Like tweets, but with grammar.
What does Dane smell on a typical day during his bicycle commute?
I might channel some Dave Seah on this one and create a series of printed, fillable bubble forms. You know, to capture the olfactory rhythm of my ride.
Well shucks. I was just about ready to toss my first-generation iPhone down a well, until I dug a bit further into how much this new service plan was going to cost me.
All I can say is, ouch.
Right now I’ve got 450 anytime minutes and 5,000 night-and-weekend minutes for $39.99 a month. In addition I have my iPhone data plan, which includes 200 text messages, for $20 a month. Finally, I do a lot of dialing across multiple time zones, and so to keep those long family conversations from bankrupting my lavish estate I have early nights and weekends for an extra $8.99 a month.
This comes to a grand monthly total of $68.98, or approximately $72 after those bullshit fees. The last I heard we had finally finished paying off the Spanish American War, and so the phone companies have been quietly rewriting their terms and conditions such that they are no longer charging you recovery fees for the taxes they incur, but service fees for whatever the hell they want. It was this breach of contract that allowed me to duck out of my Sprint contract back in January 2008 and avoid their $200 early termination fee.
So. The data plan for the iPhone 3G bumps everything up an extra $10 a month to $30. Now, from what I’ve heard 3G is pretty freakin’ amazing compared to EDGE, but unfortunately I never seem to live or recreate in a place that supports 3G (San Francisco, of course, being a civilized anomaly in my trek through the backwaters of America).
Thus, for my purposes it would be an extra $10 a month for the privilege of potentially enjoying a service that I will never get to use. Now, I do get other amazing things with an iPhone 3G S, such as GPS and voice control and more storage space and a compass and a faster CPU and a non-recessed headphone jack, but it hardly seems prudent that I should reward AT&T on a monthly basis for enjoying a set of features that has nothing to do with their service.
What’s more, I would have to pay an extra $5 a month to get the 200 text messages that are currently included in my (cheaper) data plan. Now, I don’t text much, but I find it indispensable when coordinating with friends, or sharing short bursts of information that don’t require a proper phone call. Indeed, it is criminal that they charge money for something that rides as heavy as a hobo fart on the network’s backchannel and costs them nothing to support. That said, if I have to pay for texting I want a flat rate, as the last thing I want to think about when I’m composing a text is whether or not it’s worth 25 cents.
I have been with AT&T long enough that I qualify for the $199 pricing on the new phone. The question is, then, how enthusiastic I am about getting burned for an extra $180 a year for the same mobile service that I currently enjoy (as 3G does not yet penetrate the windswept mountaintops and tree villages that I typically inhabit). To put it in perspective, that’s a monthly payment I could spend on hosting my intertubes at Media Temple.
Which. If things go as planned, both these expenditures might well be worth their while.
In other news, I wrote my first iPhone app today.
You can tell a lot about a neighborhood in San Francisco based on how frequently they need to clean the streets. While biking around Sea Cliff today in a super-ritzy part of town I noticed that they have scheduled street cleanings twice a month.
My street? Three times a week.
I went for another bike ride today, starting out towards SoMa then up Embarcadero into Fisherman’s Wharf. I took lunch at the In-N-Out Burger, based on its legendary status in certain enclaves. A number of folks from WWDC were haunting the joint, along with perhaps the rest of humanity. Tables were scarce, and people were hunched over their claim hissing at passersby who would dare wrest it from their filthy clutches. I stood and waited for fifteen minutes in that awful purgatory between “In” and “Out”, getting jostled and manhandled by every other packet of flesh in the joint. That’s the thing about cities. No matter where you are, someone else always wants to occupy the space that you are taking up.
As for the burger? Not very good. The fries have promise, being truly potato-based in origin, but mine were as though they had been dipped in tepid oil and set to soak through their paper basket.
I continued on my journey, stopping at the Palace of Fine Arts on my way to the Golden Gate Bridge. I crossed over this time around, buffeted by strong winds for the entire length, and got to witness firsthand the circus that is the parking lot at the north overlook. I crossed back and continued west to Land’s End, a decidedly classy locale where a woman with a solid gold tooth asked if I could point her to the nearest restroom.
I dropped in at Seal Rocks and headed south past the Cliff House, and swung back east through the south edge of Golden Gate Park. Following my usual route I went out through the Panhandle, and took the Wiggle to Sanchez to Delores Park. It was here that the jeans got noticeably tighter, the keys began dangling on carabiners clipped to belt loops, and the U-locks were safely stowed in the left back pocket. I spun down Valencia and was soon hauling my (beautiful, lightweight) bicycle up to our third-floor flat.
All in all it was probably a 25-mile bike ride, and I’m hoping I slathered myself with enough sunscreen to stave off any further burns. My arms are peeling like crazy after last week’s ride, and everywhere I go I leave a disgusting trail of skin in my wake.
Kate noted how funny it was, that I had to move to one of the biggest cities in the country to become active in the outdoors again.
I had a fairly mellow day today, taking in the sights and sounds of my own neighborhood. I explored 24th Street and browsed the murals of Balmy Street, which celebrate the Hispanic heritage of this fine area in a lovely visual format.
What’s incredible, too, is the Google Street View of Balmy Street. It’s not nearly as cool as being there, but it’s still a pretty fine treat. If you haven’t played with the new Street View UI, do it now. It’s totally dope, and it addresses many of the reservations that had previously tempered my Street View stoke.
In other news, El Salvador took down Mexico in the World Cup qualifiers, and my neighborhood has been absolutely nuts in celebration. Really, it’s been like this all evening:
Man, I just can’t help but smile when diggin’ on people who are this stoked. Make sure to turn up the volume. If your ears don’t hurt, you don’t know what it’s really like.
I’m proud to say that this all went down less than six blocks from my flat. Talk about busted.
As soon as it gets dark everyone who drives down my street suddenly has a motorcycle.
Walgreens believes that because I live in a city I am either rich, stupid or both. Seriously, $7 for a bottle of shampoo? $10 for a thimble of Tide? At that price I should definitely not need to deal with the panhandler blocking my exit from your store.
A favorite pastime in San Francisco seems to be crossing a street while shouting and swearing at no one in particular. Or just walking around and shouting at yourself. Yeah, I’ve seen a lot of that.
Every sound associated with a moving BART train is unpleasant. If you want to encourage mass transit use on a larger scale, you’re going to have to make it sound better than a chorus of shrieking lost souls.
Outrageous. You mean I can get kelp chips at Rainbow Grocery but I can’t get curry leaves? Well then, I’ll just take my Obama Bucks® elsewhere.
Berkeley bookstores are more fun than regular bookstores. I got lost in one for an hour today, browsing Popular Mechanics drafting manuals from 1912, books on national park architecture, trademarks of the 20s and 30s, and 20th century U.S. travel brochures. It’s like someone crystallized all of my obsessions of the hour and planted them right at the corner of Shattuck and Durant.
Pedestrians in Berkeley do not observe traffic lights and cannot be trusted. I almost got hit by a car because I absentmindedly joined a large group of people who were crossing the street, without checking to make sure the light was green beforehand. That said, the jerk in the red Jeep Cherokee actually sped up and swerved to get as close to me as possible. Way to teach me a lesson.
Today I saw a Dixieland band that championed itself as “Old jazz music for the new Depression.” So at least we have that going for us.
On a similar note, I bought some great shirts at the Volcom store on Telegraph Avenue. The fellow working there told me I was their first sale of the day. It was 2:15 in the afternoon. Ouch.
Yes. I am alive. So very sunburned and alive, in this enchanted land nestled intimately between the ocean and a bay and the other side of a bay. I am snug here in the heart of Mission, living at the House of Many Doors with my trusty Frankenbike at my side. Together we will get to the bottom of this fair city, discover its history and nuance, and learn Great and Amazing Things that we will share with you.
From satellite images San Francisco appears relatively flat. I come to you bearing witness that this is not the truth. Indeed, today while struggling up the beautiful wooded hills of Presidio the giant eucalyptus trees filled my strained lungs with a soothing perfume.
Yes. We have eucalyptus trees. And koalas, as I can safely assume. Also, I have learned that fruit grows on trees, and that these trees grow in San Francisco. There are fat and healthy lemons and oranges and grapefruits that beckon for me to hop the fence into the neighbor’s backyard and eat my way into a citrusy coma.
There are mysteries in this town, such as a bridge that disappears into the side of an island only to emerge from the other side of the island. This is a mystery.
Let me tell you a story.
I arrived in San Francisco at one o’clock Friday afternoon. By four o’clock my friends had already bought me a burrito from a truck and built me a single-speed bike out of spare parts. Thusly armed with my Frankenbike, they pushed me out the door to go toe-to-toe with San Francisco rush hour. Despite a few wrong turns and some freaky-crazy intersections between here and SoMA, I found my way to the Adaptive Path office and joined them for happy hour, Battledecks, and a brief tour of their studio. For how much I love Post-It notes, whiteboards and Sharpies, I may have just found my heaven.
Then.
After returning to the Mission I dashed out the door with my friends to catch a burlesque show, as this would seem the only proper introduction to San Francisco culture. Zooming down city streets with a pack of friends on bicycles made me feel like I was ten years old again, on my way to blow the week’s allowance on a sugar rush at the Minnetonka Mills gas station. This time, however, the goal was a bar in Mission, serving up IPAs that taste like grapefruit.
The next morning we took a surf trip down to Pacifica. I got my first taste of surfing a few years ago, during a scorching-hot fall weekend at the Oregon Coast. The water was still blindingly cold despite the air temperature, so I had some idea what those guys were paddling out in. While I am certain my future in San Francisco will entail taming the mighty surf, I decided that surfing through traffic on a bicycle was harrowing enough, and I didn’t want to push my luck by tackling the ocean. Yet.
Sunday the city of San Francisco threw a carnival in my honor, welcoming me to the neighborhood. This celebration featured an awesome parade that went right by my house and was jam-packed with thongs.
Yesterday I set out on foot, exploring Mission, Dolores Park, Castro, Buena Vista Park, Haight, Alamo Square and Market. I put some serious miles on my Converse All-Stars, which to this day remain a staple of hipster culture. I feel I have a lot more cred than a lot of the posers here, though, cuz these All-Stars I got way back in ’97. Hear that? These kicks are Pre-Dot Com Boom, suckas.
Today I took in an epic bike ride to the Golden Gate Bridge, which was named after the Golden Gate, which was named long before there was a bridge. This I learned from the San Francisco Maritime Museum, which was amazing and had awesome things like copper plates that were more than a hundred years old from which nautical maps were printed. Yes, the San Francisco Maritime Museum is a wonderful little museum, and it broke my heart that I was the only person there. I gave them a donation, but it probably wouldn’t hurt if you were willing to give them a reach-around as well.
So yes. I blasted through SoMA past Adaptive Path and IDEO and a Ferrari, through Fisherman’s Place-To-Get-Lousy-T-Shirts and Impossible-To-Spell-Something-About-Chocolate Square, almost fell off my bike laughing at a pack of tourists on Segways, took in Alcatraz, talked shop with some windsurfers and kiteboarders at Crissy Field, and before I knew it I was freezing in the shadow of the Bridge.
Now, I tend to observe a rule, perhaps unconsciously adopted from Goonies, that one should never go out the same way that he came in. Thus I went up and over Presidio, descended into Golden Gate Park, went out via the Panhandle, and did the Wiggle back into Mission. All told it was probably a 19-mile bike ride, which is not too shabby considering that graduate school has destroyed any trace of my athletic physique.
Tonight my legs feel like rubber, and tomorrow they will no doubt burn like crazy. However, I know that in those Fires of Tomorrow will be forged the Iron Legs of Thursday, and such are the legs that will carry me forward into the summer.
Okay ya’ll, listen up. In not too long an hour I leave for San Francisco, and by this time tomorrow I will be snug in the womb of Mission, no doubt suckling at a maté and swaddled in soft cloths of florescence. Indeed, such will kick off a two-month pilgrimage back to my beloved west coast, and I intend to greet the Pacific with a roiling fury heretofore unknown by its vast depths.
Upon my back I carry three books, three of my favorites, which set the proper rhythm for this grand excursion. One, Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, written in a brilliant prose that one day I hope to emulate, if not the drug-wild carnage that lent to its inception.
Two, John Hodgman’s The Areas of My Expertise, a champion of creativity and invention that has given more to the imagination than anything of late.
“I am not romantic about squirrels.”
Aye, lad. Nor am I. Nor is anyone, for that matter. But a good point to clear up, nevertheless.
Finally, The Dharma Bums, notable as Jack Kerouac’s best work. Yes. I still call bullshit on On the Road, even after reading it three times and despite the accolades layered upon it.
However. I am ashamed that I left my copy of Richard Brautigan’s Trout Fishing in America back in Indiana, and I feel that somehow my San Francisco experience will be incomplete without such a cultural field manual. No matter. I am certain that the San Francisco Public Library has at least a hundred copies and an entire wing named after the author. All I need to secure a copy is a prescription from a doctor with questionable credentials, and the brilliant spoils from one of the city’s many LSD dispensaries.
It’s been said before but it’s worth saying again.
It will be a lovely summer.
Dear Online Statements,
I have paper records that go back ten years. Ten years. These records do not expire. You propose that I enroll in a “convenient” system that forgets my records after a mere 18 months. If I want to access records older than that you will charge me a fee and send them via U.S. mail, which is what you were doing in the first place.
If your online system is so “secure” why can’t you entrust it with more than 18 months worth of records? If it is so “convenient” why does it do a worse job of managing my account history than I do?
This is supposed to sound compelling why?
Regards,
Dane
P.S. If you ever again mention the “greenness” of online statements versus mailed statements, so help me god I will claw out your throat. There is nothing green about a server farm that needs to run white-hot 24 hours a day, seven days a week, to allow me “access” to my “statements” whenever I “want”.
I’ll tell you what’s green and convenient, and it’s a fucking file cabinet.
I’m not sure if I’ve been able to effectively communicate the scale of the operation witnessed during our visit to the Farmersburg Coal Mine. Through the magic of Google Maps, I will now whisk you away to a land of enchantment and heavy machinery.
This view shows piles of coal on the north side of the mining operation, waiting to be loaded onto the train:
This shows the section that is currently being mined. This area will be largely depleted within the next few months, and then they will walk (yes, walk) the dragline cross-country to a new location:
We’re beginning to zoom in on the dragline:
Here we see the dragline up close. The tiny vehicle to the southeast of it? Yeah, that’s a pickup truck:
Sadly, there is no Google Street View available.
Dane Petersen is an experience designer who enjoys playing outside, talking loudly and waving his hands around. He recently completed a master's degree in interaction design at Indiana University, and currently works as an experience designer at Adaptive Path in San Francisco. Sometimes he even writes for the Adaptive Path weblog.
Dane is excitable and has trouble sitting still. He's worked as a wilderness guide, snowboard instructor, windsurf technician and envelope stuffer. He loves tea, saunas, typography, photography and homebrewing.
His portfolio at Brainside Out offers some great insight into the range of work he does.
You can email him at
.