Napkin

June 2, 2009

All my mail is being forwarded for the summer, and it’s always shocking how long it takes something to wind up at its desired location. After more than a month in the system a stern letter from the IRS finally wound its way to my disciplined staff of Dutiful Mail Handlers in Minnesota. I’m summarizing the finer points of the memo, but apparently a stained cocktail napkin with some numbers scrawled on it is not a proper format for one’s own federal tax return. Which is funny, because I swear I scanned in that napkin and sent it to them electronically.

I called the IRS, and after assuring their automated phone system that I wasn’t looking for money, that I didn’t think the government owed me anything, that I didn’t care about the stimulus package or tax rebates or “gettin’ mine when the gettin’s good”, I was finally able to connect to a real person.

And he was the kindest, most helpful person in the world. Truly. The IRS employs some classy people, and if you can navigate the labyrinthine phone system and trick it into connecting you to them, you’re going to find yourself in a good place. We talked it through, resolved the issue, and that was it. Done. Consider, too, that it was 8:30 at night, Pacific, which is, like, already tomorrow for you suckers on the east coast. No matter where that dude was, he was workin’ late.

And I appreciated it.

Today was Day Two at the ‘Path. We got to hang with one of the founders for awhile and attend some company meetings, and I started getting oriented within my project. It’s pretty big and complex, but it’s currently moving into a new phase where I’ll be able to flex my elite interaction design skills. Sadly I cannot talk in detail about my work, so instead I will talk about my co-workers. Such as Andrew, who says he maintains a fire under his desk so he can burn all his trash, rather than learn which receptacle in the kitchen corresponds to recycling, trash and compost.

Yes. San Francisco offers curbside composting.

Besides the people who relieve themselves on your front steps.

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Fainting Spells

June 1, 2009

Kate is back from her canoe trip, which proved to be a frigid paddle through the arctic wastes of northern Minnesota. Meanwhile, I’m enjoying the ethereal orange glow of a fogged-in city.

Today was my first day at Adaptive Path, and I’m likin’ what I see so far. There’s a lot of stuff goin’ on in that space, and while we spent most of the day getting settled in with online accounts and paperwork and other necessary features of orientation, I can’t wait to start digging into some work with these fine, talented folk. I’ve been getting caught up on all of the projects going on around me, and tomorrow my own project should finally condense out of the vaporous mists of ambiguity.

Whiteboards and markers, Post-It notes and sharpies, pencil sketches and Photoshop mockups and Keynote presentations, these are all the units of thought at work. Projects take over entire rooms, with ad hoc affinity diagrams and screen printouts for use scenarios covering the walls.

Any sane person would balk at such apparent chaos, but a true interaction designer would no doubt swoon upon entering the AP office. There is indeed a madness to the method, and I can’t wait to completely throw myself into the arms of the process.

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Anything You Could Possibly Want

May 31, 2009

I finished reading Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas this afternoon, following it up by watching Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Too much fear and loathing? Nay. Johnny Depp’s narration is still soothing and brilliant.

“Don’t take any guff from these swine.”

I spent today largely running errands, and I’m still disappointed that I haven’t been able to find a source for curry leaves in this tiny seven-by-seven square of a town. Casa Thai on 16th and Mission didn’t pull through, though I did grab a bunch of bananas from them for 90 cents. The city life still amazes me, in that I can walk out my front door, cross a single street, and two minutes and 25 cents later return to my kitchen with a beautiful yellow onion. The only way I could do this in Bloomington would be to break into someone else’s apartment and steal their onions.

Which may not be all that bad an idea.

People say I would do well to check out Whole Paycheck, but I would also do well not to put myself in a financial position where I need to sell myself on the street for groceries. That said, Josh tells me there are some kind prostitutes that hang out on my street corner, so if things get rough I can probably get an apprenticeship or something.

Yes, anything you could possibly want is available within a two-minute radius from here.

Except curry leaves.

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Imperative

May 30, 2009

Drew and Daniela dropped by for dinner this evening on their mystical journey through the American West, and we had a delicious and rowdy time at the Velvet Cantina. I also had a long and wonderful conversation with Sally tonight about life, interaction design, freelancing, the underlying philosophies of biking, and the obvious moral imperative that Jake and I start a business together and call it Unstoppable Force.

Today I went to Maker Faire down in San Mateo, which was full of awesome stuff that awesome people built that was awesome. This also allowed me the opportunity to see some real life steampunks, who otherwise don’t have a whole lot to do during the other 357 days of the year that aren’t Burning Man.

Steampunk Keyboard

I do enjoy the aesthetic of steam punk, however, as I love wood, brass, cogs and springs as much as I love lavish Victorian elegance. Oh yes, and goggles. Always with the brass goggles.

Here is something that is on fire (that is presumably supposed to be on fire):

Pnuema Fire Sculpture

And this is the walking robotic version of President Barack Obama, inexplicably welded to a chariot and carrying an American flag:

Walking Obama Bot

Also, you may be interested in these videos, which depict events that happened days ago and thus would be considered historic artifacts by today’s standards.

Here Josh gives us bold statements regarding his surfing proficiencies:

Here an angry pack of gulls attack a wetsuited fellow, but only if you have no depth perception and believe that everything that happens in front of your eyes happens in only two dimensions:

And finally, here is the welcoming parade that the city of San Francisco was kind enough to throw in my honor:

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I Enjoy Myself

May 29, 2009

Today I saw a gal riding a bicycle in high heels. “How did that work out for her?” you might ask. The answer is apparently not well at all, as her right ankle was all scabbed and bandaged up.

I hope she said yes.

I biked out to Ocean Beach this afternoon via Golden Gate Park, and spent some quality time in the Botanical Garden. It’s truly a beautiful, remarkable place, all split up in worldly biomes that let you trot the continents without leaving your skinny jeans and All-Stars. Really, it was the orange construction fences, road cones, weed whackers and front-end loaders that made it such an enlightening experience. I don’t know where I would have been without the delightful serenade of heavy machinery in reverse.

Gah. You ever wear the coat of sarcasm for so long that you don’t know how to shrug out of it? No really, I loved the Botanical Garden. The redwood forest was almost spiritual, with its cool damp air, soft mossy ground and towering trees. The garden even features all sorts of fun, interactive exhibits:

Poison Oak

Some of which border on the truly ludic:

Embedded

All in all I biked about 17 miles today. It’s reassuring how quickly I’ve been able to abandon that bullshit graduate school lifestyle and instantly reengage with my formerly active self. It gives me hope that if I can endure one more year of satisfying the sedentary demands of academia, I can actually enjoy being myself again.

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Every man has his limits.

May 28, 2009

My grandiose plans for the day were aborted this morning when I locked myself out of the house. Our flat is on the third floor so squeezing through a window was out of the question, and after hopping our 15-foot gate and squeezing through its greedy wrought iron spikes I discovered that yes, the back door was locked as well. I took the BART into downtown so I could grab my roommate’s keys, and by the time I had sorted myself out of my little predicament it was too late to leave on my prescribed bike ride.

Oh well.

This evening I went to Adaptive Path to learn about Mobile Literacy, a research and design project where they traveled to rural India to understand how illiterate users interact with mobile technology. It’s a fascinating project, with strong currents of cultural sensitivity, social justice, and the role that empathy should play in design. Their blog continues to reveal further details regarding Mobile Literacy, so it’s worth a look if you’re into this sort of thing.

What’s super cool is that Adaptive Path has released all of their primary research under a Creative Commons license. Research findings, interview videos and transcripts, the whole shebang is open for you to study and pick apart, firsthand.

Their process culminated in two proposed devices. One is the MobilGlyph concept, which aims to make data tangible by sharing it through two-dimensional bar codes, similar to Cheng Fan’s wayshowing work last semester. The other is the Steampunk concept, which aims to make the functions of the phone as physical as possible, granting them affordances that invite dismantling and tinkering.

Finally, it’s been nearly five years but it still rings true today. Jeffrey Veen is still larger in life than he is in legend. We are lucky that he is such a kind and gentle soul, because he could very well crush every last one of us. Fortunately, instead of scheming how easily he could mash humanity into a fine paste, he directs his energies into building amazing things like Typekit, which stands to revolutionize how you use typefaces (or “fonts”, for those of you who aren’t an insufferable snob like myself) on the web.

Yes, Jeff is a benevolent giant, but I am a man of small stature and predictable bitterness. Thus I will use these newly found typographical powers only for evil, blanketing the landscape with cruel renderings of Papyrus, Hobo and Copperplate.

But not Comic Sans. No one would dare go that far.

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Wednesday at Berzerkley’s

May 27, 2009

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.

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The Iron Legs of Thursday

May 26, 2009

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.

Josh and Kush

Josh Drops In

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.

Unicyclists

Feathered

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.

Folsom Street Iron Works

Delores Park

Shoe Garden

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.

Alcatraz

Golden Gate Bridge

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.

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California Here He Comes

May 21, 2009

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.

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Genius Often Has Trouble Buttoning Its Own Shirt

May 21, 2009

My father just finished washing the car, and now he’s drying it off with the leaf blower. I don’t know whether to commend him on his brilliance, or curse him senile and sentence him to a home.

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