It went okay.
The Good:
I ran a bit faster than last year and moved up 20 spots (low 80s last year, low 60s this year). The Prince ran a lot faster than last year and moved up 200+ spots, from the high 300s last year to just inside the top 150 this year. (~1500 total runners)
[What were/are our goals? First off, to finish in the top 450 to retain our guaranteed entry into the invitational section next year. Check. Next, to finish in the top 100 to get our finishing place as our bib number. Check for me, the Prince missed by 90 seconds or so. Finish in the top 35 to win a coveted black shirt. No luck there - I need to move up 30 or so places, run about 3 minutes (5%) faster. Win the family trophy - add the finishing places of two family members, lowest score wins. I think we were fourth - getting closer.]
The Bad:
Neither of us ran up to our potential. We both went out too slow, in fact I ran the first 2/3 of the course slower than the other 2 times I’ve run the race. I wanted to break 40 minutes to the top of Cardiac (which I’ve done a number of times while training - see the map in a prior post below), but I was over 41. Race day was hot, and I was spooked a bit about blowing up (because I did last year), so I went out a bit conservative. Mistake. The Prince probably followed my bad advice as well, though he said the excessive dust this year made it tough for him to breathe in sections. I also wanted to have an actual running time of under an hour, but because of my too slow start, didn’t manage that either (and ran 61 something). The Prince thought he might be able to crack an hour for his clock time (actual time minus head start), but missed by 2 minutes. He did have a great run from the top of Cardiac to the finish (something he’s been terrible at in the past - so that was really good for him and a good sign for the future).
So I guess we both should be happy that we improved, but we were hoping for a bit more. We will be better prepared for next year. It was a mistake not to practice on the course this year - I wasn’t able to accurately judge my pace.
The Poison Oak:
I am pretty sensitive to poison oak, and have gotten it many times (I suspect more than 100). The Dipsea has a few sections where there are two options for the course - a sane, nice, but slower/longer way, and the insane, stupider but faster/shorter way which is usually straight down the side of a mountain through the bushes. Think overgrown bunny or deer trail. I always take the fast way and always know there is a good chance that my legs are being brushed or scraped by poison oak leaves. When I get to the finish at Stinson Beach (after training or racing), I head straight to the showers and wash my legs with Zanfel (for me it works better than anything else). If I follow this routine, I rarely get poison oak, or if I do, it is only a small spot or two on my legs which I ignore for a few days and then it is gone.
Race day it was the same thing - straight to the beach showers, wash thoroughly with Zanfel, done. The one thing I forgot was that on one of the short cuts, I was stuck behind a guy who was slower than me, but not by much. So it was tough for me to get by him. I would wait for the tiny path through the bushes to widen, then I’d try and zip by, but there was never enough room or time to make the pass. As the seconds ticked on and on and I couldn’t get past, I finally just plowed my way around him, scraping my left arm on who knows what. I rarely if ever get poison oak on my arms, only my legs, so it isn’t in my routine to wash anything above my thighs. As it turned out, I must have scraped my arm on poison oak, because Monday I could feel it coming, and by Wednesday my left arm had inflated from my biceps down to my hand and was oozing all sorts of nastiness (think arm of a 400 pound man on one who weighs 150). I wrapped my arm with gauze and proceeded with life. It was annoying, mostly because it was disgusting (it didn’t exactly itch, it was more like it buzzed - sort of like a low grade electrical current). A few times a day I’d go wash my arm with this black poison oak soap and re-wrap it up with new gauze. The black soap is good once I have poison oak at keeping the outbreak calm, making it go away sooner, and making the buzzing stop.
Wednesday night my wife saw my arm and ordered me to the doctor (she’s an exec at a hospital and a professor and knows most things medical). I was super busy on Thursday and didn’t call the doctor. Friday, my wife was still annoyed by my arm and once again suggested I got to the doctor. I told her if she called and could actually get me an appointment, I’d go. Turns out by 4pm on Friday my doctor is already gone for the weekend, but they said I should go to an urgent care clinic. I looked up where it was on google maps, realized it was next door to a Peets (I should disclose I’m a shareholder), and happily headed out. By then my arm had pretty much stopped oozing, so it wasn’t even really bugging me all that much, but it sure was bugging my wife. Got my coffee and went into the clinic. After lots of paperwork and what seemed like a lot of waiting (I was the only one in the waiting room), I was called in where a nurse asked me some questions that I’d already answered at least twice on the paperwork I’d just filled out. She went away, a minute or two later, the doctor came in. She asked why I was there and I told her my arm was making my wife cranky. The doctor looked at my arm and said - oooh, that is bad. Do I need to show you what poison oak looks like? I rolled my eyes and said no. “I was in the Dipsea race - when you’re running full speed down the side of mountain through the bushes, you don’t have time to look for it.” She told me she could give me some pills for it, but that it would take a couple days for them to take care of the arm which would mean my wife would still be cranky. So for her she’d give me a shot of steroids.
Doctor leaves, another nurse comes in. Says she’ll need my xxxxxxx (word I didn’t understand). I asked her, you need my what? “Your butt. This is too much to shoot in your arm, we need to shoot it into your butt. Just pull your pants down a little, I’ll lock the door.” I told her I wasn’t worried about a crowd of people trying to bust down the door to sneak a peek at my butt. I hate shots, but luckily for me this nurse was a pro and I barely felt a thing.
My arm deflated a couple days later and now looks 90+% normal.
Moral of the story - wash every bit of bare skin at the Stinson Beach showers.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Monday, June 16, 2008
HC Dumpling, Cupertino
- or -
The Funky Pimp vs. The 'Roid Ranger
Little Child Runnin' Wild
Today's lunch would be different than usual. Joining us, by his own request would be The Instigator.
To better describe The Instigator I have to take about half a step back and better describe what it's like to work in the heart of the Silicon Valley. The Valley is a place where, at the lower levels, exactly one thing counts: computing. The ruling class in this rung are the programmers. The marketeers think they call the shots, but really it all rides on the shoulders of the programmers, and everyone knows that.
(Once you hit it big, or move up a tier by starting your own company, then the rules change. Essentially then you see how much bigger you can get. It's all about ego and name. Some of the very top programmers -- like the King -- dabble in this world, but most aren't even interested in this end of things.)
Programmers have several traits in common that tend to run on a rough spectrum from pathetic to irritating. If you ever thought that positive reinforcement of children was a good idea, you should spend, say, 30 minutes in a conference room with a programmer to see what the end result of too many "Gifted and Talented" classes is like. On the whole, they have no broad concept of the world around them and a surprising number are remarkably under-educated.
Of course, this doesn't keep them from using the term "Engineer" to describe themselves. In fact, I would guess that well over half of the people out here that are programmers use that word to describe themselves on business cards. What these people don't realize, though, is using that term, in writing, in the state of California, to describe yourself is a crime. In CA, if you haven't passed the Professional Engineer exam (like the World's Best Mechanical Engineer has), technically you're not allowed to describe yourself in such a way. The vast majority of people wouldn't have a ghost of a chance. Physics and thermo just to be able to use a name? No way.
These programmers hold several traits in common, the relevant one for this story is the vast majority would much rather hear themselves talk than listen to someone else. Again, a side-effect of a little too much patting on the back as children (while be summarily laughed at on the playground) I'm sure.
It's good and easy for me because all I really have to do is sit back, ask a few probing questions, and then listen as the programmer in question drones on and on. To a person, programmers are smart, so if you sluice your way through all the crap they spew ad naseum, you can get the few nuggets that make the conversation all worthwhile -- either in the form of stories, ideas or stock tips. It's also the easiest and best way to stay right on top of what's happening in technology -- which moves very very fast.
No Thing on Me
The Instigator, however, is a rare exception. Of all the people I know in the industry out here (and I know a ton), there are only a couple who know more about me than I know about them ... and as you've already guess, The Instigator is one of them. I've sat through dozens of meals with him where's he's said nothing, or the closest thing to that, just taking it all in.
Aside from the projects he's worked on, how he met his wife, the movies and television shows he watches, I can tell you remarkably little about him. Around the time I rode my bicycle across the United States, he set out to ride his bike across Iowa (compared to the entire country, think "short, hot and flat" and you're on the right page) and hung it up due to something like a hang nail or a bad haircut. I don't remember now what his lame reason was, but he forever lost half-a-star in my mental gradebook for that stunt.
The Instigator is also a catalyst for human fury. He's got a fairly good memory (although he tends to forget exact details) and is remarkably adept at throwing in the sideways comment in a conversation that will get two people to go at each other like junkyard dogs. Put Fat Paulie, Cap'n Happy and The Instigator together in a room for 15 minutes and you damn well better have a CSI clean-up kit when you open the door again (and don't expect The Instigator to help you clean it up).
For years I held The Instigator at an arm's length. I simply didn't trust him and felt he was dangerous. In order for me to win any battle, I have to be on a higher ground -- and if The Instigator knows more about me, than I know about him, and he's got a sadistic streak? Well, that sounds like a bad combination to me.
(Oh, and he's a math sped. It's nearly impossible for him to do something like figure out how much tip you should put on a bill and then divide it by 7 in your head.)
Give Me Your Love
But something happened awhile back (for the life of me, I can't remember what it is now, which is strange) where I flipped over on him. I've had some surprisingly dark times in my life and it was at one of those that The Instigator stepped in and gave me the tiniest amount of love; the smallest piece of support. Like I said, it's something I can't remember -- he bought me dinner or something.
And this is a super-rarity.
Programmers are remarkably poor at personal contact and communication. There's no sense of empathy, or even an idea that that might be necessary.
When The Instigator came to my aid, I white-columned him, and I'm sure he'll stay there for the rest of my life.
Don't get me wrong, I still (completely justifyably) treat him like a piranha in a fish tank. But I keep the tank clean, change the water, and throw in an extra shrimp now and then.
Freddie's Dead
For only the second time since we started writing this damn thing, I wheel by in the continual car and pick up the King for lunch. As the King steps in, I notch up the Superfly Sountrack
. Today, more than usual, the King needs soothing -- Curtis Mayfield has to be the right answer. Apple's put a bullet through his boss, for unknown reasons; but far worse, the King got a bad case of poison oak while running the Dipsea.
We don't say much as we swing over to get The Instigator. I don't think the average person would describe him this way, but deep inside Feddy's always wound a little tight -- today he seems a tad worse, although I can't tell why.
As The Instigator gets in, he makes a positive comment on the car color as he does the jungle gym gymnastics to get in the back seat. I've seen this kind of behavior from him before -- it may well be a target softening comment for later so I mostly ignore it.
Feddy doesn't remember, but last month we'd talked about going to a "dumpling" place over in China-land so that's where we're headed.
It's a short hop to the restaurant. Lots of talk of the Dipsea -- something The Instigator hasn't heard yet.
We get to the dumpling place and there's a wait (a good sign). They write our queue number on a Post-it and hand it to us. A quick glance around and I can see we're the only white guys (another good sign).
"Your arm's looking better, Feddy."
"It does now! You should have seen it before! It was like a fuckin' pig leg! But I went to the doctor and they shot me fuckin' full of steroids!"
Okay, that explains it. He's on a 'roid rage. Thank God we're out of the car.
I can't let this lie, "You know, Feddy, we talked about the word 'fuck' awhile back. And you said you don't use it, and I say you do. And you just used it twice in two sentences." I must be getting contact high from The Instigator.
His eyes widen. "It's you! You bring this out of me!" To be very clear, I've spoken to him exactly twice in the last 15 minutes.
Feddy's wife is a nurse and he launches on the trials and tribulations of getting the shots for arm, and in the way that only the King can tell, it's a hilarious tale.
After about 20 minutes, we're given a seat way-back in the restaurant, by the bathrooms. I've been trying to figure out what the name of this place is ever since we saw it after "I Restaurant." On the outside what you can clearly make out is "Dumpling" but if you look closer it says "HC Dumpling."
But the menu says "Hu-Chiang Dumpling House." Okay, now I get it. It's one of these crazy Chinese things. (As if the "Jade Galore Jewelry Company" next door wasn't clue enough.)
The menu is big and mildly insane. You can get such delecacies as "bitter melon & pork intestine" and "colorful peppers beef." The way it works is you pick one of four lunch flights, with a main dish of your choice, and it comes with a "cold appetizer" that you don't choose and rice.
The Instigator orders a beef dish, Feddy goes for a pork equivalent, to round out the set I order my old stand-by, deep fried tofu.
Feddy's also fuming that they don't have any vegetable dumplings. They're out. "I already hate this fuckin' place. No vegetable dumplings. I'm so sure."
I'm channeling for The Instigator, "You're just mad because they seated you facing the wall."
He looks at the grey paint in front of his face. "It's not helpin'."
Superfly
While we're waiting for our meal I pull out the treat of the day, SuperFly Energy Pills. They advertise as being something like "6 energy drinks in 6 tablets" (presenting a math problem that'd probably push The Instigator to the very edge).
"Who wants some?"
Feddy, in his always oh-so-clean speech says, "I'm not drinkin' those fuckin' things," and The Instigator demures as well.
I fire up a glassful. It has a cheery red color and tastes something like a watered down version of anti-freeze. I'm not sure it has any effect, but I slam it down and mentally pretend as though it does.
At least the King and I are on the same footing now (excepting the fact that I don't have a fuckin' pig arm).
Pusherman
The cold appetizer is carrots and bean sprouts in very light oil and vinegar with a fair amount of salt and pepper. It's served along with an egg-drop corn chowder and rice. The starter and soup are both really good. The rice is a little stickier than I like, but it's consistent with Chinese cooking (Japanese rice is usually a bit fluffier and what I prefer).
The best thing here is we're actually getting some food now so Feddy can focus on something besides my head to chew on.
The main courses come along with dumplings on the side and they're sort-of almost-y dim sum. In the dumpling world, the Instigator and I both have ordered crab, the King has pork.
The Instigator asks Feddy if he's sharing his food "family style" or eating by himself. He's famous for ordering Chinese dishes and then getting pissed when someone eats out of his. But Feddy's fine with it.
The crab dumplings are interesting. It takes them quite awhile to cool to edible and once they do, they're a little disappointing. They seem to have lost a lot of their flavor. A nice, rich, crab flavor hits as soon as you bite in, but almost immediately that goes away and the taste is just kind of pasty.
Feddy's pork ones are a bit better. The pork in them is ground, which gives a nice consistency. Except he's still full of 'roids and says, "Go ahead! Help yourself!"
"Hey man, you just said you were sharing. Push another needle in your arm or something."
Of the main dishes, the tofu is a little dry and the oil is just starting to go bad (I'm really sensitive to that taste for some reason), so they could be better. The garlic sauce served with them is superb. Just a hint of sweetness with a very mild garlic overtone.
The beef is mildly spicy-hot, but a little too grisly for my liking.
The pork has a mildly spiced gravy that's not quite as glutenous as the beef. Of all the main course things on the table, I think this is my favorite ... Although for the meal as a whole, I think the sprouts-and-carrots starter was the best.
It's a lot of food for ten bucks apiece and a really good deal. I'd definitely eat here again.
Junkie Chase
After the meal's over we wind around through conversations and through a series of convolutions I make the statement that I think there's a 98% chance that I would never have a kid.
Feddy says, "Why? Old guys can have kids anytime. I see it in Ross all the time." He pauses and adds, "And all I can think is, 'Oh man. Am I glad that I never have to change a diaper again.'"
The Instigator asks, "How do you come to that number?"
Think
"Well, you know, you have to consider my age, and my relationships in general and the fact that that's not really what I'm looking for. So you say,'is it less than 50%?' Certainly. '1-in-10?' Less than that. '1-in-20?' That's starting to sound right, but probably not low enough. So 97.5% is probably about right. But if you have things to the half-percent it sounds like you have more accuracy than you really do. So do you round up or down? 3-in-100 or 1-in-50? 1-in-50's probably right."
He looks knowingly, but says nothing. At our Monday night dinners he can get away with this kind of stuff because everyone else is more interested in what they have to say than what he thinks. But the rules are different here right now.
"So what do you think, Instigator? I see you sitting there, thinking. I always see you sitting there, thinking. Gathering data. But what do you think?"
"About what?"
Eddie You Should Know Better
About what do you think, you bonehead. I'm about ready to force-feed him the remaining five Superfly fizzies. "About my theory layout just then. You know, anyone sounds insane if you have them describe the way they think life works."
He starts by saying that his wife often comments and accuses him of making something equivalent of sneering value judgements. Not that I could ever see why someone would think that and then goes on to essentially say that the kinds of things I'm trying to draw numbers on are unknowable.
I guess in this world you can't cast a probability of terrorists flyhing planes into buildings but on 9/11/01 the odds become 100% right about the time the nose of an aircraft hits the coffee cup on a secretary's desk.
It's an underlying concept I fully disagree with, but then again, I don't need a calculator when I'm figuring out what the tip on our bill is.
We're some of the last people to leave the restaurant. I drop The Instigator and he says, "thanks for letting me tag along."
"Don't thank me yet, pal. You haven't read what I'm going to write."
The Funky Pimp vs. The 'Roid Ranger
Little Child Runnin' Wild
Today's lunch would be different than usual. Joining us, by his own request would be The Instigator.
To better describe The Instigator I have to take about half a step back and better describe what it's like to work in the heart of the Silicon Valley. The Valley is a place where, at the lower levels, exactly one thing counts: computing. The ruling class in this rung are the programmers. The marketeers think they call the shots, but really it all rides on the shoulders of the programmers, and everyone knows that.
(Once you hit it big, or move up a tier by starting your own company, then the rules change. Essentially then you see how much bigger you can get. It's all about ego and name. Some of the very top programmers -- like the King -- dabble in this world, but most aren't even interested in this end of things.)
Programmers have several traits in common that tend to run on a rough spectrum from pathetic to irritating. If you ever thought that positive reinforcement of children was a good idea, you should spend, say, 30 minutes in a conference room with a programmer to see what the end result of too many "Gifted and Talented" classes is like. On the whole, they have no broad concept of the world around them and a surprising number are remarkably under-educated.
Of course, this doesn't keep them from using the term "Engineer" to describe themselves. In fact, I would guess that well over half of the people out here that are programmers use that word to describe themselves on business cards. What these people don't realize, though, is using that term, in writing, in the state of California, to describe yourself is a crime. In CA, if you haven't passed the Professional Engineer exam (like the World's Best Mechanical Engineer has), technically you're not allowed to describe yourself in such a way. The vast majority of people wouldn't have a ghost of a chance. Physics and thermo just to be able to use a name? No way.
These programmers hold several traits in common, the relevant one for this story is the vast majority would much rather hear themselves talk than listen to someone else. Again, a side-effect of a little too much patting on the back as children (while be summarily laughed at on the playground) I'm sure.
It's good and easy for me because all I really have to do is sit back, ask a few probing questions, and then listen as the programmer in question drones on and on. To a person, programmers are smart, so if you sluice your way through all the crap they spew ad naseum, you can get the few nuggets that make the conversation all worthwhile -- either in the form of stories, ideas or stock tips. It's also the easiest and best way to stay right on top of what's happening in technology -- which moves very very fast.
No Thing on Me
The Instigator, however, is a rare exception. Of all the people I know in the industry out here (and I know a ton), there are only a couple who know more about me than I know about them ... and as you've already guess, The Instigator is one of them. I've sat through dozens of meals with him where's he's said nothing, or the closest thing to that, just taking it all in.
Aside from the projects he's worked on, how he met his wife, the movies and television shows he watches, I can tell you remarkably little about him. Around the time I rode my bicycle across the United States, he set out to ride his bike across Iowa (compared to the entire country, think "short, hot and flat" and you're on the right page) and hung it up due to something like a hang nail or a bad haircut. I don't remember now what his lame reason was, but he forever lost half-a-star in my mental gradebook for that stunt.
The Instigator is also a catalyst for human fury. He's got a fairly good memory (although he tends to forget exact details) and is remarkably adept at throwing in the sideways comment in a conversation that will get two people to go at each other like junkyard dogs. Put Fat Paulie, Cap'n Happy and The Instigator together in a room for 15 minutes and you damn well better have a CSI clean-up kit when you open the door again (and don't expect The Instigator to help you clean it up).
For years I held The Instigator at an arm's length. I simply didn't trust him and felt he was dangerous. In order for me to win any battle, I have to be on a higher ground -- and if The Instigator knows more about me, than I know about him, and he's got a sadistic streak? Well, that sounds like a bad combination to me.
(Oh, and he's a math sped. It's nearly impossible for him to do something like figure out how much tip you should put on a bill and then divide it by 7 in your head.)
Give Me Your Love
But something happened awhile back (for the life of me, I can't remember what it is now, which is strange) where I flipped over on him. I've had some surprisingly dark times in my life and it was at one of those that The Instigator stepped in and gave me the tiniest amount of love; the smallest piece of support. Like I said, it's something I can't remember -- he bought me dinner or something.
And this is a super-rarity.
Programmers are remarkably poor at personal contact and communication. There's no sense of empathy, or even an idea that that might be necessary.
When The Instigator came to my aid, I white-columned him, and I'm sure he'll stay there for the rest of my life.
Don't get me wrong, I still (completely justifyably) treat him like a piranha in a fish tank. But I keep the tank clean, change the water, and throw in an extra shrimp now and then.
Freddie's Dead
For only the second time since we started writing this damn thing, I wheel by in the continual car and pick up the King for lunch. As the King steps in, I notch up the Superfly Sountrack
. Today, more than usual, the King needs soothing -- Curtis Mayfield has to be the right answer. Apple's put a bullet through his boss, for unknown reasons; but far worse, the King got a bad case of poison oak while running the Dipsea. We don't say much as we swing over to get The Instigator. I don't think the average person would describe him this way, but deep inside Feddy's always wound a little tight -- today he seems a tad worse, although I can't tell why.
As The Instigator gets in, he makes a positive comment on the car color as he does the jungle gym gymnastics to get in the back seat. I've seen this kind of behavior from him before -- it may well be a target softening comment for later so I mostly ignore it.
Feddy doesn't remember, but last month we'd talked about going to a "dumpling" place over in China-land so that's where we're headed.
It's a short hop to the restaurant. Lots of talk of the Dipsea -- something The Instigator hasn't heard yet.
We get to the dumpling place and there's a wait (a good sign). They write our queue number on a Post-it and hand it to us. A quick glance around and I can see we're the only white guys (another good sign).
"Your arm's looking better, Feddy."
"It does now! You should have seen it before! It was like a fuckin' pig leg! But I went to the doctor and they shot me fuckin' full of steroids!"
Okay, that explains it. He's on a 'roid rage. Thank God we're out of the car.
I can't let this lie, "You know, Feddy, we talked about the word 'fuck' awhile back. And you said you don't use it, and I say you do. And you just used it twice in two sentences." I must be getting contact high from The Instigator.
His eyes widen. "It's you! You bring this out of me!" To be very clear, I've spoken to him exactly twice in the last 15 minutes.
Feddy's wife is a nurse and he launches on the trials and tribulations of getting the shots for arm, and in the way that only the King can tell, it's a hilarious tale.
After about 20 minutes, we're given a seat way-back in the restaurant, by the bathrooms. I've been trying to figure out what the name of this place is ever since we saw it after "I Restaurant." On the outside what you can clearly make out is "Dumpling" but if you look closer it says "HC Dumpling."
But the menu says "Hu-Chiang Dumpling House." Okay, now I get it. It's one of these crazy Chinese things. (As if the "Jade Galore Jewelry Company" next door wasn't clue enough.)
The menu is big and mildly insane. You can get such delecacies as "bitter melon & pork intestine" and "colorful peppers beef." The way it works is you pick one of four lunch flights, with a main dish of your choice, and it comes with a "cold appetizer" that you don't choose and rice.
The Instigator orders a beef dish, Feddy goes for a pork equivalent, to round out the set I order my old stand-by, deep fried tofu.
Feddy's also fuming that they don't have any vegetable dumplings. They're out. "I already hate this fuckin' place. No vegetable dumplings. I'm so sure."
I'm channeling for The Instigator, "You're just mad because they seated you facing the wall."
He looks at the grey paint in front of his face. "It's not helpin'."
Superfly
While we're waiting for our meal I pull out the treat of the day, SuperFly Energy Pills. They advertise as being something like "6 energy drinks in 6 tablets" (presenting a math problem that'd probably push The Instigator to the very edge).
"Who wants some?"
Feddy, in his always oh-so-clean speech says, "I'm not drinkin' those fuckin' things," and The Instigator demures as well.
I fire up a glassful. It has a cheery red color and tastes something like a watered down version of anti-freeze. I'm not sure it has any effect, but I slam it down and mentally pretend as though it does.
At least the King and I are on the same footing now (excepting the fact that I don't have a fuckin' pig arm).
Pusherman
The cold appetizer is carrots and bean sprouts in very light oil and vinegar with a fair amount of salt and pepper. It's served along with an egg-drop corn chowder and rice. The starter and soup are both really good. The rice is a little stickier than I like, but it's consistent with Chinese cooking (Japanese rice is usually a bit fluffier and what I prefer).
The best thing here is we're actually getting some food now so Feddy can focus on something besides my head to chew on.
The main courses come along with dumplings on the side and they're sort-of almost-y dim sum. In the dumpling world, the Instigator and I both have ordered crab, the King has pork.
The Instigator asks Feddy if he's sharing his food "family style" or eating by himself. He's famous for ordering Chinese dishes and then getting pissed when someone eats out of his. But Feddy's fine with it.
The crab dumplings are interesting. It takes them quite awhile to cool to edible and once they do, they're a little disappointing. They seem to have lost a lot of their flavor. A nice, rich, crab flavor hits as soon as you bite in, but almost immediately that goes away and the taste is just kind of pasty.
Feddy's pork ones are a bit better. The pork in them is ground, which gives a nice consistency. Except he's still full of 'roids and says, "Go ahead! Help yourself!"
"Hey man, you just said you were sharing. Push another needle in your arm or something."
Of the main dishes, the tofu is a little dry and the oil is just starting to go bad (I'm really sensitive to that taste for some reason), so they could be better. The garlic sauce served with them is superb. Just a hint of sweetness with a very mild garlic overtone.
The beef is mildly spicy-hot, but a little too grisly for my liking.
The pork has a mildly spiced gravy that's not quite as glutenous as the beef. Of all the main course things on the table, I think this is my favorite ... Although for the meal as a whole, I think the sprouts-and-carrots starter was the best.
It's a lot of food for ten bucks apiece and a really good deal. I'd definitely eat here again.
Junkie Chase
After the meal's over we wind around through conversations and through a series of convolutions I make the statement that I think there's a 98% chance that I would never have a kid.
Feddy says, "Why? Old guys can have kids anytime. I see it in Ross all the time." He pauses and adds, "And all I can think is, 'Oh man. Am I glad that I never have to change a diaper again.'"
The Instigator asks, "How do you come to that number?"
Think
"Well, you know, you have to consider my age, and my relationships in general and the fact that that's not really what I'm looking for. So you say,'is it less than 50%?' Certainly. '1-in-10?' Less than that. '1-in-20?' That's starting to sound right, but probably not low enough. So 97.5% is probably about right. But if you have things to the half-percent it sounds like you have more accuracy than you really do. So do you round up or down? 3-in-100 or 1-in-50? 1-in-50's probably right."
He looks knowingly, but says nothing. At our Monday night dinners he can get away with this kind of stuff because everyone else is more interested in what they have to say than what he thinks. But the rules are different here right now.
"So what do you think, Instigator? I see you sitting there, thinking. I always see you sitting there, thinking. Gathering data. But what do you think?"
"About what?"
Eddie You Should Know Better
About what do you think, you bonehead. I'm about ready to force-feed him the remaining five Superfly fizzies. "About my theory layout just then. You know, anyone sounds insane if you have them describe the way they think life works."
He starts by saying that his wife often comments and accuses him of making something equivalent of sneering value judgements. Not that I could ever see why someone would think that and then goes on to essentially say that the kinds of things I'm trying to draw numbers on are unknowable.
I guess in this world you can't cast a probability of terrorists flyhing planes into buildings but on 9/11/01 the odds become 100% right about the time the nose of an aircraft hits the coffee cup on a secretary's desk.
It's an underlying concept I fully disagree with, but then again, I don't need a calculator when I'm figuring out what the tip on our bill is.
We're some of the last people to leave the restaurant. I drop The Instigator and he says, "thanks for letting me tag along."
"Don't thank me yet, pal. You haven't read what I'm going to write."
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
note to king feddy
your Highness,
you have to tell the rubber-necking gallery how you did on the dipsea ... i'm getting a lot of questions about it.
i'll drop this once you've told the results.
your servant,
b1
you have to tell the rubber-necking gallery how you did on the dipsea ... i'm getting a lot of questions about it.
i'll drop this once you've told the results.
your servant,
b1
Monday, June 9, 2008
Cook's Seafood, Menlo Park
- or -
"Exploding Fish Meets the Thousandaires"
King Feddy stiffed me for lunch today, deciding it was more important to "know what my company is working on" and go to Apple's World Wide Developer Conference. An interesting choice considering, say, that he quit and then rejoined said company in a mere matter of days this year. (Not to mention his inherent prima donna disdain of management -- odd how he never works for anyone or anything that he truly likes and yet hits it big. Maybe that's my problem -- I've never become rich because I've always kind of liked my jobs? And more strangely, the ones I was least enamored with were the ones that paid off the most ... Hmm ...)
With the King out of the picture, I get the chance to eat my favorite food, namely fish; but I need to round-up a colleague. With the exception of breakfast, I consider eating to be a communal event -- you always should eat with someone, and it's pretty "wrong" if you don't.
I've been trying to get hold of Zz for a couple of weeks now and was both pleased and surprised to get him on the phone at 11:00. The good news is he can eat; the bad is I'll have to wait 'til 14:00.
No problem, I talk to various pals and drop back into a heavy stupor -- easy since I haven't yet left my bed for the day. My alarm waking me up to make the date.
When I pick up Z, he asks if Bo3b can come along. "Of course." I rarely consider Bo3b to be a possibility for lunch. Unless the event-of-the-moment is something he's already planned for personal reasons, it's always been difficult to get him to go beyond his normal stomping grounds -- and, as with nearly everything in everyone's life, as he gets older this trait is getting more pronounced.
The good thing about this lunch threesome is we've all known each other for more than 20 years. We think and act more like brothers than we do as friends, which means the conversation could run any gamut from the hilarious, to gut-wrenching insulting, to the dreadfully insightful.
The boys enter the continual car and we tussle possibilities. No one really has a preference, but Z suggests our old stand-by, the Fish Market. I'm fine with that, but would rather go to Cook's Seafood since Menlo Park is typically a bit of a haul for me, but within reasonable shot from the parking space here at Danger.
Cook's can be pressingly busy on the lunch hour, but by 14:00, the business pace is a saunter. Bo3b gets obsessed with the closed-dwon Arby's next door ("Why does it say 'Cook's' in front of it?" "I don't know." "Look! It says 'Cook's!'" "I know. Jesus." [Hint: It's being turned into, that's right, another Cook's restaurant.]), we shake him loose from the concept and go in.
I order local halibut and chips. Z and 3 both get cod and chips.
The conversation turns and wheels quickly, as it always does between us, but the vast majority of what we're talking about is money. Money in the form of rising gas prices, money in the form of Apple announcing a new iPhone, money in the form of Microsoft buying Danger.
What Bo3b is to the physical world, Z is to the intellect. It's extremely tough, if not impossible, to get him to converse over-and-above anything he hasn't been thinking about recently or has a true interest in ... what with Microsoft's buy-out (including the lucrative knock-on offers) and the Apple announcements, the agenda for lunch discussion is all but pre-set.
There are momentary meanderings. My favorite of the day was a person (I won't say whom) claiming the primary value of women was a form of entertainment. This is a chumming statement at a table filled not only with middle-aged bachelors, but a collective group of people who all have some particular misgivings with the opposite sex. (That's not to say we haven't been swine ourselves -- we have -- but that's not the point of the conversation right this second, is it?) We all agreed with the statement with gusto, then moved along to other topics of pressing importance -- movies or something.
On the way back from the restaurant, Z says (as he does nearly every fricken time we talk) that he and I should get together sometime.
But here's the problem. I call him, he doesn't answer. I suggest things, he doesn't respond. If you're not well within his sphere of influence (and as near as I can tell, that sphere is about arm's length) you're out. I've called him on it before, several times, in fact, and he always looks at me with a bland form of incredulity -- like I've just listened to some Yes song that he's never heard. It's not that I'm mad or bitter about it, because I'm not. I'm just not a fan of acting like things are diamonds when they're spades.
Oh, yeah, and the meal ...
The fish was flaky and tasty. Just the mildest amount of saltiness. Nice thick portions.
The chips here can be highly variable (usually erring in the form of being over-cooked), but this time they're really (to use a British expression) "nice." A good, soft, tooth without being mushy. Dully illuminating on the pallet. Yum.
Zz bit into a piece of his and it shot boiling liquid of some type (I think it was water, but I prefer to use the term "fish juice") side-to-side and up his nose. That, right there, is worth my US$11 admission. But hey, with good food and good company, how can anything be wrong?
(Unfortunately, I forgot to snap a picture when the food first came out -- this is from about three quarters of the way through ... and much to Bo3b's dismay I'm sure, shot way too close.)
"Exploding Fish Meets the Thousandaires"
King Feddy stiffed me for lunch today, deciding it was more important to "know what my company is working on" and go to Apple's World Wide Developer Conference. An interesting choice considering, say, that he quit and then rejoined said company in a mere matter of days this year. (Not to mention his inherent prima donna disdain of management -- odd how he never works for anyone or anything that he truly likes and yet hits it big. Maybe that's my problem -- I've never become rich because I've always kind of liked my jobs? And more strangely, the ones I was least enamored with were the ones that paid off the most ... Hmm ...)
With the King out of the picture, I get the chance to eat my favorite food, namely fish; but I need to round-up a colleague. With the exception of breakfast, I consider eating to be a communal event -- you always should eat with someone, and it's pretty "wrong" if you don't.
I've been trying to get hold of Zz for a couple of weeks now and was both pleased and surprised to get him on the phone at 11:00. The good news is he can eat; the bad is I'll have to wait 'til 14:00.
No problem, I talk to various pals and drop back into a heavy stupor -- easy since I haven't yet left my bed for the day. My alarm waking me up to make the date.
When I pick up Z, he asks if Bo3b can come along. "Of course." I rarely consider Bo3b to be a possibility for lunch. Unless the event-of-the-moment is something he's already planned for personal reasons, it's always been difficult to get him to go beyond his normal stomping grounds -- and, as with nearly everything in everyone's life, as he gets older this trait is getting more pronounced.
The good thing about this lunch threesome is we've all known each other for more than 20 years. We think and act more like brothers than we do as friends, which means the conversation could run any gamut from the hilarious, to gut-wrenching insulting, to the dreadfully insightful.
The boys enter the continual car and we tussle possibilities. No one really has a preference, but Z suggests our old stand-by, the Fish Market. I'm fine with that, but would rather go to Cook's Seafood since Menlo Park is typically a bit of a haul for me, but within reasonable shot from the parking space here at Danger.
Cook's can be pressingly busy on the lunch hour, but by 14:00, the business pace is a saunter. Bo3b gets obsessed with the closed-dwon Arby's next door ("Why does it say 'Cook's' in front of it?" "I don't know." "Look! It says 'Cook's!'" "I know. Jesus." [Hint: It's being turned into, that's right, another Cook's restaurant.]), we shake him loose from the concept and go in.
I order local halibut and chips. Z and 3 both get cod and chips.
The conversation turns and wheels quickly, as it always does between us, but the vast majority of what we're talking about is money. Money in the form of rising gas prices, money in the form of Apple announcing a new iPhone, money in the form of Microsoft buying Danger.
What Bo3b is to the physical world, Z is to the intellect. It's extremely tough, if not impossible, to get him to converse over-and-above anything he hasn't been thinking about recently or has a true interest in ... what with Microsoft's buy-out (including the lucrative knock-on offers) and the Apple announcements, the agenda for lunch discussion is all but pre-set.
There are momentary meanderings. My favorite of the day was a person (I won't say whom) claiming the primary value of women was a form of entertainment. This is a chumming statement at a table filled not only with middle-aged bachelors, but a collective group of people who all have some particular misgivings with the opposite sex. (That's not to say we haven't been swine ourselves -- we have -- but that's not the point of the conversation right this second, is it?) We all agreed with the statement with gusto, then moved along to other topics of pressing importance -- movies or something.
On the way back from the restaurant, Z says (as he does nearly every fricken time we talk) that he and I should get together sometime.
But here's the problem. I call him, he doesn't answer. I suggest things, he doesn't respond. If you're not well within his sphere of influence (and as near as I can tell, that sphere is about arm's length) you're out. I've called him on it before, several times, in fact, and he always looks at me with a bland form of incredulity -- like I've just listened to some Yes song that he's never heard. It's not that I'm mad or bitter about it, because I'm not. I'm just not a fan of acting like things are diamonds when they're spades.
Oh, yeah, and the meal ...
The fish was flaky and tasty. Just the mildest amount of saltiness. Nice thick portions.
The chips here can be highly variable (usually erring in the form of being over-cooked), but this time they're really (to use a British expression) "nice." A good, soft, tooth without being mushy. Dully illuminating on the pallet. Yum.
Zz bit into a piece of his and it shot boiling liquid of some type (I think it was water, but I prefer to use the term "fish juice") side-to-side and up his nose. That, right there, is worth my US$11 admission. But hey, with good food and good company, how can anything be wrong?
(Unfortunately, I forgot to snap a picture when the food first came out -- this is from about three quarters of the way through ... and much to Bo3b's dismay I'm sure, shot way too close.)
Friday, June 6, 2008
DIPSEA
The Prince and I are running in the Dipsea for the 3rd time on Sunday. The course is difficult.
Really difficult.
We are mentally psyched and (we think) physically ready.
Send all spare mental and physical strength to the Prince and I, Sunday June 8th starting at about 8:45am (and continue sending for the next hour or so....)
Really difficult.
We are mentally psyched and (we think) physically ready.
Send all spare mental and physical strength to the Prince and I, Sunday June 8th starting at about 8:45am (and continue sending for the next hour or so....)
Monday, June 2, 2008
Rosemary's Restaurant; Las Vegas, NV
- or -
"No Mr. Bear, I Expect You to Fry."
I had a brief conversation with King Feddy from my ultra huge (and free) suite at Bally's in Vegas and asked him to pick from three choices for lunch:
* Rosemary's Restaurant
A place that I consider to be the best food in Vegas (which says a lot, since it may well be the second best food city in America, next to New Orleans).
* M & M Soul Food Cafe
A place I've never tried, but how can it be bad?
= or =
* Piero's
Truly old skool Vegas Italian. Complete with mobsters, paintings of unclear origin and meaning. And seating staff that would be equally as equally adept at suggesting a bottle of wine as they would planting you in the desert.
For reasons I can't remember, Feddy chose Rosemary's.
My dining pal would be Karpov. Long time college associate with a great palette and ultra-kind demeanor. Unfortunately, he also has a penchant for dry and stupid humor. Think of a shaved Fozzie Bear, both from a sound and personality point of view, and you're definitely in the right camp.
Rosemary's is expensive. You can run a US$75 lunch bill, no problem. But they often have a coupon online (which they had this time), so we were good at $23 apiece for three courses.
Tucked away in a godforsaken strip mall and situated in a part of Vegas that's definitely "not sexy," it's easy to think you're making a mistake. But you're wrong.
The off-strip location keeps the prices down, their profits up, but most important of all, it acts as repellent for those goddamn super-snobs that expect everything comped just because they spill a few thousand on a craps table.
The decor inside is warming and nice without being typically-Vegas glitzy. The vibe's good enough to drive off any mental echo from the dollar stores that lie just outside.
We had a young, blonde, white and bespectacled waitress. Sharp and on-the-mark. Attentive without being snooty. Our busser was a Hispanic, good-humored gentleman but definitely not a guy you'd want to meet on the wrong side of town at exactly the right time.
Attention to detail is everything here. My white napkin is removed from the table and replaced by a black one to match my pants. As every course is served to the table, they are served simultaneously to both Karpov and myself. If it's the little things that make a place great, then this place is great by default.
In order to maximize flavor and variety, I'm not going to overlap any of my food with Karpov. He goes for the carpaccio (one point for daring -- it's a dish he's never had), so that let's me walk into my favorite Rosemary's starter, barbecued shrimp.
As is always the case when I have these, the barbecue flavor is subtle and smokey. It's a taste that hits you midway and lingers like a long goodbye from an old friend. My only complaint about this dish is every time I've had it the shrimp seem a bit dry -- I'm not sure if this is from them being a tad old, or if they spend a touch too much time on the grill.
The next course are beef kabobs. Very well marinated and cooked to absolute perfect "medium" (for some reason, chefs almost never can make "medium" on their meat prep -- I have no idea why this is). This is a dish I've never had before, and these without question, are the best kabobs I've ever had. Moist with just a hint of sourness and charcoal.
I have my eyes on two different possible desserts: an all-chocolate cake and a lemon cake/cream combo, but detour when I hear their (homemade) ice cream flavors. I opt for almond ice cream, a white peach sorbet and a boysenberry sorbet. The white peach is a disappointment -- it tastes too much like apricot to me (which they also had on the menu -- did I get served the wrong thing?). The boysenberry is nice and strong. But the winner, easily, is the almond ice cream. So much on the mark that you can practically taste those little flecks of paper that surround the meat of the nut between bites.
A spectacular meal. Rosemary's has never disappointed and this was no exception. With tip and drinks we plunk down US$65 (and worth it).
Unfortunately the vast majority of the conversation over the meal includes phrases like "they cut a flap in your eye and bend it over." Karpov is instructing the people at the table next to us what it's like to experience Lasik eye surgery (a routine the woman at the table next to us is getting ready to experience).
In typical Karpovian fashion, he begins the conversation with, "This probably isn't the kind of thing you talk about in a restaurant ..." and then continues to give long, excruciating details in that Muppet voice of his. Bad enough in and of itself? Not quite. Remember this is Karpov telling the story, which also means that:
* it's impossible for him to tell his tales anything close to "succinctly"
= &, if that weren't bad enough =
* he leaves out major pieces of information (such as "would you ever do this again?")
Which is to say that even though we had a discount at Rosemary's, it was hardly what you'd call "psychologically cheap."
"No Mr. Bear, I Expect You to Fry."
I had a brief conversation with King Feddy from my ultra huge (and free) suite at Bally's in Vegas and asked him to pick from three choices for lunch:
* Rosemary's Restaurant
A place that I consider to be the best food in Vegas (which says a lot, since it may well be the second best food city in America, next to New Orleans).
* M & M Soul Food Cafe
A place I've never tried, but how can it be bad?
= or =
* Piero's
Truly old skool Vegas Italian. Complete with mobsters, paintings of unclear origin and meaning. And seating staff that would be equally as equally adept at suggesting a bottle of wine as they would planting you in the desert.
For reasons I can't remember, Feddy chose Rosemary's.
My dining pal would be Karpov. Long time college associate with a great palette and ultra-kind demeanor. Unfortunately, he also has a penchant for dry and stupid humor. Think of a shaved Fozzie Bear, both from a sound and personality point of view, and you're definitely in the right camp.
Rosemary's is expensive. You can run a US$75 lunch bill, no problem. But they often have a coupon online (which they had this time), so we were good at $23 apiece for three courses.
Tucked away in a godforsaken strip mall and situated in a part of Vegas that's definitely "not sexy," it's easy to think you're making a mistake. But you're wrong.
The off-strip location keeps the prices down, their profits up, but most important of all, it acts as repellent for those goddamn super-snobs that expect everything comped just because they spill a few thousand on a craps table.
The decor inside is warming and nice without being typically-Vegas glitzy. The vibe's good enough to drive off any mental echo from the dollar stores that lie just outside.
We had a young, blonde, white and bespectacled waitress. Sharp and on-the-mark. Attentive without being snooty. Our busser was a Hispanic, good-humored gentleman but definitely not a guy you'd want to meet on the wrong side of town at exactly the right time.
Attention to detail is everything here. My white napkin is removed from the table and replaced by a black one to match my pants. As every course is served to the table, they are served simultaneously to both Karpov and myself. If it's the little things that make a place great, then this place is great by default.
In order to maximize flavor and variety, I'm not going to overlap any of my food with Karpov. He goes for the carpaccio (one point for daring -- it's a dish he's never had), so that let's me walk into my favorite Rosemary's starter, barbecued shrimp.
As is always the case when I have these, the barbecue flavor is subtle and smokey. It's a taste that hits you midway and lingers like a long goodbye from an old friend. My only complaint about this dish is every time I've had it the shrimp seem a bit dry -- I'm not sure if this is from them being a tad old, or if they spend a touch too much time on the grill.
The next course are beef kabobs. Very well marinated and cooked to absolute perfect "medium" (for some reason, chefs almost never can make "medium" on their meat prep -- I have no idea why this is). This is a dish I've never had before, and these without question, are the best kabobs I've ever had. Moist with just a hint of sourness and charcoal.
I have my eyes on two different possible desserts: an all-chocolate cake and a lemon cake/cream combo, but detour when I hear their (homemade) ice cream flavors. I opt for almond ice cream, a white peach sorbet and a boysenberry sorbet. The white peach is a disappointment -- it tastes too much like apricot to me (which they also had on the menu -- did I get served the wrong thing?). The boysenberry is nice and strong. But the winner, easily, is the almond ice cream. So much on the mark that you can practically taste those little flecks of paper that surround the meat of the nut between bites.
A spectacular meal. Rosemary's has never disappointed and this was no exception. With tip and drinks we plunk down US$65 (and worth it).
Unfortunately the vast majority of the conversation over the meal includes phrases like "they cut a flap in your eye and bend it over." Karpov is instructing the people at the table next to us what it's like to experience Lasik eye surgery (a routine the woman at the table next to us is getting ready to experience).
In typical Karpovian fashion, he begins the conversation with, "This probably isn't the kind of thing you talk about in a restaurant ..." and then continues to give long, excruciating details in that Muppet voice of his. Bad enough in and of itself? Not quite. Remember this is Karpov telling the story, which also means that:
* it's impossible for him to tell his tales anything close to "succinctly"
= &, if that weren't bad enough =
* he leaves out major pieces of information (such as "would you ever do this again?")
Which is to say that even though we had a discount at Rosemary's, it was hardly what you'd call "psychologically cheap."
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