh, good stuff. Don't worry.
Leonarda: What kind of good stuff?
Me: Plenty of Advil.
Leonarda: How much Advil?
Me: I just told you. Plenty.
Leonarda. Ok, good. How much is plenty?
Me: Usually two at a time. Sometimes one.
Leonarda: *snort of derision*
Me: Look, that's what the directions say! They say one or two.
Leonarda: Fine, if you want a placebo. If you want anti-inflammatory effects, you need to take more.
Me: The bottle says ONE OR TWO. I'm taking TWO. That's a pretty good dose!
Leonarda: Pretty good placebo.

Naturally I ignored her advice. I can read a bottle.

I showed up on Saturday morning for a long run with my running club and casually mentioned to the coach that my Achilles had been bothering me, so I was going to take it a little easy. He grimaced and urged me to skip the run. I explained that I had already skipped two runs that week, and that I'd be ok. He still urged me to be careful.

Naturally I ignored his advice. I have 1,000 miles to run this year!

So, I ran on the bastard and now it hurts like the dickens. And now I'm taking three Advils (600 mg) three times a day, and I'm icing it, and I'm resting, and I'm being a good freaking little boy. Sucks to be me! Sucks to my ass-mar!

I'm gonna be fat in about one week.

That is all.

There are a couple of household items that we won't skimp on in this house. Although I'm ok with cheap wine, I demand gourmet chocolate. Hank, on the other hand, requires high quality moisturizer, but is ok with a bargain bin husband. We learn these things over time.

One of the other things I've learned that we must choose carefully is a mattress. Hank's back is very fragile, made out of some delicate substance like fine crystal breakium. Years ago we bought our first mattress together and she bought the most expensive mattress in the store, some diamond-hard California King monstrosity, made out of diamonds and covered in a fine layer of diamonds. The salesman referred to it as "firm".

Flash forward about seven years and Hank has realized that our mattress is a bit too diamondy, almost hard. So we set out to the local mattress store to buy a new, firm yet cushy mattress. I made sure to offer no input in this process as we sampled mattress after mattress. I'm going to lay there each night and watch my alarm clock count minutes no matter whether the mattress is pillowy, firm, dialable, foamy, diamondy, or Kryptonitastic. It was Hank's decision. We intentionally shopped at a store with a no-questions 90-day return policy so that we could exchange the mattress if Hank wasn't comfortable after a few weeks.

So, she picked out some expensive mattress (with a pillow top!) and scheduled a delivery for later that week. Right on schedule, the mattress delivery guys appeared last Tuesday afternoon, with a big mattress to haul up our stairs.

They got about three steps up the staircase before they wedged the mattress between the stairs and the ceiling. Instantly, the delivery driver whipped out a release form.

"Sir," he began, "You have purchased a mattress which is not supposed to bend, but we'll have to bend it to get it up your stairs here. We can either take it back, or you can sign this release form, giving up your right to return it. You'll be buying it as-is at that point."

I stared at him, blinking.

"So, you don't think you can sort of scooch it up a bit further? Maybe just squish it a tad? Gentle-like?"

"Sir, we can't move it without bending it, so if you want this mattress you'll have to sign the form. Otherwise you're welcome to come back to the store and look at some of our other models. Some of them are bendable."

I didn't think Hank would be happy with a bendable mattress. This was the one she had picked.

"Do you think you'll have to bend it much? Looks like just a teeny bit. I think once you get it up over that step right there, it'll be ok, right? Hmmm? What do you think?"

The driver shrugged at me with a World Series quality poker face. I looked over at one of the other guys.

"I mean, don't you think it'll be ok?" I asked pitifully?

He shrugged. I looked at the third and final guy and made a pretty-please face. He shrugged too.

"Sir, you can either sign the form, or we can return the mattress for you."

I thought back to how the last guys had delivered our previous mattress, which was clearly not very bendable either. They had come up these very same stairs, and had not damaged the mattress. So, clearly these guys were just being over-cautious.

"Ok, gimme that form. I'm a gambling man," I blustered. I signed it and handed it back to the driver.

The driver finally smiled. "Don't worry," he assured me, "These guys are professionals."

The delivery guys started to push and pull the mattress. They gently popped it past the third step and only bent the mattress a bit. Then, it got wedged at the fourth step. So, pushed and pulled much hard and BENT THE CRAP OUT OF THE MATTRESS. By the time they got to the fifth step, the mattress was firmly wedged in place and had completely buckled into an 'S' shape.

Meanwhile, I paced back and forth in the upstairs hallway, watching the carnage and moaning pathetically. After a couple minutes of super-human effort, the delivery crew smashed the mattress past the blockages, and dragged it up the last few stairs. They stopped there, breathing heavily and sweating. They leaned the now misshapen mattress against the wall. It was still MOSTLY flat, but had an obvious deformity at one end where it was clearly curved.

"GAH!" I calmly screamed, "Did we just destroy my very expensive unreturnable mattress?!?"

The driver grimaced and shrugged. I turned towards the next delivery guy.

"BLARG! HANK! MMFFT! GRRRRBLLLLZQ!?" I asked. He averted my gaze entirely. The last guy stepped up.

"It'll be fine sir," he stated, confidently patting the mattress, "We'll put this bent section here against the headboard and you'll never see it."

I knew Hank would notice. There was no way that she wouldn't feel a broken mattress, but I was without a Plan B. The delivery guys moved the mattress into place, got a final signature from me, and exited the house very quickly. Hank arrived at home about 30 seconds later. She bounded up the stairs and saw the new mattress.

"Yay! New mattress!" she squealed. "Well, I'm off to make dinner."

"Why don't you try the mattress first?" I asked, my voice squeaking a bit.

"No, I should get dinner started. Besides, I have 90 days to try it!" she enthused.

"Uh, not exactly." I offered. "Just try it."

She glared suspiciously at me, but laid down on the mattress.

"Seems good," she said, warily.

"Try that middle part."

She scooted over. "That seems fine too. Why don't I have 90 days to return this?"

I gave her the Reader's Digest version of the story, downplaying some of the more gut-wrenching mattress-buckling. She took it in stride.

And, I am happy to report, that after five days with this mattress, it's still pretty comfy. Amazing.

Go Simmons!

This weekend I had Mexican food 3 times in 25 hours. That's about 4 times too many.

Mexican food has the same problem that Italian food does. It's almost always comprised of the same set of limited ingredients. You can remove a few of the ingredients, or maybe swap a sauce, but as the consumer, your primary option is to choose the shape.

You: What do you feel like having for dinner tonight?
Me: Good question. Hmmmm... I guess I'm in the mood for little tubes.
You: Ewww! That sounds horrible! I want something totally different tonight.
Me: Oh! I know! Big tubes!
You: Perfect! *mmmwwwwah*

(You, by the way, are an excellent kisser!)

With Italian food, you're mostly just picking the shape of the pasta. Do you want it in long skinny strips and covered with tomato sauce, or would you prefer pubic hair shaped curls covered with tomato sauce. It's a fantastic world of possibilities.

And with Mexican food, you know you're gonna get a bunch of crap (beans, meat, guacamole) crammed into a tortilla, and you get to choose how to fasten it. Wrapped up in a cylinder? Folded gently into a U shape? Open-ended tube? When they finally make a velcro tortilla, we will have reached the pinnacle of Mexican cuisine.

I know, I know, this is just my limited view of Mexican and Italian view based on blah blah blah. I'm sure real Mexicans in real Mexico are lauding my fried chicken recipe, sauteeing escargot, and perfecting their Bernaise sauce. Meanwhile, real Italians in real Italy are barbecuing ribs, pickling their herring, and enjoying a good stir fry. That may be all well and good, but if that's not what they're serving me in Mexican and Italian restaurants around here, then it doesn't count. You don't really expect me to travel outside my city to eat, do you?

Next time I going into that taqueria, I'm going to ask for some new shapes. Spheres, tetrahedrons, and maybe a Mobius Strip if I'm feeling saucy.

Until then, Just Say No To Shape Based Cuisine. Pass it on.

On Friday night Daisy went off to a sleepover.

(Oh, great God of Sleepovers, how I do worship and love thee. So benevolent. So magnificent. So nookie-enabling.)

The wife and I had an entire evening to kill so we decided to go see a movie. I had watched a good portion of the Oscars earlier that week and had been dismayed by the tiny percentage of nominees that I had actually seen. In fact, if you excluded animated flicks, I had not seen a single movie nominated for any of last year's Oscar. Gah.

We considered movies like The Departed (winner for Best Picture), but that didn't seem like it necessarily required a big screen. We might as well rent that one. After careful consideration, we settled on Pan's Labyrinth. This seemed like the best choice for several reasons

• Won multiple Oscars (Best Cinematography, Best Art Direction, Most Pretentiousness)
• Would benefit from being seen on a big screen
• Lets us pretend that we still appreciate big city culture

We had both been wary of this movie because it didn't really fit the profile of entertainment that we typically enjoy. Neither Hank nor I really enjoys scary or depressing movies, but this flick seemed somewhat grounded in the world of fantasy, and the critical reviews were astounding, so we made an exception.

Well, we all make mistakes.

As it turns out, I am undeniably shallow. I want the sympathetic characters in the movies I see to have some possible reason to live or way to enjoy life. I'm not demanding that every movie be sunshine, dipped in chocolate, and topped off with a blowjob, but I need a reason to be optimistic. I'm ok with a sad ending, but please don't make the whole journey depressing.

I don't want to see romantic comedies where the entire movie is an inevitable slog towards cutesy displays of public affection, but nor am I interested in cinematic experiences where I must constantly consider whether it's inappropriate to snack on candy while watching a man get his leg sawed off. I'm picky that way.

I think I'll go watch The Daily Show now.