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."
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