High School Dress Code - The Redline

Introduction

I have tried to be a good parent, but it’s not always easy keeping up with the job. A recent example: my younger daughter’s college tuition bills always went to her, and she never forwarded them because who cares? So I’d suddenly have to scramble after she received her third reminder and decided to bring it to my attention. Could I have put this recurring task on my calendar? Sure. Did I? Nope.

Thus, I suppose it shouldn’t have been a surprise when I recently stumbled across a document that my kids’ high school sent home, years ago, for me to sign. I swear I’d never seen it before, though it was certainly my signature at the bottom. Probably my kid thrust it in my face when I was trying to hustle her out the door, and when I didn’t see any financial impacts I just blindly signed it. Well, now that it’s come across my desk again, and I finally have the time to look at it, I’ve decided to redline it like I should have done in the first place. Since the school is most certainly not going to review my edits, I’m posting it here as a service to those who still have kids in high school and should be campaigning to refine their schools’ regulations. Note that due to HTML complexities, I’m not going to actually use a red font or strike anything out. You get to figure out what the original text was and which verbiage comprises my amendments and embellishments.

Albany High Dress Code – suggested revisions for immediate review

1. Clothing should be neat, clean and appropriate with shoes worn at all times. Common sense and reasonable judgment should eliminate the need to correct students in the area of dress and personal appearance. In the event that common sense and reasonable judgment do not prevent the need for correction, the source of the faulty judgment or lack of common sense will need to be established. This is a two-way street, and surely students will find administrators’ judgment lacking. Since these kids are the darlings of marketers, with their clothing choices becoming the habits that will cement lifetime value for the clothing industry, consideration will be made to grant the kids some clout, versus the educators who are, let’s face it, kind of bitter and probably not contributing much to the economy, based on their famously poor wages.

2. Shorts may be worn, but shorts and skirts that are too short, frayed, torn, or too tight are not acceptable. Clothing must not have holes that would attract attention and/or cause a distraction to the educational process. The judgment of this is up to school personnel, who are actually quite reasonable. For example, after last year’s dust-up around skirt length and the impressive solidarity of boys who began wearing miniskirts to support the cause, the school is now officially allowing skirts (of appropriate length) for both boys and girls. Also, staff members generously do allow holes in garments that are essential to their function, such as arm holes, neck holes, and leg holes. The staff acknowledges that a lack of a necessary hole, such as a missing aperture at the base of a sleeve, would be distracting if it were to inhibit the student’s actual arm from being usable. Also, if a garment has fringes, which are effectively quite similar to fraying fabric other than being tidier and more obviously engineered, as opposed to suggestive of excessive wear, the garment will be tolerated. Moreover, tassels are acceptable and even encouraged. The main distraction to the educational process is any feature of a garment that would be noticed by teenage boys with their raging hormones. Since most teenage girls find boys gross, it is reasonable that boys’ attire can be shorter, more frayed, or even torn, though too tight would be distracting to anybody. A final note: it is unreasonable to expect an educator to have to explain what, specifically, is unacceptable about a garment, in the event that it is distracting on a hormonal level. This could cause blushing and the suggestion of untoward attention. Educators will simply use the term “frayed” in a very generic way and students should accept this as a catch-all term for inappropriate clothing.

3. Markings or insignia on clothing or the body must not be obscene, suggestive, show gang affiliation, feature inappropriate language, or advocate disruptive behavior. Staff acknowledges that gang activity in Albany is exceedingly rare, so the colors red and blue may be freely worn, though red is preferred as it is the school color. It is also acceptable to wear clothing bearing a Berkeley High insignia, but only ironically. Inappropriate language is to be determined by the educators. For example, “FIGHT THE POWER,” though it advocates disruptive behavior, is acceptable as a tribute to Public Enemy (a rap group many staff members enjoyed as teenagers), whereas “DIE YUPPIE SCUM” is offensive to educators who are acutely aware of their lack of yuppie status. In situations where staff members disagree, a recent example being the phrase “I POOPED TODAY” on a t-shirt, determination will be made based on any staff member being uncomfortable. In such cases it is strictly forbidden to single out the offended staff member, such as by calling her “constipated” or “bitter.”

4. Clothing must not advertise or promote alcohol, tobacco, or drugs. If, for example, a student’s parent works for Pfizer and receives a branded t-shirt as swag, and the student wears this to school, he or she may be asked to go home and change. Furthermore, if a garment advertises a product that could be mistaken for a drug, such as Pfister (a plumbing fixture company commonly confused with Pfizer), that garment cannot be worn. The rule applies even if an alcohol-related brand is not featured primarily to promote the product. For example, if a student wears a retro Coors Classic t-shirt that he nicked from his father, he or she will be sent home, even though Coors beer is practically water.

5. Underwear may not show. However, it must be worn. The school administration acknowledges that this is difficult to enforce. For the most part the “honor system” will be used, but if a student is suspected of “going commando,” he or she may be sent home to change, with zero dialogue around why the staff member is suspicious.

6. Tops worn by boys or girls must not be revealing as judged by school personnel. Exceptions may be made based on what is being revealed. For example, a tight shirt revealing belly paunch will be tolerated, to avoid fat-shaming.

7. Clothing should cover the midriff. It’s bad enough when a nice flat midriff distracts hormonal boys; when a “muffin-top” is exposed, that’s distracting to everybody.[ In fact, consider changing “should” to “must.”]

8. Clothing that is disruptive or causes distraction while at school or a school function is not permitted. This includes disruption or distraction that accrues to the wearer, not just staff and fellow students. For example, if a student must hitch his or her pants up every thirty seconds to avoid violating rule #5, the pants are considered distracting. Certain exceptions may be made; for example, a student unable to concentrate due the discomfort of a hair shirt may continue wearing it if he or she is doing penance in accordance with his or her religious beliefs, which are protected under school policy.

9. Cargo pants/shorts with more than five pockets are prohibited. The “watch pocket” does count as a pocket, whether or not the student actually carries a pocket watch. An exception to this rule may be granted in the event that the student must carry more prescription medication (including inhalers, insulin pens, Narcan spray applicators, and EpiPens) than would fit in five pockets. In this event, given the weight of all these full pockets, a belt must be worn to avoid violation of rules 5 and 8 as described above.

10. Albany High School reserves the right to allow or disallow certain apparel and accessories. If a student is asked to remove a hat or other headgear by any school personnel or guest teacher, the request must be honored promptly with no discussion. In the event of conflict, such as a student wearing a Stanford cap because a parent attended school there, which annoys a teacher who went to Berkeley, the teacher will automatically prevail. Or, if a teacher thinks visors simply make no sense, the student must remove his or her visor or add a yarmulke to complete the cap.

Postscript

In case you were wondering, almost all of the above rules are from the actual Albany High dress code. The only exception is number nine, which is from Southern Nash Middle School. I find this five-pocket prohibition a bit rich, especially from a school whose logo is highly anatomically suggestive.

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From the Archives - Death Ride Photo Quagmire

Introduction

In the year 2000, I did the Markleeville Death Ride with my friend J— and my brother B—. This lead, years later, to a dispute that stretched the bonds of our friendship almost to the limit. Read on for the full transcript of our increasingly heated email exchange.

The Death Ride Photo Quagmire – January 13, 2005

From: Dana
To: J—, W—, & B—
Date: January 13, 2005
Subject: We Are Owed…

J—, W—, & B—:

Check out this link:

http://www.deathride.com/course/ [Alas, this link is dead, this having been 19 years ago.]

I was astonished, when perusing the Markleeville Death Ride website, and reaching the above page, to see this photo of us.

Upon reflection, however, it seems perfectly obvious that the ride organizers would want to use such natural poster boys for their promotional materials. Not everyone looks so healthy, so athletic, so—okay, let’s just say it—so sexy, especially when clad in humble garbage bags. I imagine we’ll end up on the posters and jerseys and such as well, if they can get our skeletons right.

J—, I found the original photo on your personal website. Clearly that’s where the Death Ride folks stole it from. Naturally, we are in a position to demand royalties, and it would be downright un-American to let the opportunity go. If we don’t get some kind of remuneration for this, then the terrorists have already won.

The question is, who should get the money? Obviously, B—, J—, and I are the subjects of the pirated photo, but then W—, I believe you took the photo, so you may own the rights to it. And J—, it’s your website they grabbed it from, so it may be that you own the rights to it. (The fact that you and W— are married may end up being very helpful here, as long as you don’t keep separate bank accounts.)

J—, before we go after these guys, you might want to throw some boilerplate up on your site along the lines of, “All photos (and other data) on this website are the exclusive property of J— L—, and any reproduction of said photos, in any form, including but not limited to promotional materials, romance novel cover art, screen savers, and collectible plates, is strictly prohibited.”

So who has a lawyer friend who owes him a favor?

Dana

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From: W—
To: D—, J—, & B—
Date: January 13, 2005
Subject: Re: We Are Owed…

It should be obvious to everyone that I own that picture! I make my living writing about and photographing other people - imagine if they all came out asking for a piece of the pie!

W—

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From: J—
To: D—, W—, & B—
Date: January 13, 2005
Subject: RE: We are owed…

Dana et al,

Sorry to disappoint you, but I was contacted by a guy named M— who asked permission to use some of my photos for a new Death Ride website. Thinking this was my shot at the Big Time, I gave my consent for their use. I can only assume that this free publicity will bring an avalanche of requests for ... something. Anything. All I know is there is no such thing as bad publicity, so I’m banking on that.

J—

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From: Dana
To: J—, W—, & B—
Date: January 13, 2005
Subject: RE: We are owed…

J—,

I’m afraid your apology won’t be enough for B— and me, and perhaps not for W— either. Who gave you the authority to grant that fellow that permission? Sure, I let you put the picture on your site, as a personal favor, never imagining that you’d abuse our friendship by giving out an image of me. What if a collectible plate makes its way into circulation, and said plate makes me look fat, or dumpy, or something?

Have your lawyer call my lawyer. But tell him to talk quickly, since my lawyer is expensive.

Dana

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From: J—
To: Dana, W—, & B—
Date: January 13, 2005
Subject: RE: We are owed…

My lawyer will call your lawyer, but I can tell you now that we’re going to win this one. Our lawyer is the best. Okay, to be clear, our lawyer, for now, given our penurious state, is S— [J—’s one-year-old son]. But I’ll tell you this: what he lacks in terms of knowledge of the law or putting words together to make sentences he makes up for in determination and an uncanny ability to get his way.

You’ve been warned.

J—

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From: Dana
To: J—, W—, & B—
Date: January 13, 2005
Subject: RE: We are owed…

Determination and persistence are one thing, but he’ll have my attorney’s charm to contend with. It probably won’t be any surprise to you that my attorney is A— [my four-year-old daughter]. See you in court.

Dana

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Five Home Remodeling Mistakes to Avoid

Introduction

Spring is in the air. Out in their driveways, your neighbors are beating on old Turkish rugs with broomsticks, maybe more enthusiastically than is really necessary. Birds are building nests in your trees, without asking. No matter where you look, spring cleaning and other restoration projects are underway. The warm breeze is whispering in your ear: “Time to start pulling your weight.” Or maybe that’s your spouse, and it’s proceeded from a whisper to plain speech to aggressive beseeching all the way up to a flat-out demand, which has become increasingly hard to ignore. So it’s time to bite the bullet and agree to a home remodel. This experience can be anything from transformative to ruinous to existentially harrowing, like a Lars Von Trier movie. Here are five mistakes to avoid.

Mistake #1: create a budget

Too many earnest homeowners think the first step in planning their renovation is to figure out how much they can afford, and scale the project accordingly. This is pure folly. As all home improvement veterans know, every single task will run over budget, and every part of the structure that is touched will unveil previously hidden damage. For example, what you thought of as a simple case of catastrophic dry-rot will turn out to be an ongoing termite infestation, and a foundation you thought was only rotating will turn out to be twisted like a strand of fusilli. That seismic retrofit you paid $5K for, to have the foundation bolted, will turn out to be purely cosmetic, as the foundation is bolted to nothing—that is, to thin air in your crawl space. And as often as not, routine excavation will turn up a body, meaning the murder squad forensics team is going to turn the whole place upside down. Where remodels are concerned, the #1 rule is, “If you have to ask, you can’t afford it.” Rule #2 is, “If you have to borrow money to pay for a remodel, you can’t even afford the home you have.”

Now, if you’re one of those data-driven people who simply must have hard numbers to work with, budget your entire nest egg for this, and what’s left over at the end will determine how long you’ll need to postpone your retirement. If you’re not prepared for that kind of commitment, you can opt for the “zone defense,” meaning you start with a single room to renovate and then if there’s any money left over, you can start to think about the next room, or at least the hallway.

Mistake #2: collaborate with your partner on the design

In some cases, a widowed or divorced homeowner will renovate his or her home, but usually these people are spending their money on fancy clothes, cool cars, and plastic surgery—as well they should. The truth is, most remodels are the work of a couple. And since this project will disrupt both of their lives for months or years, and define the space they’ll get old and die in, it can often seem like the two should work together on design decisions that will please both of them. But this is just a fantasy. It is the exceedingly rare couple that could agree on anything aesthetic or functional, and trying to find common ground is a sure way to bring on a protracted, acrimonious battle, threatening the marriage to the point that the house may end up being sold off instead of fixed up.

Where real-world remodels are concerned, one party or the other needs to call all the shots. Am I saying that one member of every couple should be a complete pushover? Not at all. I’m saying every good couple includes a person who is completely devoid of any opinion on matters of home design and décor. This person won’t mind foregoing all input and having blind faith that his or her spouse will make great decisions. In my own marriage, I have a verbal prenuptial agreement that my wife unilaterally makes all the choices, aesthetic and otherwise, about the home. I, in turn, get to store my racing bike in the home office.

Mistake #3: find alternate lodging during construction

Home remodels create an incredible amount of dust, noise, and other disruption, so it’s tempting to relocate your family to a hotel or Airbnb during construction. Bad idea. If your situation is typical, there’s about a 50% chance that your contractor will bail on your project halfway through, totally ghosting you and pocketing the hefty retainer you unwisely doled out. You need to do everything in your power to improve your odds of seeing your project through, and being onsite is part of that. As the saying goes, “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer”—and your contractor so close he can smell you. Breathing down his neck and threatening to micromanage his crew is the best way to motivate this person and his minions to get the work done, get their tools packed up, and get the hell out. (And if you’re worried about the health effects of inhaling all that dust, sawdust, and the welding fumes, consider that these people do asbestos abatement for a living, and they seem a hell of a lot healthier than you.)

Mistake #4: pay attention to ROI

Unlike many things we spend money on, fixing up our homes improves their value such that the project can seem to pay for itself. But this kind of thinking is a trap, and a sinister one. Real estate agents will tell you that all that matters, financially speaking, is location and square footage. This is true if you’re hoping to sell your home to a complete idiot, but hopefully you live in the kind of neighborhood that idiots can’t afford. The fact is, if you’re lucky, your home was designed by a professional who knew what he or she was doing and made the most effective use of the space available. And now you’re going to go tack some extra room onto the side of your house, like some kind of tumor, just to add square footage so your kids might inherit more money when you die, if some idiot buys the house? How does that serve you, exactly? The floor plan was right to begin with. Stop being greedy, and just resurface a couple floors, replace that grody tile, slap up a fresh coat of paint, and honor what your home is supposed to be: a living space, not an investment vehicle. In other words, forget about ROI.

Mistake #5: get all the necessary permits

A responsible homeowner doesn’t cut corners, and gets all the necessary permits when remodeling. Though this obviously makes all kinds of sense, it’s not enough to protect you from serious financial distress or even complete ruin—because permits don’t prevent cost overruns, they enable them. That’s where the proper approach to permitting can really save you. Just follow this rule of thumb: if you need to pull a permit to get something done, that shouldn’t be part of your remodel. For example, if you want to add a bedroom, that definitely requires a permit, whereas adding a bed to the existing room does not. (May I recommend a bunk bed in this instance?)

Obviously there are simple things you can do without a permit—such as painting, tiling, carpeting, installing new counter tops, and finally scrubbing that toilet—that will make your home much more livable without burying you financially. But did you know there are other, bigger improvements that still don’t require a permit? In Berkeley, as you can confirm here, you’re allowed to construct an oil derrick without a permit! Do your neighbors have one of those? Didn’t think so!

One mistake you shouldn’t avoid

You might have thought it redundant that I’ve listed “mistakes to avoid,” since “something to avoid” is baked into the very meaning of “mistake.” But we’re not robots, we’re people, and I’m going to actually recommend a mistake: dare to fall in love again. You loved this house once, with its avocado-colored appliances and its knob-and-tube wiring, its total lack of insulation and its single, overworked bathroom. How come those weren’t show-stoppers before? Didn’t you use to find it charming when you’d start the microwave oven and all the lights would flicker? Wasn’t it cozy staying in bed because it was too cold to venture out? Isn’t it possible that all this desire for so-called “improvement” is just a result of boredom? Haven’t you lived ten, twenty, or more years in your home without having an oil derrick out back?

Gosh, I made such a good case just now for leaving well enough alone, I might have convinced you this isn’t a mistake. Well, it is. Once your spouse starts lusting after home improvement, you’ve have to be crazy to stand in her way … but it just may be a lunatic she’s looking for. No, it isn’t. Damn, I’m really losing the thread here. Let’s just say at least you now know what the mistakes are. Make them or don’t—it’s none of my business.

Disclaimer

As you may have gathered, I’m not really qualified to dispense advice here. I did very little research for this post, and what I try to convey as sound practices are based mainly on my own knee-jerk reaction to a prospect that frightens me. Also, my neighbors have never beaten their rugs out in the driveway … I don’t know where I got that.

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Test Ride - Specialized Turbo Levo SL 2 Carbon E-Bike

Introduction

I almost called this post a “road test” like in “Car and Driver” magazine, as I did technically test the Specialized Turbo Levo SL 2 Comp Carbon on the road, or more precisely the street (but I don’t think “street test” is a thing). Obviously a trail test would have been better, as the Levo SL is a pure trail bike, but it’s also an e-bike, and the electronic aspect is the bigger deal. So the eight minutes you spend reading this will be worth it, trust me.

Overview

I suppose I should start by telling you what this bike is and what it purports to do. It’s an $8,000 motor-assisted mountain bike that provides “2x You” performance. That is, it’ll basically take your ability and double it. So, if the Stone Temple Pilots guy singing “Half the Man I Used to Be” bought this bike, he’d be made whole.

Since we’d all love to double our performance, it’s tempting to think this bike is for everyone—but it’s not. I learned about it through my friend R— who texted me about it and said, “Only level 3 coaches can get this bike.” He’s referring to the most advanced NICA high school mountain bike coaches, of which I happen to be one. But coaches shouldn’t ride e-bikes at all, and surely Specialized would sell this bike to anyone, wouldn’t they? R— can be cryptic in his texts and ignored my request for clarification, so I went to the Specialized website for more information.

The web page for the Turbo Levo SL 2 Comp Carbon explains that this bike is “for the trail rider who craves serpentine singletrack, sending it skyward, and lives for advancing your skills and fitness.” This confused me further. So, this trail rider, a third party, lives for advancing my skills and fitness? Lives for it? Really? Sounds kind of obsessed, like a stalker. Or maybe I’m just being deliberately dense, reluctant to acknowledge that this Specialized marketing person simply got stuck with that old pronoun problem, his vs. her vs. his/her vs. their, and didn’t want to be political. I can understand that. But this innovative switch from third person to second person could have been even more dramatic—how about switching to first person? “For the trailer rider who lives for advancing my skills and fitness.” I’d be like, your skills and fitness? Who are you?” And the marketing person would be like, “Exactly.” And I’d be scratching my head, like, “How did we get into a dialogue? It was just words on a page.” And you’re like, “Exactly.” (By “you’re” I mean the marketing person. Even if that isn’t you.)

So why is this bike $8,000? Well, they spared no expense to make it as awesome as possible. For example, they “stripped away the mass to keep the Levo SL lean and responsive.” Thank goodness. I hate it when a bike manufacturer leaves all that mass on there. So many bikes, especially e-bikes, just have big clumps of material, maybe it’s actually fat, and the bikes are sluggish. My Salsa backup road bike, though not electric, is just massive and clumpy. (I still love it though, like an oversized teddy bear.)

The Turbo Levo SL 2 Comp is loaded with innovation, such as having a 29-inch front wheel and a 27.5-inch rear. But it doesn’t stop there. Check this out: “If you prefer the rolling and traction benefits of a 29” rear wheel, just flip the pivot link chip and mount the big wheel.” The big wheel? Where would you get this big wheel? Does the bike come with two rear wheels? Or are we talking about the Big Wheel from the 1970s, i.e., this?

It’s a very confusing bike all around. Like, where does the name “Turbo” come from? Well, according to the website, this bike offers a “TURBO OPERATING SYSTEM.” So, I guess the way this works is that there’s a turbine powered by the exhaust system that enables the bike to suck in extra oxygen to mix with the fuel, so ... wait. I’m getting confused again. This bike is electric, not internal combustion. And “operating system” sounds like software. I guess they mean “TURBO” as in, just, really really good. I’m getting tired now, processing all this nuance, so I’m going to go make a sandwich. I’ve got fresh avocado and San Luis Sourdough so it’ll be a totally turbo sandwich!

Okay, I’m back. To round out the tech specs of the bike (before I get to the test ride itself), the website says this model has a “new kinematic with flatter leverage curve which provides more support and playfulness off the top, but plenty of control in rougher conditions.” What is “kinematic”? Wikipedia says kinematics is a “subfield of physics and mathematics” and offers this illustrative graphic:

So what does this “kinematic” have to do with bikes? I was a bit lost so I googled it, and found that this bike-themed web page mentions kinematics (albeit only once). I guess “kinematics” is kind of like “geometry” but that term is so dated, so pre-electric. I guess we should just absorb and acknowledge that a “new kinematic” is a good thing. As for the rest of that sentence, “playfulness off the top” and “flatter leverage curve” may have to do with a kicky, young, sexy woman who might be a little bit flat-chested. I mean, obviously the kinematic doesn’t literally have to do with that, but it’s just the feel of this thing. If this bike were a young woman she’d be playfully alluring and her name would be, like, Kylie. And you’d be dying to meet her. Wow. I can’t believe you just said all that. Who are you? (Besides, of course, a marketing person who understands that the majority of e-bike buyers are male.)

Speaking of which, it’s high time I stopped blathering about the Turbo Levo’s specs. I should get to the test ride itself.

The ride

I’ll start by saying that I didn’t have the proper shoes, or even a helmet, when I rode this bike. I hadn’t planned on riding it at all. I’d been at the pub with some pals, two of whom are cyclists. One, in fact, was R—, the fellow coach who’d alerted me to this bike. For once, we weren’t talking about bikes. We were talking about R—’s mentally ill neighbor who put padlocks on his garbage and recycling cans and constantly hassles everyone and at one point got right in his other neighbor’s face, yelled something like, “You wanna piece a me!?” and ripped off his shirt. (His own shirt, I should clarify.) I said, “In fairness, though, who among us hasn’t done that?” I know all this backstory has nothing to do with the Turbo Levo SL, but I’m just setting the stage here. Think “Deer Hunter.”

When it was time to head home, R— had a surprise for us: he’d gone out and bought himself the very Turbo Levo SL 2 Carbon I’ve been writing about. No, he won’t ride it on high school team mountain bike rides, because that would be cheating, and setting a bad example, and embarrassing himself because we coaches pride ourselves on being able to (more or less) keep up under our own power. R— uses the Turbo Levo for commuting across the Richmond Bridge to Marin County. The spanking new bike was locked right out front (with a lock worth more than an entry-level mountain bike, I’ll bet). He invited me to try it out and I didn’t hesitate.

I set off up Solano Ave, and right away discovered that the Turbo Levo really does have a new kinematic. In fart, wow … what a strange typo. I went to type “in fact,” and because I’m on the Dvorak keyboard layout, the “R” is right next to the “C,” so it’s a pretty predictable typo and I’m only surprised I haven’t made it before. And no, I’m not at the pub as I type this, I’ve actually only perhaps had too much coffee. So where was I? Oh yeah: the new kinematic. It was, in fact, so dramatic that some rando on the street corner yelled, “Nice kinematic!” Full disclosure, it wasn’t actually a total rando, it was M—, the owner of a local bike shop, whom I see at the pub sometimes. Well, okay, even that isn’t completely accurate: to be totally transparent with you, nobody on the street corner actually yelled anything. In truth there was nobody there. But that doesn’t change the fact that this bike’s kinematic really was breathtakingly novel and refreshing. Its flatter leverage curve and playfulness off the top had me whispering, “Come here, you.” (Naw, just kidding. That was actually you.)

Well. If you’ve ever ridden an e-bike, particularly the Class 3 type (click here for details) that simply add to your power as you pedal, it’s a pretty awesome experience. Instead of pushing a button or operating a motorcycle-style throttle to engage the motor, you just pedal along as though you were on a regular bike, but you go way faster, still in accordance with your effort. So it rides a lot like a regular bike, except you feel like you’re young again, and impressively strong. Naturally I wanted to intensify this experience. Instead of going only 15 or 20 mph, I wanted to steam up Solano Ave at like 25. So I shifted up.

The SRAM GX Eagle AXS wireless electronic shifting is smooth and precise and I would have been very impressed, except the button I pressed did exactly the opposite of what I wanted it to. It shifted me into an impossibly large cog in the back (the cassette being a 10-52). This made for such a low gear, there was nothing for the motor to do as I spun ineffectually at a comically high cadence, my speed dropping woefully. It was like all the wind suddenly vanished from my sails. Now I was mincing along pathetically and getting nothing out of the electric assist. If I weren’t such a mature, unflappable type I might have started crying. I fumbled around with my thumb trying to find the up-shift button but could not. I pulled over, frustrated. I will not say this is a criticism of the SRAM GX Eagle, since this was my first time using it, but it is a bit odd I’ve never struggled with this kind of thing before in my life. Perhaps I was a bit light-headed from having to adapt to the new kinematic.

There wasn’t enough light to see the controls, as I live in the kind of upscale community that doesn’t need to supply powerful streetlamps. Plus, my eyes are going. I have this irrational fear of already getting cataracts. I think it’s happened to all us 50-somethings. You should see my home: it seems like every week my wife brings home a new area lamp. As much as I squinted I couldn’t discern a second button. I got out my smartphone and struggled to unlock it. The fingerprint reader is pretty tricky and the facial recognition scanner even more so, especially in low light. (I really wish Samsung had gone for a TURBO OPERATING SYSTEM on this phone.) Finally I got the torch feature going, and found the up-shift button. Tech tip: it’s right above the down-shift button.

Based on what you’ve read of my test ride so far, you might be wondering at this point how much I’d had to drink. I want to assure you that, like all those who appreciate quality, I enjoy it responsibly. Was I tipsy? Well, of course, a bit … I mean, it was boys’ night out after all. But was I, to borrow a phrase from James Acaster, “hella tipsy”? I was not. Four of us had shared two pitchers (not counting the one that mostly gone when I arrived) and one of them was Trumer Pils, noted for its 4.9% ABV content and very flat leverage curve. Plus, I’d had two dinners right before meeting my pals. (One dinner was at the new pizza joint that, obviously, has miniscule portions.)

Now that I’d mastered the shifting, things got real, real good. I won’t say I could feel the difference with the 27.5-inch rear wheel—the “compact chainstay and super responsive behavior” weren’t prominent—but I did have that warm, relaxing sense that with this bike I’d never need to wonder if it would be wise to rotate the tires occasionally (which would be a hassle since they’re tubeless ). I’m also not sure I was fully appreciating the “low bottom bracket, slack headtube angle, and reduced fork offset” because I was just riding on a city street, not shredding singletrack ‘gnar, but the important thing about this bike is that it was fast, easy to pedal, and probably made me look really, really cool particularly because I wasn’t even wearing a helmet, mine being locked to my 3-speed back at the pub. For that reason, and because I didn’t want R— to think I’d made off with his superfly new ride, I made a nice sweeping U-turn in front of Gordo’s taqueria and made my way back to my pals. I cruised up the sidewalk and … WTF? Where did they go, and who were these randos standing out front?

As it turns out, the two randos were R— and H—. Even though they were right where I expected to find them, the fact is I didn’t recognize them. And they were behaving strangely, staring right at me as if they wanted something. For a moment I felt an impulse to rip my shirt off and yell, “You wanna piece a me!?” but it passed. R— was wearing a new helmet and maybe that’s what threw me off. Or maybe, just maybe, the Turbo Levo SL 2 is that special kind of bike that makes you see the world differently. Okay, thinking through this a bit more I guess that’s probably not it, since I have long believed myself to be face blind. My struggle probably had nothing to do with the bike.

Well, it was kind of sad climbing aboard my 3-speed Triumph commuter bike after that. I call this bike the Arseless, short for Arseless Horse, after the hero’s bike in A Star Called Henry by Roddy Doyle. The Arseless is so old (older, even, than I) and has been so neglected, it probably wouldn’t even roll downhill if you didn’t pedal. All its bearings are practically seized. None of its mass has been stripped away, and it doesn’t even have an operating system. But I couldn’t help but to ponder, as I pedaled my way home, that the difference between this bike and the Turbo Levo SL 2 is a lot less than the difference between a bicycle and nothing. The Arseless cost just $65 (albeit secondhand), practically nothing compared to the $8,000 Turbo Levo, but both of them are infinitely superior to walking. In the final analysis—to quote the Irish cycling champ Sean Kelly—“a bike’s a bike.”

Postscript

Lighthearted mockery aside, I love Specialized bikes. I still have an old Stumpjumper; I bought my daughter a Stumpjumper M2 for her first mountain bike; and I met my wife at the bike shop where I sold her the Rockhopper Comp she still rides. The Turbo Levo SL 2 Carbon is an amazing bike and if you’re looking for an e-bike, you should totally buy it. Just don’t ride it on no-e-bikes-allowed trails (which I think ought to be most of them ... but that’s another post).

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Virtual Reality Killer App!

Introduction

For many years we’ve been hearing about how Virtual Reality (VR) is going to be a game-changer across the human experience, and not just a whiz-bang enhancement to video gaming. This is an amazing technology just waiting to be monetized. We’ve heard various proposed use cases involving education, physical therapy, tools for first responders, etc. but decades on VR is still kind of a fringe thing, without the “killer app” that will launch it into the forefront of blah blah blah. Well, this post proposes a truly germane use of this technology that could benefit millions of people. Instead of boring you with an essay on what I’m proposing, I’m going to walk you through the experience I have in mind. Call this post “VVR” ... as in, Verbal VR.

The experience

You enter the VR facility, receive a brief tutorial, don a haptic suit and a virtual reality headset, and mount an omnidirectional treadmill. Immediately you are immersed in a totally new world … but actually, it’s not exactly new. It’s all too familiar, from the dry heat of a late spring day (courtesy of the haptic suit) to the sound of yelling and cheering, to the sight of a red-orange running track surrounding an unrealistically brilliantly green infield. It’s a lot like where you ran track in high school except that the bleachers are completely full.

You look down at yourself and you’re wearing the same track uniform, with the distinctive Cobra insignia, that you wore in high school. You explore your environment and find you’re surrounded by ultra-fit looking teens in the identical uniforms, many of them calling you by name. “Stacey, are you pumped?!” a girl asks. After a pause she gives you a simpatico look and whispers, “Gawd, I’m actually so nervous!”

You look down again and see that you’re definitely wearing track cleats. You realize you’re not just here to wander around. “Stacey, we gotta warm up, we’re up next!” someone yells. She jogs over to you and says, “Let’s go!” But before you can follow her, a gruff forty-something man with a Cobras cap, a tracksuit, a clipboard, and a whistle hanging on a lanyard approaches. “Stacey, I need a minute with you,” he says, and ushers you off to the side.

“Look, today has got to be the day,” he declares. “We’ve never been this close to winning Conference. All our top runners are totally peaking right now. This is a massive opportunity. And like we talked about after last practice, I’m not having you run any events except the 100 meter hurdle, so you can just focus purely on that. Obviously there’s no way you’ll win, but I really think you can get top three. Your speed, your form, it’s all there—but as I’ve said all season, you need to three-step it. It breaks my heart every time I see you heading for the hurdle, flying along, everything perfect, and then you suddenly chicken out and do that childish stutter step. You should be well beyond this. I know you can three-step because you did it that time in practice when I ran next to you and yelled at you the whole time. You did it perfect. I really thought that was the breakthrough, that you’d do it right from then on.”

It’s all coming back to you now: the dreaded three-step, the bane of your high school existence. When you graduated, most of your excitement was actually relief that you were done with track: you’d managed to get your letter, you’d put the experience on your college essay, but you wouldn’t be running in college, and nobody would ever hassle you about three-stepping for the rest of your life. And yet here’s this coach, practically frothing at the mouth, exhorting you all over again.

“It’s not just the points, Stacey. I mean, it is—you definitely need a top three here, and like I said you cannot get that with all the momentum you lose stutter-stepping—but it’s bigger than that. We need every girl to be totally on today. Do you remember how stoked everyone was when Barb won the 400 at the last meet? That lifted everyone. We were having a good meet but after that win, everyone dug deeper and we had a great meet. If you do your typical step-stuttering thing here you’re gonna bring down morale for everyone. We’ve worked on your speed and technique all season and I know you can do this, you have to do this.”

Here he peers over the top of his sunglasses and looks you right in the eye. “Are we good? Are you gonna do this right?” You manage to croak out some kind of response and he nods and trots away. There’s a lump in your throat. Before you can make another move, a girl has bounded over and says, “Okay, Stacey, today is the day! We all gotta give our 110%! It’s Conference!” When you don’t respond, her smile vanishes and she glares at you. “This is our senior year. Our last chance. Don’t you fuck this up for us!” This girl must be the team captain.

Now the first girl is grabbing you by the wrist. You’d marvel at the tactile accuracy of the haptic suit except that you’ve entirely forgotten this is VR … that’s how good it is. It really feels like you’re being tugged toward an actual infield by a real teammate. “Wait,” you tell her. “I … I kind of need to hit the restroom.” And it’s true. Along with the butterflies in your stomach you’ve got the age-old pre-race instinct, deep down in your body, to lighten the load. You really need to go. Like, number two. It’s a strong urge—your bowels are starting to churn. Your teammate points toward the restrooms and you start jogging over there. You start to worry: am I gonna make it in time? But when you get there you remember this is only VR and there’s only so much it can do. You need an actual restroom. Merely touring the virtual one would be no more satisfying than those nighttime dreams you have of eating, where the food always vanishes as soon as you try to take a bite.

You paid good money to play this game, but that’s not important now. You lift the VR goggles off your head and prop them on your forehead, and step off the treadmill. You head over to the lobby and tell the attendant, “I need to use a restroom.”

“Now?” he says. “It can’t wait? You still have 20 minutes on your game! By the time you take off the haptic suit, do your business, and zipper yourself back in, it’ll be half over!” But his eyes are smiling: he knows how pressing your need is. You nod vigorously. “Right over there,” he points. You stride swiftly to the restroom and push through the door.

It’s not just any restroom: it’s gleaming perfection, all brushed aluminum surfaces, a big drain in the floor and state-of-the-art sprinkler system overhead. There are giant fans in the louvered windows. It’s clear the entire room is totally sanitized and refreshed between uses. The throne-like toilet even has a bidet option. You’ve never been so glad to see a public restroom in your life. And that’s when you know: today’s VR experience isn’t about the game at all. It’s about this.

Conclusion

According to Johns Hopkins, about 4 million Americans suffer from frequent constipation, which “is the most common gastrointestinal complaint, resulting in 2.5 million doctor visits annually.” It causes bloating, sluggishness, and abdominal pain. Treatment is challenging, because laxatives cause side effects and prolonged usage can become a problem of its own. Diet and lifestyle changes are a good long term course of action, but don’t provide much help when you’re having a bad bout … maybe you haven’t had a good bowel movement in days, and you wish there were just some silver bullet providing instant relief. Well, I just contrived one.

Of course there are details to work out, like matching up the details of the specific gameplay and script with the player’s individual history. (For example, maybe you never did a sport, but at least used to run through the neighbor’s yard and had to make it to the far fence before their dog caught you.) The game makers could create versions involving other fraught human enterprises like dating or public speaking. Fine details aside, I think you can agree that the immersive VR technology now available could provide exactly what so many people really need: a non-ingested, 100% safe, 100% effective psychological laxative. Now someone just needs to go code this game!

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If William Wordsworth Were Writing Today

Introduction

What if William Wordsworth (1770-1850) were writing today? And what if he had a corporate-type editor? Imagine the instant-messaging dialogue that might take place after the great poet submitted a new work for review. Actually, you don’t need to, because that’s what this post is about. The launch point is this timeless Wordsworth poem, from 1807.

Wordsworth’s poem

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
 
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of the bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
 
The waves beside them danced; but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
 
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils. 

The dialogue

BANES: well i’ve read the poem and i think its a good start. a solid start

WORDSWORTH: Actually, it’s complete.

BANES: dont need to add anything

BANES: just tighten it up a bit

WORDSWORTH: I don’t see your point.

BANES: well you know poetry its so good at being sucint. thats  why its so popular right. i  mean those who still read poetry want concise

WORDSWORTH: My poem is under 200 words. That is not long.

BANES: its all relative

BANES: what is that poem about the subway and petals on a wet black bough so good can you do more like that

WORDSWORTH: If you’re asking me to plagiarize Ezra Pound, no. If you want me to adapt my style to imitate him, hell no.

BANES: no nothing like that just concise

BANES: like that first stanza maybe get that across in one line

BANES: get to the point faster

WORDSWORTH: Oh, I see. So I could get the entire poem down to the size of a tweet.

BANES: exactly

WORDSWORTH: I was being sarcastic.

BANES: no need for that i am trying to help

WORDSWORTH: Every word in every line is essential or I would have removed it already. That’s what makes me a poet.

BANES: you need to adapt

BANES: modern readers = shorter attetnion span

BANES: no time for flourishes etc

WORDSWORTH: Well then just call me a pagan suckled in a creed outworn.

BANES: what are u talking about

WORDSWORTH: I gather you’re unfamiliar with my earlier works.

BANES: really what are you talking about and never mind your earlier works

BANES: you have currency now so lets leverage that

WORDSWORTH: I assume you’re referring to Taylor Swift name-dropping me in her song, literally one line after decrying “some namedropping sleaze,” ironically enough.

BANES: taylor swift yes exactly

BANES: we need to get on that

WORDSWORTH: I won’t disgrace myself by pandering to pop culture.

BANES: i'm trying to help you here. u want to be replaced by A.I.?

WORDSWORTH: If you think ChatGPT can write poetry, you’re delusional.

BANES: look, you know why coleridges poems are so successful? He’s writing about big-screen TVs, pleasure domes, and opium trips. your writing about dancing flowers

WORDSWORTH: Have you even read my poem?

BANES: yes

BANES: in fact i found some errors

BANES: like, i'm sure you saw lots of flowers but not continuous, not 10K

BANES: and lakes dont have waves

WORDSWORTH: Actually, Windermere lake is the largest in England and does have waves. As usual you have no idea what you’re talking about.

BANES: look work with me here you have some good stuff here, lonely = emo can resonate with readers

BANES: just tigten up a bit and we’re good

BANES: and doesnt matter what lake, actually not saying which lake is better

BANES: in fact i wanted to ask you

BANES: poetry now needs to be hyper local

BANES: i'm thinking different versions of poem by region

BANES: can we do one for CA and change from daffodil to poppy (state flower

WORDSWORTH: I am not a staff writer for a tourism board. And I’m not rewriting the final rhyming couplet to support “poppies.”

BANES: about that rhyming

BANES: kind of passe

WORDSWORTH: Taylor Swift uses rhyme.

BANES: touche

BANES: but getting back to the number of flowers

BANES: never ending line & 10K, nobody is buying that

WORDSWORTH: I’m employing a standard poetic device called hyperbole. I guess they didn’t teach you that in business school.

BANES: why cant you just be more precise

WORDSWORTH: Are you my editor or my fact-checker?

BANES: readers dont want to be decieved

WORDSWORTH: Are you going to revoke my poetic license?

BANES: look maybe i dont have a fancy degree from Oxford but i know my stuff

WORDSWORTH: My degree is from Cambridge.

BANES: whatever

BANES: look there is an incosistency in the poem you start with lonely & brooding and then later your all talking about bliss of solitude

BANES: not as strong as other parts need to tighten up

WORDSWORTH: This just demonstrates how completely you have missed the point. “That inward eye which is the bliss of solitude” is exactly what this supposed audience of modern readers has lost, due to the constant intrusion of Twitter, Snapchat, and the never-ending smartphone “feed.” There is no more bliss because there is no more solitude. And nobody can just enjoy their natural surroundings without stopping to snap photos and share them on Instagram.

BANES: nobody says instnagram anymore its insta

WORDSWORTH: You know what? We’re done here. You can take our contract and shove it. I’ll just put my poem on my blog.

BANES: actually i wanted to talk to you about that

BANES: its time to monetize your blog

BANES: adsense can make us some money if we get the seo right

BANES: untapped potential there

BANES: you already did the work

BANES: dont you want to get paid

BANES: hey are you still there

BANES: ???

BANES: hey

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I Drank a Gallon of Water a Day for a Week - Here’s What Happened

Introduction

What follows is a work of fiction. All characters, situations, observations, and insinuations are fictitious, coincidental, or accidental. The characters were pulled out of thin air and have nothing in common with any human being who ever lived, nor any zombie or otherwise undead individual. Nothing that happens in this story ever happened to a real person, or ever will. In fact, this story is practically science fiction, except that it’s totally unscientific and doesn’t have spaceships or aliens or anything. That said, any similarity of any character to an actual space alien, past present or future, is (obviously) purely coincidental or conjectural.

I drank a gallon of water every day for a week – here’s what happened

I was casting about for a New Year’s Resolution but nothing was coming to mind. Last year I resolved to dance like nobody’s watching, and I even bought a new Bluetooth speaker, but I found the dancing made me sad, because I live alone and there was nobody to watch me. A one-man dance party doesn’t feel much like self improvement.

So this year I decided to try drinking a gallon of water a day. Supposedly hydration is really important, and after all, what have I got to lose? Because I’m in an apartment building, my water bill is the same no matter what I do.

I thought about buying one of those graduated gallon water bottles with motivational phrases on them—you know, starting at the top with “GOOD MORNING” then “HYDRATE YOURSELF” then “REMEMBER YOUR GOAL,” etc., down to “ALMOST FINISHED” and then finally “YOU DID IT” at the bottom—but then I’m like dang, that’s $25 I’d rather not spend. Plus, I know myself, and I respond better to the whip than the carrot, if you catch my drift. So I washed out an empty gallon milk jug and wrote on it with a sharpie:

7AM GET COFFEE
9AM NO EXCUSES
11AM THIS IS NOTHING
1PM DON’T BE A LOSER
3PM NO PITY PARTY
5PM OOH, BIG MAN
7PM EVERYONE GETS A RIBBON
9PM BIG WHOOP

I set everything out the night before, feeling pretty excited. I hadn’t felt such keen anticipation since I started charging my new Bluetooth speaker at about this time last year.

Day One

At 9am I filled my big jug and then poured about a pint of it into my teakettle. This is the hardest part since there’s some sloshing and trial-and-error involved but I think it’s the genius of my method. See, others who do this drink only out of their $25 graduated jug and drag it around with them, like wearing a badge of honor so everyone will ask about it and they can start taking credit for their awesome resolution in advance. That’s not for me, I don’t need to brag. Plus, I don’t need the ruggedness of the Motivational Bottle … I don’t worry about leaks since I’m mostly at home. When I go out I’ll fill some smaller, more reliable vessel from the main one and then return for refills.

Some say it’s bad to hydrate with coffee but if I gave that up, I’d be doing two New Year’s Resolutions and I don’t want to boil the ocean here. I’m trying to tackle something I can actually achieve, so as to be more compassionate with myself (my Resolution from two years ago that I’m still struggling to keep).

Well, things were going fine until about 11am, when I’d peed so many times I felt like I was wearing out the carpet between my armchair and the toilet. I was peeing so much it seemed like the bowl would be completely full by nightfall. I’m of the “if it’s yellow keep it mellow, if it’s brown wash it down” school, in terms of flushing, except “keep it mellow” never made sense—I mean, what’s non-mellow about flushing? So I think of it as “if it’s brown, flush it down, if it’s jaune leave it alone.” (I am considering putting that on a placard above the toilet, with a little translation of “jaune” from the French.)

Just to divert my mind from the constant awareness of my pestering bladder, I went to the park and sat at my favorite bench for a while, watching life go by, and then this man came up to me, sat down, and said, “Hey, are you one of the dads?” I was like, “No,” and he said, “So you just like sitting and watching kids on a playground?” and I just stared at him, like, isn’t that obvious? He went on to say, “Look, a couple of other parents and I have talked about this and we all agree, we’re gonna have to ask you to leave.” So I shot back, “I was leaving anyway, I have to pee!” I have to admit, it was nice to have a really good comeback for once.

In terms of the more tangible benefits of all this drinking, I have to say that by 9pm, I’d never felt so good. My skin seemed better, I felt stronger in my body, my posture was more erect … even my hair felt better. Totally worth all the peeing.

Day Two

My bladder woke me up from a dream in which I was touring this old Victorian mansion that they’d turned into a museum, and I had to pee (yes, even in my dream) and found this tiny little half-bathroom, but instead of a toilet it just had a little portal to pee into. Halfway through my business the whole room started to move, slowly lowering toward the ground floor, and I realized it wasn’t a bathroom, it was an elevator! Yikes! I was like, “When I reach the next floor, the door’s gonna open and I’d better be finished!” Then I woke up.

The drinking itself was still pretty easy today and I nailed the pour into my teakettle, first try. If anything the constant peeing was even worse, though, and beyond that, by lunchtime I started getting pretty bored of drinking plain water. I’d been warned by drink-a-gallon-a-day websites not to have any sugar, though, because it’d throw off my electrolytes. Then I realized hey, if I make Top Ramen soup and drink the broth, that’s two cups of water right there! So I did that.

Big mistake! OMG, all the salt in that ramen totally bloated me! I should have known! Salt is an electrolyte! I stood in the mirror looking in horror at my bloated (and unfortunately hairy) belly (though not hairy due to drinking water, I hasten to add). I looked kind of like ET. Out of habit, I also scrutinized my face in the mirror, and as I looked closer I realized hey, my eyebrows are looking good! I flicked them with my finger a few times and realized, wow, drinking all this water has totally cured my eyebrow dandruff! Bonus!

All the afternoon water drinking eventually brought down the bloat, and after my final 9pm pint—nailed it!—I was ready for some yoga. I put in my video and (literally) went through the motions. I still can’t even come close to the Yogi Squat, but it’s only the second day of my new hydration regimen.

Day Three

I have hit my stride. The more I drink water now, the more I love it. In fact I doubled up on my 9am pint, drinking a whole quart, and it felt so good. I paid a price, though: I immediately had to pee, and then afterward, the sensation of water on my hands as I washed them made me have to pee again immediately, and for a second it looked like a vicious cycle I’d never break out of.

I went for a little hike and had to pee so bad halfway through. Alas, the outhouse at the trailhead was still at least thirty minutes away, which was like two pees worth, and there were so many hikers! I couldn’t find any privacy! I bushwhacked off-trail for a bit, and then my sneakers lost traction and I slid down into this ravine, and at the bottom I discovered—to my shock and horror—a dead body! It looked like some young adult hiker, halfway claimed by the earth. I scrambled up that slope so fast I couldn’t believe it. Surely my excellent hydration gave me wings. Problem was, just before reaching the trail again I slid on some leaves and tumbled all the way back down there. Then I looked more closely at the body and realized it was just an old shirt tangled around a fallen tree limb. Silly me.

Day Four

Another peeing dream woke me up and for a terrifying moment I thought I’d wet the bed. But I hadn’t … just a little leakage which is totally normal when you drink a gallon of water a day.

In addition to the better skin, relief from back pain, and higher energy, all of which I’d secretly hoped this hydration would give me, I got a big surprise: I got a job! My first in years! It’s selling tickets at the Events Center. The ticket window opens hours before the game and things start off really slow, so peeing wasn’t a problem at first—I’d just put the “BACK IN 5 MINUTES” sign out and go do my business. But once the rush started, no dice. I could not leave my post. It got worse and worse to where people were asking, “Are you okay!?” I guess my face was getting contorted. But then I realized I could just pee in this wastebasket without even getting out of my seat! Don’t worry, the wastebasket has a liner. All the wadded-up paper napkins in there dampen the sound down to almost nothing. I did have to sit pretty far forward in my chair to, well, eclipse everything, but nobody was the wiser.

Now, if you think I’m trying to connect the dots between drinking water and getting a job, I totally am. Those may seem unrelated but if I hadn’t been so hydrated, I wouldn’t have had the confidence to accept the offer.

The health benefits continue. I did an experiment: I looked in the mirror, located a zit, studied my face carefully to remember exactly where it was, drank a pint of water, and then looked again. Sure enough, the zit was gone! Water is like a miracle elixir!

Day Five

Other gallon-a-day blogs had warned me that I’d get bored of drinking water. Well, so far they’re wrong, but you know what is boring? All this peeing! It’s getting so old! Also, even though practice normally improves one’s prowess at practically anything, I seem to be getting worse at not spattering the rim. Either that, or I’m just more observant. I have to mop up the rim pretty much every time now. And my hands are starting to get a bit raw from all that washing, like with OCD people. The rest of my skin is positively glowing from all the water, but for some reason not my hands. I was reading on this one blog about smearing lotion on my hands and then putting on disposable rubber gloves, right before bed, so I’m considering that.

I showed up to work today but nobody was there. I searched everywhere and finally found my supervisor, and it turns out I misunderstood about the job: it’s not a daily thing, but only as needed, when they have a big game and somebody calls in sick. Oh well. I have a small passive income and it’s better to focus on my blogging anyway.

I fell asleep today and had one of those marathon naps where it’s hard to move afterward, so I missed one of my drinking sessions. I chugged a quart after that and was back on track.

Day Six

Not so much to report, actually. Drinking water, even a gallon a day, turns out to not actually be that complicated. One highlight: the hydration is helping my vision. If I really squint, I can read the kitchen clock from the kitchen nook table without my glasses.

Day Seven

This has gone so well, I woke up this morning thinking about continuing my gallon-a-day habit for the whole month, or more. This would give me a good blog topic while continuing to improve my health in umpteen different ways! But I’ve also been thinking a lot about the new Avatar movie, which is over three hours long. I really want to see it in the theater, and I’m sure the crowds have thinned out by now, but there’s no way I could make it through without getting up to pee at least six times. Who knows how many plot points I’d miss. And I’ve been looking forward to this movie for a long, long time.

And that got me thinking that, just like with last year’s dancing, achieving this Resolution is making me a little sad. Why, you may ask? Well, at some point I’ll have reaped all the health benefits, and then I’ll have nothing left to look forward to. So I think after I polish off my last pint tonight, I’ll call it quits, and keep the optimal hydration project in my back pocket for later. It’ll be like my ace-in-the-hole, my Plan B, the card up my sleeve. Next time I’m feeling really low, I’ll just start back up the gallon-a-day, and things will start to get real, real good again!

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Further reading

• New Year’s Resolutions
• One-Size-Fits-All New Year’s Resolution
• New Year’s Resolutions - Dental Hygiene Edition
• New Year’s Resolutions - Let’s Get It Right This Time
• A Wide Net Approach to New Year’s Resolutions
• The DUMB Approach to New Year’s Resolutions

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Email me here. For a complete index of albertnet posts, click here.

Wine Tasting - Castello di Amorosa

Introduction

Oh, shit! I just realized I’ve got only 45 minutes to write up my freelance article for Wine Spectator magazine, about my visit to the Castello di Amorosa winery! I better get right to it.

Wine Tasting  – Castello di Amorosa

The environs

The site of the winery, or terroir in viticulture parlance, is quite extravagant, almost exquisite. The castle is so imposing, I have to wonder if our military has an arrangement in place to appropriate the property in the case of an attack. It’s kind of hard to believe that all that goes on in this mighty fortress is the production, tasting, and sale of wine. Oddly, the grapevines themselves are virtually unprotected and in fact during our visit several goats escaped and started chowing down on them! Fortunately, stone walls are not the only protection: the castle turrets have arrowslits, aka balistraria, which are those tall slots that an archer can shoot arrows through. Or, a crossbowman can launch bolts through them. How badass is that? So let’s say I’m not even tempted to return under dark of night to steal grapes from this place. Besides, they just finished their harvest.

(Note: I’ve just been advised, by someone reading over my shoulder, that terroir has nothing to do with territory and in fact pertains to the combination of soil, climate, etc. that influences the character of a fine wine. Yes, I’m embarrassed. But honestly, that sentence reads so well, I’m going to leave it.)

You might be wondering if there’s a moat. Hell yeah there is! It doesn’t look very deep, nor are there crocodiles, but who knows … maybe it has piranhas? Or maybe there’s an underwater cage of piranhas they can release on command, if anyone storms the moat? That would be so cool. Now, no moat would be complete without a drawbridge … so does this Castello have one? Yes! I’m not sure if it’s operational, though. The brochure says, “The heavy iron chains would be used to raise the drawbridge to prevent marauders from entering through the main entrance.” Well, yeah … it’s not like it’d keep marauders from coming through the side entrance. Or from doing something other than entering. But what really bothers me about that sentence is that the verb is in the hypothetical subjunctive, “would be used...” There’s such a whiff of “never” about that. How about “The heavy iron chains can be used…”? Or, since we all grasp the concept, how about just saying “the drawbridge totally works”?

So, does the castle live up to its reputation as “a magical place which will transport you to medieval Italy”? I can’t say for sure, since I’ve never been to Italy, but at a minimum the Castello transported me to modern Anaheim, home of Disneyland. But in a good way.

The tasting room is down a flight of stone steps. My party had been warned that it’s a cave and can be quite chilly, but in fact a) it’s not a cave, and b) it’s not chilly. Could my daughter have confused the Castello with some other winery she researched? Easily. The brick ceilings are hand-built which seems remarkable unless you consider the alternative: robot-built? Is that even a thing? The arches are impressively vaulted, if that makes any sense. The bars are travertine stone and present an impressive and quite functional surface on which to place glasses of wine and fill out our tasting forms. I’ll bet you could hand-mix ice cream or fudge on this bar, like at those tourist places. Or you could lay out a corpse on the stone surface. It’s like marble.

Here I am filling out my tasting form.

That’s not my purse, by the way. I don’t carry a purse. (It’s not that a purse would compromise my masculine dignity; I could totally carry it off. I just don’t happen to desire one. If I did though, it would be soft kid leather like the one you see here.)

White wines

Castello wines are sold only at the winery. I’m sure the vintner is tempted to say, “Not sold in stores!” but that phrase has such a strong association with the QVC network and/or Ginsu steak knives, it cannot be uttered. But it’s true: you cannot buy this Castello di Amorosa wine at any restaurant or store. So what happens if you’re entertaining late and run out of wine? Perhaps that is where the fortress, with its moat and drawbridge, come in to play. Don’t even try it.

During our tasting we were cared for by Elisa, who is new to the Castello, having just arrived from Italy. She spoke with a charming Italian accent, as in “We-a will-a start-a with-a the white-a wines-a and-a work-a our way-a down.” Come to think of it, it’s possible her name is Elise, and it just sounded like Elisa. (Full disclosure: as I mentioned before, I’ve never been to Italy, so it’s possible she’s not Italian at all and has just mastered a fake Italian accent. If so, she-a had-a me fooled!)

Pinot Grigio

At Castello the Pinot Grigio is vintned with a young Malvasia grape. (An old grape would be a raisin, from which wine cannot be reliably produced.) This being an Italian style wine, it is more acidic than a traditional American wine such as Thunderbird, or a soft drink like Kool-Aid. The fragrance, or nose, is beguiling, almost coquettish, with hints of come-hither. The taste is light and frisky, almost meretricious, like the sassy tongue of a young prostitute. Overall I find the wine very sippable. I cannot say whether it would be quaffable or guzzle-able since I was given only about an ounce. (The exact tasting amount is unknown, because Elisa knows only the metric system and I was too enthralled with the terroir to calculate the conversion.)

Gewürztraminer

The Traminer grapes producing this varietal are notoriously difficult to grow, given their unstable genome, especially in Napa County, where the climate is a bit hot for them. As a result, the young grapes are often exposed to routine profanity and even abuse at the hands of frustrated growers. This results in traumatized grapes and a final product that’s easily the most hard-bitten bad-boy of whites I’ve ever sampled. The wine is initially sharp on the palate with notes of anguish (or agnosia in wine parlance) but tamped down by subtle hints of musk, lychee, and leach. The flavor starts out rather boldly and strongly, like a German with a megaphone, but then softens and dissipates like evaporating solvent and ultimately resolves into a graceful waft of gingerbread nostalgia as it rolls past your lingual frenulum.

Breadsticks

The breadsticks come lovingly wrapped in a form-fitting plastic bag, suggestive of both high density polyethylene and old-school cellophane. Presentation is in a simple glass, and I had the small thrill of tearing into the bag myself. The sticks are long and pale, like a British rocker’s slender fingers, but the flavor is pure Tuscany, with tones of airy sifted flour and extra virgin olive oil. The finish is salty, like a good sea shanty, and left me yearning for more wine, ideally right out of the spigot like how I used to get it in my childhood home.

Red wines

The reds are justifiably famous at the Castello, earning a loyal following among wine aficionados and culinary epicures, along with a begrudging but undeniable sense of street cred. Two of the reds on offer for the tasting have won awards from the SFC, which (I admit, I had to look this up) stands for Sucka Free City, i.e., San Francisco. Imagine all those ballers from the Western Addition or the Mission district rolling up to the castle in their low-riders or souped-up Acuras with aftermarket spoilers, subwoofers booming. “Don’t gimme no Clos du Bois, we don’t swill that shit in tha SFC.”

Pinot Noir

After much hemming and hawing, I settled on the Pinot Noir Morning Dew, known among local tech millionaires as a perfect breakfast wine and a nice replacement for their beloved Mountain Dew, now that they’ve graduated from coding in the garage to grandstanding in the boardroom. The flavor awakens the tongue with all the sharpness and clarity of a modern OLED digital display, accompanied by the bold stride of berry and accented with a tannic spice reminiscent of silicon. For all its cutting edge spine, though, there’s a reassuring coziness to the mouth-feel: a tongue-numbing cloak of gentle clove, summoning wistful affection for one’s youth, such as one might experience stumbling across a Microsoft Encarta CD-ROM at a yard sale.

Cabernet Sauvignon

It is said a winery can be fairly judged by its cab, and the Castello’s has plenty of swagger, with a flavor-forward bite that electrifies the tongue. The zesty tones of pepper grinder, like those very long wooden grinders favored by fancy restaurants, put you on notice just before the strong-armed tannins kick in. This is a big proud cab that quickens your pulse. If you met this wine in a bar it would challenge you to punch it in the stomach as hard as you can … but you won’t find it in a bar because, again, Castello di Amorosa is available only right here at the castle!

Sweet wines

If you travel widely among the many wineries in Napa and Sonoma, you’ll start to realize the age cohort is edging upward. Let’s face it, with the global ascension of California wines driving up prices, the only people who can afford it are those who’ve broken the backs of their home mortgages and whose 401(k)s are well into seven figures. There’s a reason Tesla charging stations dot the Napa landscape: these people are as foggy and forgetful as they are rich. So what is the industry to do, as its ageing patrons gradually die off? The Castello has taken a page from the cannabis gummy playbook and is clearly courting the younger set with a nice array of unapologetically sweet dessert wines. Think Hawaiian Punch or Hi-C, but with legs—and plenty of alcohol.

Simpatica

After being pushed around so much by the Cab, I needed a friend—so when I saw the word Simpatica I was hooked right in. But I hesitated because this was last wine I’d get to taste. Would I be selling myself short by skipping the Moscato? Perhaps, but I couldn’t get past the “mosca” part, that being Italian for “fly,” and I just knew I’d take the bait and make a corny joke like “Elisa, there’s a fly in my wine, and he thinks it’s gazpacho.” (I’d already lost a bet that Elisa would make a joke about the wine-spitting bowl, along the lines of “We send that down to Charles Shaw and they bottle it.” She didn’t say anything of the kind. But like I said, she’s new.) In the event, the Simpatica did not let me down: this was a bright wine, redolent of pears and honey, that caressed my tongue, but then took an unexpected detour into light fizz, like fermented peaches at a salad bar, with just a hint of bong water. It’s a highly drinkable wine that says, “Hey, buddy, lighten up.” I could totally see myself drinking this out of a bota bag at a sweltering music festival. It would pair nicely with those weird cream cheese appetizers at P.F. Chang’s, or with Rice Krispies.

Il Passito

I only had a little sip of this, when my tasting companion insisted I try it. I know that, as a wine critic, I should use words like “remarkable,” but my honest reaction was OMG! This is by far the sweetest liquid I’ve ever had in my mouth. Honey is so over. The flavor is so fawningly unctuous, I thought this wine would try to sell me a timeshare in Honolulu. But as it lingers on the tongue it’s all Sweetness & Light, like old school Grade-A maple syrup without the maple. I suddenly had a craving for the totally crusty, blackened pork ribs you find in the dark corner of the grill toward the end of a barbecue. But Il Passito also has a regal flair; if this wine could talk, it’d tell a Bartles & James wine cooler, “You’re just a vulgar little street urchin.”

The scoring

Nobody in my party remembered to fill out the score card. Or maybe it’s not a memory thing; for me, numeric scores kind of seemed beside the point. I mean, would you give a point rating to the color of your child’s eyes, or to the length of your cat’s tale? Suffice to say, I shall surely return to the Castello di Amorosa, next time I need a full lineup of artisanal wines, or am fleeing a zombie apocalypse. As for which wine impressed us the most, I suppose that can be answered by the one we ended up deciding to buy: the Simpatica, at $30 for a 750ml bottle. I have a feeling it’s gonna go great with chocolate-chip-cookie-dough ice cream.

Epilogue

No, Wine Spectator never did run my story. This may have something to do with the fact that I never submitted it. Why would I bother, when I haven’t arranged for the Castello di Amarosa winery to place an ad with the magazine?

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