Your civilizing kiss
I traveled on the road past the bazar
and became distraught by its cheap cacophony
of short-term gains and calculated flatteries
Have we regressed in the manner of a tragedy?
Or have we always been so wretched?
Later in the evening, I am in my domain
Everything in its place
and I receive my answer:
Your civilizing kiss

Well, the pattern holds up vis-a-vis my bike route to work, as I zip down Mission to 29th, then to Harrison, and on into SOMA: I always travel the same path. And the people I see blurring by in the periphery, themselves being creatures of habit as well, are invariably the same ones each day: the people ambling down the sidewalk on the way to the bus stop, the day laborers hanging out on the corners, the grizzled prostitutes, the folks selling boxes of grizzle.

Little could I have known that on a bright summer morning last week, the spell would be broken as--in what had to be the slowest bike accident in recent history--I serenely hurtled to the ground, tumbling on the cement and lightly scraping my elbow. It was a strange sensation, because I had so much time to think as it was happening. I wasn't falling, so much as being bureaucratically processed by gravity. At one point, I distinctly remember becoming bored with the whole situation and, after futilely casting around for something to read, finally resigning myself to counting the seconds before my body struck pavement.

When the ordeal finally wended its way to a conclusion, and I lay on Harrison St. tangled up with my bike like a mosquito squashed on a paperclip, I found--to my happy astonishment--that the previously static population of my bike route had come alive all around me. First, a biker: "You alright?" Then another: "Need any help?" Then a mom, with baby in sling: "You okay?" Then two dudes who just happened to be chatting by a stoop: "Hey man, you okay? You have to be careful".

Of course, I was fine. But I left the scene of the incident with a newfound feeling of safety and hearthlike warmth. There were people looking out for me; and everything was going to be alright.

Well, by the time the last game of the season rolled around we knew we were already finished as far as the Rose Bowl was concerned, but not all joy was lost, because we still had the opportunity to beat Stanford for the umpteenth time in a row. So, I was excited about watching the game. I recruited my roommates Shane and Aine to the cause, and together we hunted around for a bar that would be showing the game. Finally we found one--this place Kezar Pub on Stanyan.

I was expecting the place to be shabby and depressing, but it was actually quite nice inside. There were TVs everywhere you looked but it felt right--and the place was packed with cheery people dressed in team logos. We settled in at a table that was right next to a long table full of Cal fans, and began to drink.

The bar had a lot of Cal fans, and only two Stanford fans. They were a fairly rowdy minority, though. One of them was a girl hailing from Alaska, and the other was a vaguely sinister looking white guy--I don't know, there was something about the angularity of his face that some primitive part of my brain recognized as dangerous. In any case, they were both fairly nice and outgoing, and everyone seemed to be enjoying the jocular taunting and back-and-forths.

Now, these two Stanford people were friends with each other, but they weren't a couple. This was made clear by the girl, who went out of her way to drop this bit of information into the conversation. Shrewdly, I deduced from this that she was flirting with me, and what really confirmed it--subtle arm touches aside--was the fact that she loudly said, "Whooooaa, nevermind" when she found out I was about 5 years younger than her. Anyway, the flirtations continued after that although with the underlying understanding that nothing would come of it.

I seemed to get along well with both of these Stanford people. The guy and I carved out a relationship based on mutual respect and a willingness to acknowledge poor officiating that benefited our own respective teams. What made this feat of bisportsmanship even more featy was the fact that, as it happened, this guy used to actually be the Stanford Tree. So not only was I dealing with a Stanford fan, I was dealing with Stanford fandom incarnate--with the Platonic form of it, you could say. And so together we watched the game, our battle of wits mirroring the battle being played out on the gridiron. The weird combination of genteel adherence to rules of decency and the Stanford Tree's embodiment of abstract evil made it feel like something out of The Devil and Daniel Webster.

Well, I don't have to tell you what happened: Cal lost, and all of the Cal supporters in the bar had to bear witness to the spectacle of the Stanford fans hooting, hollering, and dancing around on tables in delirious victory (a spectacle, mind you, that might not have been tolerated by a different, more confrontational set of fans). With a collective sigh, people started shuffling towards the door.

On my way out, I passed by the Stanfordites, who were busy downing shots. The guy brought me over to him and asked if I would relieve him of half of his tequila shot, since it was a bit too much for him. I told him I'd take the whole shot, and threw it back. On the momentum of this bravado-in-the-face-of-defeat, I then turned to the girl, and exchanged, in a swaggering manner, some flirty lines back and forth. She was responsive to it, which was a bit surprising, considering her earlier verdict of "too young"--but I guess the dose of alcohol had changed her mind about a few of the logistical concerns she had earlier. However, underneath this flirtatious veneer I could catch just the slightest glimpse of something nasty, like the glint of a cat's eye in the shadows just before it pounces. And I realized that I, too, was getting ready to pounce.

The truth was, neither party was really interested in the other--the game of flirtation was a proxy for the game on the field. The Bears might have lost, but I'd be damned if I was going to eat out of her hand like a trained animal. Asking for her number would mean defeat. So what could I do?

It had come my turn to say something. At the nick of time, I thought of what to say--it would be perfect. It would totally deflate her, and bring the wicked game of flirtation to a close, myself the victor. I leaned in close to her and said the following asshole line:

"Do you want my phone number?"

The comment gave the girl pause, and then a mean smile came across her face. "No." I smiled back, probably equally meanly. But there was a further layer underneath even this layer of contempt--a layer that spoke of mutual respect, of appreciation for the game itself. What was taking place was, in a bizarre way, a form of sportsmanship. The sport in this case was not, however, football, but fandom--the commitment to a team across all social contexts and venues, no matter how petty and cruel, if only for a day. I may have won, but we both played an admirable game, subserving our very need to reproduce to the greater cause of Cal, or in her case Stanford, football. It was a nice moment.

Then the Tree had to go and fuck it all up.

Before I could turn on my heels after my deathblow of a line, the Tree slapped me across the face.

As you can imagine, I was not expecting this. My face emotionless, I turned and looked at him, and blinked a few times. After a few moments, he slapped me again. Across the face.

Sensing that laws were being broken and that the situation could spiral out of control, the girl admonished the Tree, telling him to stop it. After the third slap--and at this point I starting to get curious as to how many times he would slap me if I just stood there--she gave me an apologetic look to indicate that she was not on board with any of it.

Anyway, he finally stopped slapping me, and there was a sense that it was my turn to respond. After a beat, I turned to the girl, winked, said "See ya later", and left.

*** 

So, ouch. Getting slapped by the Stanford Tree after a Big Game loss--it stings. But victory doesn't buy you class.

 Fast-forwarding a few hours, we see myself and a green-dress-clad girl named Dimitri bickering about when it was, exactly, that California joined the Union. This was not the first incident of me bickering with a girl at the party. Earlier, this other one Heather and I had gone next door to the convenience store so that she could buy a Duraflame log and I could buy a sandwich. I tried paying for my sandwich with a credit card but the guy said that unless I spent four more dollars, I would have to pay a fee of $1.50, which I refused to pay. I tried getting Heather to lend me money, which she wouldn't, on account that we would probably never see each other again. I told her that she was smart, because if she had lent me the cash, I would have made sure that we never saw each other again. In the end I had to buy a second log to avoid paying the fee. Anyway, now I was at it again with Dimitri, and about to be horrified beyond my imagining.

Before I continue, though, a few words about the internet. Besides overwritten blogs, it's useful for a great many things--it is, after all, an enormous repository of all the world's information that is accessible instantaneously from any location. To this end, it is ideal for settling bets.

 Dimitri was of the opinion that California was established in 1849; I argued that, no, it was sometime in the 1850s. I asked if she wanted to make it interesting. She said yes, and that she had a lot of money. I said that I had a lot of money, too, and wildly set the bet at $100. She dialed it down to $20, which I was immediately thankful for. But she said it was unfair that she had to guess the exact year, while I only had to get the right decade. So I gave her 2 - 1 odds. She agreed, and proceeded to produce an iPhone from her bosom.

People with iPhones are inherently annoying. They're always producing the wretched thing from a pocket or shirt sleeve with that "It just so happens that..." arch of their eyebrows. This time was no different. Nor was it particularly ladylike.

Anyway, I soon became the proud owner of $10 worth of credit due to me--just about covering the cost of a sandwich and a Duraflame log.

With a winning twirl of my bow tie I high-tailed it out of there, drunk and in love with myself.

 That's pretty true, huh?

When she arrived she was a bit harried because she was in the IKEA-induced vortex of having to put together a bed. I told her that I would help her out because, I reasoned, in the same way that fighting in the trenches shoulder-to-shoulder will forge a bond between soldiers that lasts a lifetime, so will putting together IKEA furniture forge an unshakable bond between roommates. Come what may, we would always be able to hark back to those missing divots and stripped screws and be reassured of each other's roommately commitments.

Before we began she took a moment to list all of the daunting tasks still ahead of her. Standing in the middle of her near-empty room, she pointed unhappily to a pile of IKEA-grade wood, plastic bags of bolts, and satisfyingly large instruction booklets, and said, "I have to put together my bed." Then, equally unhappily, she pointed to her bike's low-set seat and said, "And then I have to raise my seat." At first I was puzzled by the apparent incongruity of the two tasks, the first one being difficult and involved and the second one being easy and trivial. But then I realized that the second task would require an Allen wrench, an object so rare and fleeting that it might surface in an apartment only once or twice a season.

I nodded gravely.

Construction went about as well as can be expected. I forget the IKEA-given name of the bed, but, interestingly, one of its crucial components had a name of its own: HAMAR. The HAMAR is a long, sturdy, metal rod that forms the structural backbone of the bed. It contains telescoped within it a secondary metal rod that can slide outwards, making the HAMAR a formidable weapon in the hands of an experienced warrior. God help the army that tries to take our apartment by force.

After the construction project was completed, we headed down to Delerium for a celebratory beer (or "pint", as Ann would say). While in there, I made an important discovery, which is that during the day on weekends, Delerium gives out free barbecue. I had always known that they had a barbecue going, but I never realized it was free. So, we ate and drank and passed the time merrily away.

Part of the merriment came from a group of bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked Arizonians who had road-tripped out to San Francisco so that they could see both nights of Arcade Fire at the Greek in Berkeley. In fact, the reason we started talking in the first place was that they noticed my Arcade Fire teeshirt that I had gotten at the concert the night before. They were very nice kids, but for whatever reason (alcohol?) they talked entirely too much, and so Ann and I saved ourselves from boredom by lying excessively. Ann told them she worked in the pharmaceutical industry as a designer of new drugs, and I told them that I was a materials scientist who specialized in industrial grade vinyls (used, of course, for mounting superconductors). Eventually we developed the story that we were working on a joint conference that involved the development of a pill that, when taken, would enable the subject to learn a new language within 24 hours. Our audience was amazed by this.

After one celebratory pint had turned into four, the Arizonians' infectious enthusiasm for the Arcade Fire show started to have its effect. Ann and I decided that the best course of action would be to see if we could somehow crash the show (even though I had been to the one the night before). After some hemming and hawing, we hopped aboard a Berkeley-bound train, but our plans got derailed because Ann got invited to a dinner by the people she had been staying with before she moved in. I continued on to Berkeley with the intention of crashing the concert with Carlos, who was in the area, but I got there too late, and so we ended up bussing it to the Pub, where we could relax with a few quick games of RISK and a goblet of mead (it is worth adding that mead is freaking disgusting--I don't know why I keep buying it).

I close with a bullet-list of highlights from Berkeley:

• When I got in, I ended up stopping at Top Dog for a lemon-chicken and potato salad. When I asked the guy if they had a restroom, he said yeah, but it was for employees only. I accepted this stoically and had almost forgot about it a few minutes later when, given that the place was empty, he decided he could bend the rules and let me run back for a quick pee. I did so, and felt oddly privileged at the behind-the-scenes access I had been given. It was like peeing in Howard Roarke's bathroom--one that he doesn't normally let anybody pee in.
• On my trudge to I-House (where I was to meet Carlos), I ran into a funny girl who was rolling a gigantic suitcase up Bancroft street. I offered to help her carry it, and as I did so she explained that she was participating in a conference about calculating carbon footprints, or something like that. I asked her what that involved, exactly, and she said that, surprisingly, since the conference was so long and demanding, she ended up giving a whole bunch of massages to the attendees. At the mention of this my eyes must have glazed slightly, because I was undergoing the twin strains of carrying her heavy-ass suitcase and of furiously working out the complex social calculus involved in determining if I could somehow wrangle a massage out of the situation, if I could affect this without being seen as creepy, and whether or not such an occurrence could be adequately explained to my girlfriend. Before I could come to any conclusion, however, we cheerfully parted ways--but not before she had given me a full box of power bars. YES!!!
• Carlos and I played RISK with some rules variations that made the game go quickly. We ended up starting a second game, but had to cut it short so that I could catch the last BART. It was a pretty good game--when it ended, our forces were evenly matched in South America, poised for a battle royale.
• I ended up missing the last BART, so Carlos good-naturedly drove me all the way to my doorstep in SF. Thanks, Carlos!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

* Here I am using the non-standard--i.e. wrong--sense of "nonplussed", where it means something like "unimpressed". Personally, I've always felt that "nonplussed" refers to the sort of flat-mouthed, uncomprehending disdain that cats seem to have about everything at all times. Reader beware.

I eased backward into my chair to give my GI tract some room to operate, and blinked. Generally speaking, I was in no condition. My manner was cowlike: satiated, lazy. A passing author might have called it "languorous". Drastic action was required, and yet all I could do was digest and pat my stomach.

Abruptly, the check was settled and as if by teleportation the three of us stood outside the restaurant in an agitated state of silence. The conversation had gapped, and if Jani and I did not introduce some kind of jarring stimulus in the next few seconds, KC's river of tears would once more flood the plains of chit-chat with its life-depriving salt. Desperate, I blurted the first word that came out of my mouth: "Pipes!"

It is unfortunate, dear readers, that we are at this point in human history only at the beginning of a true understanding of the brain. Were it not so, and were it possible to convey to you the neuro-coordinates responsible for that genius outburst, I would cheerfully hand them over, that you might some day blurt "pipes". But alas, none of this is yet possible, and so I will merely detail the effects of the event, and leave it to future generations to suss out which neuron deserves the medal.

Effects:

1. We were moved to investigate the smoke shop across the street, to see if pipes could be bought and smoked out of.
2. After a long and careful inspection of the pipe selection there, we each chose one for ourselves. I bought an understated wooden one with a straight stem; Jani and KC opted for the curvy-stemmed kind. It is worth noting that they also had a selection of corn-cob pipes that were entirely ridiculous on account of the size of the cob: it was like, half an ear. It honestly looked like someone had jammed a chopstick into a compost heap and come up with someone's corn from yesterday.
3. We purchased our goods and made our way to the street just outside the smoke shop.
4. We loitered and puffed with a very self-satisfied air.
5. As a direct result, KC's spirits were restored. 

***

Since then I've been wanting to get into pipes. Apparently, if you buy a really high quality one it can last you your whole life. I like the idea of buying a pipe in my mid-twenties and having it until I'm old and wizened. Also, the habit is far preferable to smoking cigarettes, because you don't inhale the smoke--you just puff it in your mouth, which, though somewhat risky, is nowhere near as actuarially foolish as breathing cigarette smoke for decades on end. And since you don't take in much nicotine, you are much less likely to get addicted. Indeed, pipes:cigarettes :: coke:crack.

At a nifty place called The Pub in Berkeley, they have a wide selection of quality pipes and pipe tobaccos. Some of them are intricately carved meerschaum pipes, so that it looks like you're smoking out of Odin's head. After years of being handled, the oils from your hand tint the smooth, white meerschaum a rusty brownish-red, lending it a sort of organic patina.

Boy. If  "supple" is a breast word, and "quaint" is a village word, then "patina" is definitely an Antiques Roadshow word. 

After carefully locking up my bike outside of Delerium and double-checking that my trusty pistol was in place and ready to be drawn at a moment's notice, I walked east. No. It would be better to be coming at the situation from the west. I turned on my heel and headed for the crosswalk. A fateful decision.

 Time slowed down. Everything was in black and white. Some opera singer could be heard in the background. I noticed some sort of bustling at the entrance to Delerium, and saw some spazzy hipster tripping over people and apologizing to them. He looked at me and for a blank moment or two we stared. I turned my head forward, and continued walking.

 "Daaavvviiidd!" I heard, in slow motion. I hesitated. Footage of a longstem rose falling on the sidewalk. Footage of a flock of pigeons taking flight. Footage of a flower blossoming with the clouds flitting by rapidly over head.

 Footage of a monkey washing a cat.

Unable to help myself, I turned around. The spazzy hipster had his arm outstretched, gun in hand. It was a jazzy little number, small enough to conceal but big enough to pack a wallop. My brainstem, sensing that it was now or never, seized command of my brain and I started to run down 16th street.

 My chances were grim. I was weighed down by a heavy laptop bag and a jacket. I couldn't draw my weapon while running. What was the closest bar? Kilowatt. But it was on the other side of the street. Would I get hit by a car? I'd have to cross that bridge when I came to it.

I cut right, in between two cars. But just as I was about to make the hail mary leap into traffic, I felt it: I was hit. I turned to see the triumphant glee of my assailant.

I was all wet.

***

Unlike most times when you're assassinated, this time I was able to go have a quiet drink in the apartment with my assassin after he did the deed. No small amount of luck had figured into our encounter on the corner of 16th and Albion outside of Delerium.

He and his lowly friend had been hanging around outside of my apartment all day, waiting for me to emerge from inside. He was a little trigger happy, too: he kept shooting innocent civilians as they came out of the building. Eventually someone got pissed off and called the cops; he and his friend decided to hoof it to Delerium to lay low for awhile. Apparently they were so paranoid that they thought they heard the bartender talking on the phone with police, and so they high-tailed it out of there--right as I happened to pass by.

What is interesting is that I had actually identified this guy the day before. I had already at that point fallen pretty ill, what with all of the cold-weather stalking I had been doing while loaded to the gills with leaky weaponry. So that day I stayed home from work, and didn't emerge until around dinnertime. Cautious as always, I poked my head out of the top stairwell window of my building, which overlooks the street below. The only people that I could see were a couple of lads washing a hearse next door (the neighboring building is Duggan's Funeral Home). One of them was wearing a peacoat. Cocking an eyebrow and frowning--and gripping my trusty water pistol--I proceeded out of my building and down toward 16th, keeping a backwards eye on the peacoated hearse washman.

 I knew I couldn't rest easy until I knew for sure whether he was my assassin, so I decided to duck into Delerium and see if he tried to follow me. Bars, you see, are safe zones in the game. Shrewdly, I ordered a gingerale.

 Sure enough, a couple of minutes later the peacoated hearse washman sauntered into the bar. Ha! This was near-proof, in my mind, that this guy was indeed stalking me. The probability that this guy just happened to be washing hearses right outside my building, and just happened to duck into the same exact bar I ducked into right after I ducked into it...the odds were too staggering. It had to be him.

Rolling my eyes horizontally to the left without moving my head, I waited for him to order something. Sure enough, he did--a whiskey sour. The moment cash exchanged hands from patron to bartender, I leaped out of my seat and exited the bar. My assassin, helpless and in the grips of a transaction, had no choice but to watch me go. 

I would find out later during the post-assassination bracer that my assassin--codenamed Dr. Monkey--had ingratiated himself with the Duggan's crew, and that they allowed him to help them load bodies into the hearse and wash the vehicle.

***

All in all, I didn't do too well in the game. First of all, I was never able to track down my target, let alone off him. Part of the reason for this was because, embarrassingly, it turned out that I had misread his address and staked out not his house but a different one, several doors down. The other reason was because I was out sick for three days, and so lost critical stalking time. Those who know me may not be very surprised to hear any of this, but I had harbored at least a little bit of a hope that somehow, in the context of the hunt, my "absent-minded professor" switch would move to the "off" position, revealing some kind of hidden killer instinct.

Oh well.

Actuarially foolish and hopelessly out of fashion, it is a behavior that, at least in an overachiever like Mr. Obama, seems to assuage our national discomfort with overt ambition. How much of a striver can he be if he's also a smoker?

Ha! "Actuarially foolish". I think that's genius. I hereby declare my theft of this phrase and my intention to make use of it whenever I can.