From the Archives - Bits & Bobs Volume XXIX

Introduction

This is the twenty-ninth installment in the “From the Archives – Bits & Bobs” series. Volume I of the series is here, Volume II is here, Volume III is here, Volume IV is here, Volume V is here, Volume VI is here, Volume VII is here, Volume XIII is here, Volume IX is here, Volume X is here, Volume XI is here, Volume XII is here, Volume XIII is here, Volume XIV is here, Volume XV is here, Volume XVI is here, Volume XVII is here, Volume XVIII is here, Volume XIX is here, Volume XX is here, Volume XXI is here, Volume XXII is here, Volume XXIII is here, Volume XXIV is here, Volume XXV is here, Volume XXVI is here, Volume XXVII is here, and Volume XXVIII is here. If that seems like a lot of volumes, rest assured it actually isn’t. Why not? Because I say it’s not.

So what are albertnet Bits & Bobs? They’re brief bulletins I wrote to entertain family and friends when I was young and brash and just didn’t know any better. This is back when people actually wrote letters. Wait, did I say “people”? I meant me. Anyway, within each volume these are in chronological order, but the volumes jump all around through time and space. Read them in order, out of order, in alphabetical order by Roman numeral, in numerical order by word count, or according to whatever your preferred algorithm dictates. All of today’s dispatches were written when I was attending UC Santa Barbara.

January 18, 1989

There’s a girl in my French class whom I’m trying to “get to know.” Today it hit me how ridiculous the whole thing is. First, I’d arrange it so that I would sit by her, and chat her up, and then when that routine seemed to be established I’d show up early and sit somewhere else to see if she deliberately sat next to me. And then today—bonus!—we had a conversation after class that lasted all the way down the stairs and out to the bike racks. So I was basically gauging my “progress” through some kind of spatial measurement system. A real man wouldn’t bother with all this incremental BS, he’d just ask her out to coffee or drop a clever line like, “Women pay to go out with me.” At least this girl said something pretty interesting today: she said if she could buy a new car, she’d buy a Dodge Ram Charger. That seems sort of cool. In fact, I just realized she’s probably out of my league.

April 5, 1989

Today I slept throughout my first Physics lecture, then forgot about my Psychology class, and then slept through my English class. Why? Well, there are several factors. Like the weather, for example. It has been in the mid‑90’s here all week, not a cloud in the sky. You know, that dependable heat that isn’t going to leave you out in the cold all of a sudden. Even the evenings are nice and warm. So I’ve been riding more than ever, to enjoy that, and then when I’m not riding, the tropical torpor tends to induce a lackadaisical lifestyle which doesn’t involve being bright-eyed and bushy‑tailed when I get to class.

Today we got our cycling team sweatshirts –now that it’s 90 degrees in the shade. They’re way bitchin’. They’re like a grey heather, like with the white fibers running through the fabric? And with the big hood, and the white pile lining, and they weigh like 500 pounds. And the best part is, if I’m wearing it and fall asleep in class, which happens a lot because I’m so exhausted from training in the heat, it sort of holds me upright.

April 28, 1989

The cycling team meets once a week (in addition to all the rides, of course). The meetings don’t really get going until about half an hour after the scheduled time, so that’s when I show up. Meanwhile, the location of the meeting changes from week to week. It’s really hard to figure out where they’ll put it next. A veritable wild goose chase, if you’ve ever been to one of those. So anyhow (I’m not boring you, am I?) I showed up yesterday evening in front of the UCen, which is sort of a plaza, and everybody was there just sort of riding around. Naturally, I joined them. This guy M— was there on a totally rad Schwinn beach cruiser from the ‘50s. M—is pretty cool because he works at a bike shop and races pretty well, but he’s also kind of annoying everybody lately because he started one of those dreaded cycling team romances we all hate so much and has basically turned into a total sap. Every time he sees his little woman (who, incidentally, isn’t much of a looker) he drops everything, even if in mid‑sentence, to go pal around with her. But his old Schwinn is a total gem. The coolest part? It’s a two-speed. Not a back‑pedal kind, either. It’s got a brake lever sized shifter, made by . . . guess who? It ain’t Sturmey-Archer. It’s Bendix. Yes, the very same Bendix that makes the aerospace stuff. I asked Mark how often he had to adjust the shifting. He said never. And I tried it. It works flawlessly, 35 years into its life. So anyway, after about half an hour of bike combat, general socializing, et cetera, I realized that maybe the meeting wasn’t going down at all. I asked somebody, and he nonchalantly said, “Oh, yeah. It got moved to tomorrow night.” I almost asked, “Then what are we doing here?” but realized that I knew exactly what we were doing: hanging out.

Eventually we all decided we’d better study and a bunch of us headed over to the library. I never get much done there when I’m with friends, but I had to try—my Physics midterm was the next day. I have a knack for test preparation, I think. I start by going through my notes to try to guess what the teacher will put on the test. Most of my notes are written for my own amusement, because if I’m not amusing myself, the professor sure isn’t either, which means I might fall asleep and not write anything. Here’s an example from my actual notes:

4/27/89 Thurs: WAVES

Waves are characterized by speed, wavelengths.

• “Heat wave”: if ya got a heat wave, then ya got temperatures soaring into the nineties for days on end
• “The Wave”: a certain dance characterized by wobbly arm movements
• “Rad wave”: a 20‑footer or bigger that’ll take you all the way to the beach, dude
• “Permanent wave”: a hairdo characterized by tight curls that don’t require styling or setting gel

October 6, 1989

This friend of mine doesn’t have a mountain bike so I loaned him mine so we could cruise around the beach and some nearby trails. I rode my commuter death bike. Everyone calls it that because I have these bolt-on cantilever brake bosses (aka Moots Mounts) and to make them stiffer, I have a section of steel chainring spanning them (custom-cut to fit). They look really cool but everyone’s like, “What if you crashed? Couldn’t they, like, puncture you?” So we rode on the beach for a while, and then on these really sandy trails, and suddenly my tires washed out, and then the handlebar and the wheel stuck into the ground and I almost went over the bars. By “almost” I mean that I almost made it out okay, I mean I should have gone all the way over the bars, but my groin caught on the end of the handlebar that was sticking up and it impaled me. I was up there for like a couple of seconds, with all my weight concentrated on the plastic handlebar cap, right in my groin. Then the whole bike toppled on me and something raked across my leg. It was the chainring brake stiffener. It gave me this huge gash in there. It actually would’ve been funny as hell if it didn’t hurt so bad. [I still have a scar, over a quarter-century later.]

You know how you always wish you could get a crash on videotape? Well, I did. Later in the ride I spontaneously decided to ride down this big concrete driveway that goes right down to the beach, to lower boats into the water on trailers. There was a guy standing at the top making a movie with a little VHS camera, and I asked if it was cool for me to ride down. He said yeah, so I went down, taking advantage of its being sandy by doing this big gnarly zorro [where you lock up the rear wheel and do big fishtails]. What I didn’t know was that there was like a foot drop-off at the end. But hey, no problem, I had plenty of speed, so did a big jump and made a perfect landing, rear wheel first. Thing was, once the front wheel landed it bogged in the sand instantly and this time I made it all the way over the handlebars. I tucked and rolled and landed in tons of sand so it didn’t hurt at all. In fact, I rolled all the way over in a complete somersault and came up on my feet, throwing my arms up in a victory salute. Like 20 people were out there sunbathing and all cheered. I wonder how many times the guy with the camera will watch that footage, laughing his ass off.

October 10, 1989

A couple of days ago Andy, our Korean neighbor who’s in the ESL program here, came over and hung around while I made Spaghetti Francisco. He seems lonely – he often cruises right into our apartment, and starts looking around, picking objects up and inspecting them, and talking. His English is surprisingly good, considering he’s only been in the U.S. for eleven days, and (he says) he was really bad in his English classes at school. He doesn’t get along with his roommates very well –one is Japanese and barely speaks a word of English, and other guy, who’s Swiss, only bothers to speak German because he always has at least half a dozen other Swiss guys couch-surfing in the apartment and borrowing Andy’s stuff. Anyhow, earlier that day Andy’s cousin had come to visit and smashed her car into one of the pillars, shaking the building. I think she was planning to have dinner with Andy, but was so upset she left and got a motel room or something. Now Andy asked if he could use our microwave, and had this big package of meat, and I figured he needed to defrost it in a hurry or something before taking it back to his apartment and cooking it on his stove. It was in there forever, and I got the Francisco in the oven while Casey heated up some chicken noodle soup with little round noodles. Andy said, “They look like little doughnuts.” Casey said, “Yes, they do indeed look exactly like tiny miniature doughnuts.” I replied, “Yes, it’s in fact rather astonishing just how closely those noodles do resemble diminutive doughnuts.” If Tesh had been around he would surely have made a similarly astute observation employing equally precise vocabulary. Suddenly Andy pulled out the big plate of meat, set it on the table, and said, “Dig in.” Wow! I’d had no idea it was for us!

Man, it was so good. I guess it was a cross section of the cow where all the ribs stick through, all sliced up so that there were three little discs of bone in each slice. I don’t know how meat can turn out so well in the microwave. It wasn’t just plain , but prepared with some Korean recipe, swimming in a spicy, fatty sauce. Once we started eating nobody was talking, just grabbing the meat with our fingers, picking the little round bones clean, smacking our lips, and grabbing another piece. I was worried Casey wasn’t moving fast enough to get his share, but he hardly eats anything anyway and I end up finishing off his last piece. Then we dug into the Spaghetti Francisco. Poor Tesh never showed up—too busy studying, I guess—so he missed out.

November 13, 1989

The stupidest trend has caught on here. All these students buy mountain bikes, and all these bikes have quick-release seat posts [the idea being that you should lower your seat before gnarly descent]. As if any of these people ever rode off-road! Since the QR post means your seat can be stolen in five seconds, these students take their seats/seatposts off and take them to class for safekeeping, down on the  floor under the desk. So their bikes out in the racks have this exposed frame tube so rain can fall in there, and I occasionally see trash stuffed in the hole by some mischievous passerby. Worse yet, the students look like idiots carrying around these seats, with the post getting grease on their clothes. I was in the library with a friend and we just had to laugh, watching all these students milling around with their bike seats.

February 19, 1990

Last Thursday there was a lab due in my socioeconomic geography class, based on a research article we had to borrow from the reserve book room of the library. (I guess that’s what makes it a “lab” instead of just another paper.) I kept putting off the assignment and then Wednesday rolled around and I forgot to do it because it was Valentine’s Day and for the first time, I actually had a date. The next day, the reserve room opened at 8:00 a.m., and the lab was due at 9:00. So I showed up there just after 8:00, got the article, ran over to the microcomputer lab to use their word processor, pulled out the article, and started really stressing because it was super fricking long. I couldn’t even read it in an hour, much less write a paper on it. But some student before me had left all these notes in the margin and totally outlined it! This guy knew what he was doing, too. So I wrote the damn thing without even reading the article and finished by about 9:10. Then I ran to my class, and the T.A. hadn’t even shown up yet. He walked in two minutes later and I turned it in like I’d done it in advance. Sometimes I think I lead a charmed life.

March 1, 1990

I’m completely broke. Go figure. S— always sent me my monthly support check, but now that she left my dad, I haven’t been getting it. I guess he figures since his wife left him and he’s all full of woe, he shouldn’t have to support his son anymore. My mom’s on vacation in Hawaii and forgot to send a check before she left. [My parents’ divorce settlement decreed that my dad would pay 5/8 of whatever I got, and my mom 3/8, but no actual total amount was specified; I was generally pretty strapped even when they didn’t forget.] So I’ve been eating nothing but pasta (with Ragu Old World sauce from a gallon can), and burritos that are just beans and tortillas—I can’t even afford cheese. And I just got my tuition bill: $550. Plus I need to get glasses because I’ve finally admitted to myself I’m totally nearsighted. I was sitting in the front row in a lecture and asked the prof to focus the overhead projector, and everyone around me was like, “Dude, it’s totally in focus.” But I guess I’ll have to keep squinting until I start working this summer. Man, how did I get here? And how will I get out?

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From the Archives - Bits & Bobs Volume XXIII

Introduction

This is the twenty-third installment in the “From the Archives – Bits & Bobs” series. Volume I of the series is here, Volume II is here, Volume III is here, Volume IV is here, Volume V is here, Volume VI is here, Volume VII is here, Volume XIII is here, Volume IX is here, Volume X is here, Volume XI is here, Volume XII is here, Volume XIII is here, Volume XIV is here, Volume XV is here, Volume XVI is here, Volume XVII is here, Volume XVIII is here, Volume XIX is here, Volume XX is here, Volume XXI is here, and Volume XXII is here. The different volumes are unrelated, except by disposition, in the sense that they are all completed, published, and not debatable, unless you want to comment below (which would be a first). You don’t need to read the previous volumes in order, or frankly at all, for this one to make sense; in fact, it won’t make sense no matter what you do. That’s not really the point.

Which begs the question, what are albertnet Bits & Bobs posts? Well, imagine you’re cooking something tasty, like spaghetti carbonara, in a big hurry, so you’re kind of trashing your kitchen in the process. Now imagine you look down on the floor and see all these tasty tidbits—bits of bacon, a few peas, maybe a few blobs of crème fraîche—and you think hey, this stuff is still good! You’re way past the five-second rule but you don’t care, and as you clean up the floor you pop these tasty morsels in your mouth. You tell yourself this is good for your immune system. Well, these Bits & Bobs posts are just the literary equivalent of that. They’re taken from letters I wrote to family and friends.

The below dispatches all date from 1990. The first three are from my UC Santa Barbara days. The rest are from when I was at Berkeley.

February 1, 1990

Tomorrow will be my second day at the Associated Students Bike Shop, where I now work 4.5 hours per week. Like me, most employees work minimal hours, just enough to enjoy the privilege of buying bike stuff wholesale. We keep track of our hours on sheets in this binder, on standardized UCSB Work Study log sheets that have, for each day, a space for “Project” in which we’re supposed to write what we did. I guess this has its applications for jobs with some variety, but at the shop it’s a joke. My friend A— had written down “Ego Stroking” for Tuesday, and I thought that was pretty funny. I said, “Hey, do we get paid time‑and‑a‑half if our project is stroking the bossman’s ego?” The boss is this really ornery guy. He overheard some of this dialogue. “What’s this I hear about time‑and‑a‑half?” he yelled. “Oh, I was just joking,” I replied. He fired back, “Hey pal, there are some things in this shop we just don’t joke about.” Then another mechanic said, “You know, that actually isn’t true.”

March 16, 1990

I was pretty excited because I finally got something from the Admissions Office at Berkeley, which I’d been expecting for some time now regarding whether or not they accepted me [as a transfer student], so needless to say I was pretty nervous opening it up, especially after the bad omen of opening the other piece of mail, which was a notification from my bank that my rent check had bounced due to my unscrupulous financial records and the fact that my parents have been totally flaking on sending me cash, the upshot of which is that had to apply for yet another Visa card, this time from the Wells Fargo bank so that if I bounce another check in the future, which is really likely to happen to be perfectly honest with you, Wells Fargo will cover the check and put the balance on my card so I can pay it off when I finally get the money, which I’ve generally been able to do eventually, even if the amount is something large like tuition, which I also just wrote a bad check for after being disenrolled from UCSB for not paying on time, so now my attendance at UCSB next quarter is in jeopardy, which of course ties in to the future plans which seemed destined to unfold before my very eyes today as I got ready to rip open the envelope, my roommates C— and T— watching in suspense as well, because as any college student knows, a small envelope like the one I was holding in my hand is rarely a good sign when you’re hearing from a college because generally if you get accepted they send a huge packet of registration materials and whatnot, instead of the small envelope which I was preparing to tear open, fearfully, as I described my apprehension which was not exactly calmed by my spectators, who were saying pessimistic things, but for no good reason it turns out because upon finally ripping the envelope open and looking at the first line the first word I saw was “Congratulations!” which seemed an obvious indication that I had been accepted and was enough reason for me to say, “Yeah, I’m in!” while C— yelled, “Yes, he’s out of this dive forever!” which really hit home but eventually turned out to be perhaps a bit premature because after I had finished reading the whole thing I discovered there are all kinds of conditions that I still have to meet and which I’m really dreading because they mean all kinds of bureaucratic hurdles and also some dumb-looking classes which I’ll probably have to take next quarter before Berkeley will formally accept me, and meanwhile the whole letter was written in a very general terms, its tone more hypothetical than actual, which has me really confused, to the point that I’ve been trying to talk to the admissions folks on the phone but in vain because I keep getting this goddam answering machine where you’re supposed to press 1 if you want information on admissions, et cetera, but it’s pissing me off because I press 1 and nothing fucking happens (which is especially annoying since it’s running up a long distance bill which means trouble because I can’t afford this month’s phone bill because T— alone ran up over $100 in long distance which he can’t pay for right now, so we’ll probably have our fucking phone disconnected again which is just typical) so with all these weird requirements and classes it looks like I’ll really be busy next quarter, which sucks because all I really want to do is race my bike. [All this is excerpted from a much longer sentence.]

May 31, 1990

I decided to write you because I am too distracted to study anyway. For one of my English classes I’m reading a book of really weird short stories written in the ‘60s. The book, which I got from the used bookstore, smells like pot. Maybe that’s what I’m missing, because I can’t understand any of these stories. Some of them have no punctuation or anything and some are nothing but dialogue and you can’t figure out who’s doing the talking. One story is about zombies. You’d think that would capture my attention, but it’s just too far out there.

July 27, 1990

The reason I’ve moved up here [to the Bay Area] is that I’ve had this lifelong ambition to have a 415 area code. I don’t really know why; it’s just a personality quirk. It’s not too bad living up here, either; I mean, they have a university that’s actually supposed to be pretty good, and plenty of jobs. I’ve hooked up with a couple of employment agencies and I’m hoping they can get me some work pretty quickly before the fall semester starts. My roommate B—, who graduated last June from UCSB, works for a chemistry lab, and he just got this neat mug (almost as neat as the thrift store “Harris Dracon” and “Lincoln Title Company” mugs you gave me) which says “I passed the SYVA drug test.” I think it would be even cooler to have a mug that says “I failed the SYVA drug test,” because I could go out and sell pencils out of it on the street.

[Picture generated by Copilot]

The lingo is a bit different up here. I hear the term “hella” quite a bit, which means “very.” I also hear “shine” a lot, which means to decline to do something. Like, “This hotshot Subaru/Montgomery rider wanted to lengthen the ride but I was going backwards [i.e., riding poorly] so I shined and went home.” But the new vocab word that really threw me was “hosed.” I haven’t heard that term since my Colorado days, when to “get hosed” meant to have sex. But out here, “getting hosed” means the same as getting clocked (i.e., drunk). So my roommate’s friend asked me, “Have you seen B— get hosed yet?” I about had a heart attack, and figured the dude had to be some kind of perv. What a relief when we ironed that out...

July 29, 1990

The Levi’s 501 jeans that I’ve had since high school finally wore out. A lot has changed since the last time I bought jeans: you may now choose among standard, stone‑washed, acid‑washed, shrink‑to‑fit, pre‑shrunk, straight-cut, student‑cut, pre‑faded, colored, and corduroy. My old jeans were standard denim (was there any other kind in 1987?), and were a size 32 waist with a 40 inseam (effectively a 31 waist by 36 inseam, according to the bizarre sizing scheme Levi’s had developed for shrink-to-fit jeans). I guess I’ve stretched those bad boys out because the new jeans I finally settled on are 34 by 36. I might have chosen a larger waist, actually, but the longest length I could find with a 36 waist was 34 inches. This seemed really strange so I asked the sales clerk about it. It’s no mistake: even though they offer eight different styles, they only make jeans for either basically fat or basically thin people—nothing for people who are just all-around big. Anyway, I wore the jeans out of the store and I’m really impressed with them because they don’t feel new. They’re stone‑washed, which means pre-broken‑in. Who ever heard of such a thing? Everyone knows new jeans are like cardboard; that’s kind of part of their charm. But these ones, in addition to being slightly faded, with the tag above the right rear pocket already soft and unreadable, aren’t stiff at all. In fact, I’d almost swear these are used jeans. But I love them because three months always seemed like too long to have to break in a new pair. I guess over the last 140 years the Levi‑Strauss company has actually made some technological advances.

July 30, 1990

Concerning that missing invoice for the 3,000 gizmotrons . . . c’mon, you remember me, your old friend from Colorado? Remember, the really skinny guy who used to eat your family out of house and home? Ah, now you remember. Gosh, it’s been so long since I’ve written you that I almost forgot your address. I should include a disclaimer with my letters: “Please allow four to six years for delivery.” Anyhow, sorry for not keeping in touch. Let me catch you up on what I’ve been up to for the last two years. There was mainly a lot of hanging out and racing bikes and wasting time with friends. Oh, yeah, I also recall there were some college courses. (I guess this girl ruined me, too, but it wasn’t anything serious. She was easily replaced by a couple other girls who also ruined me.) Now I’ve moved to the Bay Area and, facing unemployment (not for the first time), I am trying to get temp work which means basically hanging around hoping the phone rings. For the last hour I’ve been trying to fix a typewriter cassette ribbon that had stopped working. I bought several of them at once, and they’re all defective, so I decided I’d better figure out how to fix them. As soon as I pried open the casing all these springs came flying out like a jack‑in‑the‑box or one of those cans that snakes jump out of. Well. I guess that’s about it. Write me back and let me know what you’re up to. For now, I’m going to sign off by quoting my old roommate: later days and better lays! (Disclaimer: I am quoting him ironically.)

November 1, 1990

I just opened a letter from the phone company stating that my service will be disconnected unless they receive payment by November 2. That does not give me much time to act. I will have to call first thing in the morning and give them Pathetic Excuse #27: “I just stumbled across my payment envelope—my stupid roommate forgot to drop it in the mail. Can I have a one-week extension?” I once got a whole month of extensions, for excuses ranging from “I didn’t get my financial aid” to “I ran out of checks.” Of course, doing business over the phone isn’t always so easy. Once I had to get out of this travel club (which I joined to get the free Walkman), but I failed several times to cancel because for every excuse I’d give (e.g., “I just don’t travel that much”) they have some pat answer I couldn’t recover from. It’s like they always do their homework and I never did. So finally I got a bit smarter about it: I called up and said, “I was just put on probation for a year and can’t leave the state,” to which the woman replied, “Yes, Mr. Albert, but . . . oh, wait … gosh, I’m sorry. I’ll refund your membership fee immediately.”

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