Concert Weekend
Alright I'm cheating a bit because although I intended to update a few days ago, I haven't gotten to it until today (which is actually June 5). Life's been relatively dull lately, aside from being quite busy at work. Last friday was a bit more interesting than usual. Billy managed to scare up 5 lawn tickets to the Coldplay show at the Shoreline, so we got 3 old friends and 2 new ones and decided to fight the traffic up to the amphitheater, which is only about 15 minutes away on the highway, but the traffic to the parking made more like 45 minutes (nevermind the wait to get out of the place afterwards).

Since the ladies took there time arriving (apparently held up at In-n-Out, but they didn't bring any food for the rest of us), we got in after opener Eisley had already gone into their second song. Even though we sent one of the guys in early, we still ended up pretty far back on the lawn. At 8pm, it was still light outside, the bunch of people in front of us were enjoying a pretty well packed picnic, complete with wine and imported cheese. Eisley had a nice sound, the lead singer had delightful, girlish voice, and the music was enjoyably mellow. Might be the kind of stuff you'd pop in your CD player at home, but not particularly, um, exciting. Unfortunately for them, the crowd was pretty apathetic. Out in the lawn, I think half the people didn't even notice them leave the stage (didn't help that they were playing a recording which sounded pretty much the same as they cleared the stage). But considering the whole band looked like a bunch of kids, who knows where they'll be in a few years.

The second act was Canadian Ron Sexsmith, whom I've heard of, but never listened to, and knew very little about. I didn't really pay that much attention to the set either, it stirred much less interest than the first band. I grabbed a $4 hot dog somewhere in there.

It was dark by the time the headline band took the stage, and the anticipation had been brewing for almost two hours. Apparently, the sold out crowd was the largest audience they'd had, and through the 90 minute show lead singer Chris Martin was bouncing like a madman on his piano stool. I'm nothing close to a Coldplay fan; I own Parachutes, but I haven't paid attention to the names of half the songs. The first few songs, like "The Scientist", were recognizable from radio play, but there were a bunch from the second, more recent album A Rush of Blood to the Head that I hadn't heard before. However, like all good shows, they saved the best for last, with a defined crescendo effect in both the crowd and the energy of the songs. The highlights, still were definitely the hits, 'Yellow' and 'Clocks', as well as their rendition of Louis Armstrong's 'What a Wonderful World'. Through the whole concert, Martin's voice was on the mark and the fans loved it. In the end though, I was really glad I went to see a band who'd use their fame on behalf of the oppressed, and of course thank those who came to watch sitting out "9 miles away".

On Saturday I took a bunch of kids to Great America, which is pretty much the equivalent of Canada's Wonderland, with mostly the exact same rides with different names. They were running a "Christian" event (and a highly profitable one at that), featuring a number of Christian bands, like 'Jars of Clay' and 'Newsboys' performing throughout the day. To be frank, after picking up the Access:d double album a month ago, I've been somewhat of a Delirious? fanboy. So there was somewhat of a tightening in my stomach when I could hear a rendition of "I Could Sing of Your Love Forever" going in the background as I was passing by the bumper cars in the afternoon, thinking that all the concerts would be in the evening. We made it in to a half full amphitheater (I'm sure it would have been packed in the evening, but hey, good for us). The front was clearly packed and energetic, more subdued and elderly individuals hung out near the back. I caught the last few sets, including "History Maker" and "Investigate". Man, if you love rocking music, these guys are great. Although lead vocal Martin Smith's voice cracked and went atonal at some points, these guys were playing loud and hard. There's a lot of Christian music out there that seems like it's getting sold mostly because it's "Christian". I often find I'm uncomfortable with myself, split between feeling guilty thinking that certain music is drab, though it was written to glorify God in some manner other, and thinking that the artist must be trying gouge the Christian market with overpriced products that are really just mediocre. I think d? is one of the few bands who's got music I just long to listen to, like the fact that disc 1 is in my car player while disc 2 is playign here at work. Now if I can get a bunch of people and get in on an entire concert! Hm, what's this, they're playing in Toronto on June 30. Any takers? I definitely want some more.

Old
There's definitely a feeling of being old when friends your age start getting married. Feeling old aside, congratulations to Ken and Ann.

It's been another one of those days. It's becoming somewhat of a tradition on weekends, to come to the realization that the clock says 12:00. A minute later it rolls over to 12:01 and I realize I'm not imagining anything, the clock is still working. It really is midnight, and almost everything is closed. And that hunger? That's not a figment of my imagination either. I call up Top Cafe in Milpitas, a rather crummy little place with little claim to fame except that they're open past midnight. I order fried rice with chicken and salted fish, and the guy on the other end of the line says ten minutes.

I dawdle a few more minutes, mostly because there's no place to wait at the restaurant, since the tables are almost always full at this time. It's not a long drive; I normally swing by the ATM on the way there. Without fail, the manager, the guy that took my order, is behind the counter which holds the neatly tied plastic bag. He always says something that translates roughly to "What can I help you with, brother?", I point mutely to the bag and pass him a twenty. He grabs $13.25 from the cash register. He always double checks it before handing it over, which is great, since I just cram it into my pocket, reminding myself that if I hadn't thought of being hungry, I probably wouldn't have noticed the gnawing emptiness.

When I get home, I pour myself a tall glass of orange juice. The soy sauce, mustard, Tabasco and the jug of Tropicana are the few items in the fridge that don't belong to my roomate. I always used to see a glass of orange juice as a part of a complete breakfast on cereal commercials, but throughout my childhood, I only had milk. It wasn't until recently that I realized that orange juice goes well with almost everything except for dessert, fried rice included.

I get back to my desk and plop down the large styrofoam box beside my notebook and pop it open. The top of the glistening pile has been flattened by the lid. I look at it thinking that it's got to be the size of two meals and dig into immediately. It's reached that perfect temperature where it's hot but doesn't scorch your tongue. The chicken adds some bounce to the texture, while somehow the lettuce in there adds crispness despite being cooked. The fish is balanced by the plentiful ginger, essential to the dish. Admittedly, there's the occasional bite that's overwhelmingly salty, but that's a minor price to pay for a dining experience that can hardly be expressed in words. Despite the size of the box, I've never been able to stop myself before cleaning it out, leaving the bottom of the box empty except for that grease lining.

Fear
It must have been in high school when my parents bought me that thick and monstrously green parka. I recall feeling removed from the world in that coat; buried so far within the cozy warmth plush down and gore-tex as to be oblivious to the realities of the bone-numbing cold and howling wind while standing at the bus station. In fact, I have very little recollection of ever being cold as a child. I have significantly more memories of being overdressed. Toronto winters faced a formidable foe in my mom's exuberance in keeping us bundled.

These thoughts floated through my head two weekends ago as I sat at the Nevada end of the Skyline Trail at Heavenly waiting for the rest of my friends to make it through the deep powder of the unexpectedly flat traverse from the California side of the mountain (the resort rests across the Cal-Neva state line). It was cutting towards the end of an incredibly long day. We had got up early to use our free spring passes at another resort. After renting equipment and driving and hour and a half through white-out conditions on a mountain highway, we were turned back by Caltrans workers standing in the middle of the road in their yellow jumpsuits, citing that the rest of the highway was closed due to avalanche dangers.

Resolved not to let the trip be a complete waste, we headed to Heavenly after stopping for a quick lunch. Located minutes away from the town itself, we hadn't seen any sign of a mountain in the thick snow. People were already leaving by the time we pulled into the parking lot. We bought our $44 half-day passes and headed up the empty gondola. We spent a few hours snowboarding through the blizzard, the howling wind blasting snow against any exposed skin. Late in the afternoon though, we were rewarded for our efforts as the snow settled and the clouds finally parted. I remember feeling a warmth on my face, sliding down a steep, thigh deep powder run as it opened up with shafts of sunlight. It was one moment where the resort's name was certainly fitting.

It's 15:30, half an our short of the universal 16:00 time when all ski lifts shut down. We decide to check out the Nevada side of the mountain since we've paid to be here. The brief respite from the sun had faded and clouds were coming back in as we got off the top of the lift. We started down the Skyline Trail, but it wasn't long before we had to unbuckly and push. Eventually Billy and I got too far ahead, I slumped into a snowdrift to hide from the now furious winds. Billy began burying me, but a little too slowly. His story about not knowing where I was, and only seeing my snowboard in the snowbank worked for a few moments until Sinyee spotted the reflection of my goggles which weren't fully buried. After what seemed like endless skating through some flat and almost uphill portions of the extended traverse, amidst intensifying wind and snow, we made it to the end of the Skyline Trail.

I'm sitting there catching my breath, very thankful for my new goggles and my normally-too-thick green parka, straining to make out shapes that might be Sinyee and Xun catching up obscured in twirling snow. What little exposed skin I have is stinging from the icy pellets thrown against it, but the rest of me feels secure, bunkered in beneath layers of plastic, fleece and down. My thoughts flicker back to the evening we spent climbing our way out of the Grand Canyon, underdressed for the night time cold, and out of food and water. I wasn't particularly afraid then, mostly because I was too tired to think. Like that evening, here we are trying to make our way home, without being able to see our way to the end of the trail. Sitting on top of the mountain, in the middle of a snowstorm, it occurred to me how frail we were. Normally a ski resort with groomed runs presents a majestically primal structure of rock and stone tamed for human enjoyment. Yet in a blizzard, where your visibility is limited to 10 feet and all paths look alike covered under a virgin blanket of white, the mountain looks like any other wilderness.

And here I am thinking how warm and comfortable I am, armored against such weather. I understand quite clearly, that this were indeed a wilderness, and I was indeed stuck out here, it would be over pretty soon after I finished my last PowerBar. Who knows, my board would probably carry me to the base of the mountain. After that I'd perhaps make it a few miles, plowing through the waist deep snow, before I run out of calories, or find myself a warm cozy shelter, strike up a match, and find myself face to face with a rudely awakened carnivore. I often wonder how much faith we put on the trappings of civilization. Whether they be the physical shelters warding off Nature, society's structure protecting us from Anarchy, or even our theological suppositions hiding us from God. It took a snowstorm for me to realize how thin my coat really was, despite the fact that I was warm inside. Sometimes passages like Leviticus 10 makes me wonder how thin my moral righteousness may be, and despite my comfort, how safe am I underneath it all.

The grey shapes finally caught up to us, and as we continued, feeling for the stiffer snow that indicated the packed trail underneath, we eventually found a clear downhill slope to take us to the bottom. What happened after that? We decided not to risk our lives driving home in that weather and instead stayed over onto Monday to experience the absolutely fabulous powder at Kirkwood.

Reticent
I realized I've blogged much less recently. I took a break over Christmas and went to Hong Kong, where I overate, overshopped, and probably overindulged. For a week and a half I was completely entertained and freed from responsibilities. I had my notebook all my work along with VPN access to the work network; I only turned it on to download photos.
Now that I'm back, often sitting at my desk, trying to catch up with work I wish was done a week ago, I feel surprisingly renewed, although it's still a struggle to convince myself that I am indeed back at work. It's been a while since I've had this feeling of wanting something more and something different. Perhaps it sounds as if the whole work-sleep-work routine kills the soul or robs the spirit, but I think I myself have failed to nurture that creative desire.
Every day that I got home, too tired to read a book, write a thought, take a picture, peruse art, listen to music, enjoy a sunset, cook a dish, savour a meal, or stop to let myself think was another day I let what little inspiration I had whither away. The thing with this work thing, is that it doesn't require much in terms of discipline after you get home. There isn't much you need to do from day to day, aside from maybe keeping the bills paid and the washroom clean. With a fear of being overly disciplined (read: uptight), I realize I've almost no discipline at all. Heck, sometimes I don't even make myself go deposit a cheque until I'm worried that they won't accept it anymore (there seems to be a 90-day limit on these things here).
So discipline it is. I think I'll start with trying to finish off Robotech: Battlecry, which I started quite a while ago, but haven't finished...

Pursuit of finer things
I finished Reluctant Saint: The Life of Francis of Assisi on the plane over to Hong Kong. I know little of the author, Donald Spoto, but the jacket claims he's a biographer with a Ph.D. in theology. He claims to be attempting an honest and accurate portrayal of St. Francis, and I can only assume that to be true. The book is as much a biography as a call to holiness. It's not a legalistic "this is right, that is wrong" book, but a portrayal of someone who honestly tried to live a life of faith and worship despite his personal failings.

Francis was born at the end of the 12th century in medieval Europe to a very wealthy textile merchant. He spent his youth squandering his parents' money, throwing parties and being generally generous with the wealth that was not his own. Eventually, in his early 20s, he realized the emptiness in his life, a hole that was eventually filled when he found God. Unfortunately, his ideals for serving God clashed with his parents will, leading him to eventually forfeit his human parents in his desire to serve.

Alone and without financial support, Francis' desire was to live according to the Gospel, and he did that by imitating Jesus. With no desire for wealth or financial well being, and with what would often be considered a blind and perhaps rash and extremist faith, he took Jesus' words on trusting God for earthly provisions to heart, Francis took on the task of rebuilding a decrepit church building, preaching and tending to lepers and social outcasts.

With a philosophy that excluded earthly possessions yet encouraged hard labour, Francis lived a faith in a much more radical manner than most Christians today are willing to accept. Jesus instructed his disciples to go forth with little more than the clothes on their backs (Matthew 10), while most of the world functions on rational preparation. Even within the church, parents teach their children the merits of working hard - not necessarily to glorify God, but to secure their livelihoods. It is a foreign concept to entrust our livelihoods to God by faith and spend our time in worship. Even many mission organizations are unwilling to send workers out before they have raised a significant portion of their support. Too often Christians' peace comes not from faith, but from the security one finds in significant financial savings or secure employment. Too often I find the way I live reflects little of what I say I believe, but rather the culture I grew up in.

Take for example, the fact that I was reading such a book on the plane, yet the day after I arrived, I'm already checking out the BOSS sale at Lane Crawford where I pick up a v-neck because it's 40% off (although it's still overpriced after the discount). I realized the frivolity of my purchase, and in regret I got some bargain basement Bossini khakis (2/HKD$160) that happily averaged out the total cost to something reasonable for three pieces of clothing, even though I really have very little use for the pants. [addendum: I seemed to have forgotten to pack the aforementioned shirt and it's likely still in Hong Kong. What irony.]

Hong Kong's quite different from the place I remember from my youth. Gone are the cheap video games and electronics - both Sony and Canon digital cameras can be had for cheaper in the States, and there aren't many "newer, cooler" models that aren't available in North America. And while there's still plenty of pirate videos in the form of VCDs and DVDs, the more expensive legitimate products are more available and easier to find. One interesting retail concept I found was a pirate VCD/DVD/CD/Software store, with cellophane wrapped disks with poorly reproduced covers (such as Elizabeth Hurley gracing the cover of Striptease instead of Demi Moore, and misspelled names such as "Samuel L. Jack"). With no employees, and only a plastic basket with some change acting as the cash register, I felt strangely confused with the ethical dilemma of whether to be honest and leave the proper payment for flagrantly illicit pirate materials, especially since I could save myself the HKD$30 and download the stuff myself.

However the question of moral behaviour was decidedly absent when I shopped Tsim Sha Tsui. Lane Crawford has expanded and launched a new youth targetted store called LCX. Stocked with a bevy of American brands (Gap, Banana Republic, Guess, Miss Sixty, Energie, Quiksilver, etc.) commanding a significant premium (Gap khakis were on par with Toronto prices after a 50% discount), it may have appealed to Hong Kong youth, but it's unlikely to draw many tourists.

The designer boutiques seemed more popular, which wasn't surprising considering the Gap isn't too much cheaper than D&G here. I spent an afternoon browsing through a few shops. Burberry, Gucci and Prada all seemed quite popular. For the most part, the price tags dissuaded me from impending fashion lust, but only afterwards did any consideration of proper stewardship cross my mind. For as much as I'd like not to be materialistic, selfish, or greedy, to be able to live simply and be grateful, I know I am an incredibly long way off.

What time is it?

I've set aside this evening for packing my suitcase for Hong Kong. At the moment however, the said suitcase is still sitting, empty, in my closet. My clothes, also resting in the closet, look rather satisfied, with no sign of any inclination to move themselves into the suitcase. The suitcase itself doesn't look like it wants to come out and open itself either, so it might be a moot point to ask anything of the clothes. Apparently, gentle coaxing and peaceful negotiations don't work well with suitcases. Should this one continue to remain closed against the requests of the closet inspectors, I will have to resort to using force and dragging it from its rightful place at the closet floor.

Moving to more nutritious matters, it looks like the food girl has gotten tired of waiting for restaurant and movie reviews and she's contributing some of her own. To make up for the lapse, let me recommend the Top o'the Senator in Toronto, which is really a jazz club instead of a restaurant. One website told me that it's located on top of the Senator steakhouse, hence the name and the facility for a dinner and show. From what I could observe, the Senator is dead and now replaced by the Torch Bistro, which provides the dinner before the show. A dinner reservation gets you a reserved seat upstairs for after dinner, but the price of the meal does not include the $14/person cover to get upstairs later.

The restaurant ambience is rather dry, the aged hardwood floors need refinishing to give this establishment the sense of elegance it needs. Curtained booths add a sense of privacy and cut down the noise for decent conversation, but the 7 foot waiter towering above the table was a bit disconcerting regardless of service. Appetizers ($7-10) were mediocre, and the chocolate cake ($?) was dense, but not impressive. Both the lamb sirloin ($28) and the duck leg confit ($26) however, came across nicely. As I found out with a little research afterwards, a confit is a meat preserved by slow cooking in its own fat. Kinda like deep frying at lower temperatures. Doesn't sound particularly healthy, but it certainly ends up very tender and extremely tasty. Given the decor though, the food seemed overpriced - perhaps if they waived the cover it'd be a good deal (2.5/5).

The club upstairs was long and thin, with the band on the near end, table seating at the far end, and benches and bar tables in between, running the length of the room. It's reminiscent of the Village Vanguard down in NYC, with considerably more atmosphere (read dimmer lights and denser crowd) than the restaurant below. Music from the Eliana Cuevas sextet the night I went was very latin, but varied from ballads to quite lively (4/5).

The past week has been a continuous rainstorm here, with periods of drizzle interspersed to alleviate the monotony. I normally don't notice much except on the drive to and from work, but I guess this is how the weather makes up for the last six months of cloudless skies. I'm just disappointed that I didn't choose to go up to Tahoe either this past weekend, or the coming weekend, considering they've gotten about 10' of fresh white stuff in the last week or so. Who am I kidding. I'm not going to complain about missing out on a white Christmas for fears of bitterly cold Torontonians. I'll leave you guys with a happy Canadian-wannabe, since I'm gonna have to go drag that suitcase out for a bit of stuffing.

Still no pics
Today's blog was almost predestined to let loose the floodgates of expletives to wash the few weary readers asunder. Instead I feel like a veritable god or lesser deity. Maybe just a guru, since I know that I've barely just stemmed that flow of foul-mouthed horror. How is this so? What can impassion one so deeply, and fling one's soul from the depths of despair to the dizzying summits of bliss?

None other than our dear friend, the x86 instruction set. Debugging this code is some sort of medieval torture, if they had computers in medieval days, or maybe it's just modern day tech-torture. Of course being able to fix something in it is quite the opposite. Like landing a spacecraft on the moon. Well, maybe not, but I'm sure those that had to land a spacecraft on the moon had plenty of their own assembly to deal with, even if it wasn't x86.

Now only if the female psyche was so easy to decipher...

...
I remember seeing what I thought was the peak of Mt. Whitney a few hours into our hike a few months back, thinking "That summit looks like it's 2 weeks away". But hiking's the process of putting one foot in front of the other until you reach that peak. I try not to talk about work into this blog, but to be honest, it takes up a good 12+ hours a day lately. And with a deadline coming up in two weeks, that looks like it'll take a month to reach, it's a matter of taking it a step at a time.
I snapped a bunch of random pics at the Halloween Party on Castro last night. If any of them come out decent I'll post something up.
Lyd's blog reminds me of having window seat dim sum at Dynasty on Bloor last year, watching snow swirling around the shoppers hurrying along the street.
Alright, back to work.

Chat
Looks like Blogger got hacked, but it seems that this would only affect those who are using FTP to publish (instead of blogspot). It's been a busy week, er, month. I'm thinking it's Monday night, but it's Friday already. The last 120 hours sure went by fast.

I went surfing last Sunday on some pretty great waves. More work than snowboarding, but it's a lot cheaper. In response to a few other bloggers, should they happen to surf by here:

Wongoz, they probably didn't wave the pricetags around at photokina (why can't they have those shows over here?) SD9 $1800, EOS-1Ds $8000, and considering each pixel on the SD9 is equivalent to almost 3 pixels ont the EOS-1DS. Of course, the EOS-1Ds has tonnes more features. Oh, and I wouldn't mind linking to your home page if there was a direct link to your current blog from there.

Yuling: brought up a few interesting questions, but the failure of philosophy is reducing arguments to technicalities that don't translate into anything meaningful in reality. Both the oak tree and the omnipotence issue are a matter of language and definition. Using the given definition of an oak tree, there are no such things as oak trees. Hence God cannot create one. Shucks. Similarly, the implied definition of omnipotence is being able to do the impossible. It depends if you believe God exists in an alternat plane free of any logical or mathematical laws. For example, can God make 1=0?
I was at a Pascal Lecture in Waterloo given by Donald Knuth titled "God and Computer Science", where he outlines the idea that if God's ability was incomprehensibly large, but finite, it would make no practical difference to us than if he were omnipotent.

Jon: I'm sure you and Justin must have had a fabulous time shoe shopping. Did you get matching bags? I'm sure you did.

Tam: Update! Even if it isn't in blog form :)

Alright, now for a nice relaxing weekend...

Clarification
I don't dig blondes. However, as suggested by Wongz, I do dig the Sigma SD9 which was the camera used to capture that picture linked in the last post. It's a 3.3 Megapixel camera like my current G1, but the Foveon sensor's actual resolution is much higher. Unfortunately, so is the price tag. I seriously need an inside source.
Death by VHS
It seems like months since I went to see a movie in the theaters; six months ago i must have been going once a week. I caught the ring last night with low expectations, following unimpressive reviews on the Star and New York Times. Perhaps it was the preparation for disappointment, but the horror film actually came off as not bad. It's a far cry from the teeny scream flicks that were poured out on the general public a few years back. The film is much more of an unfolding mystery or detective story, but with an ominous creepiness weighing down the entire film. It was reminiscent of What Lies Beneath, but with more asian inspired style, and less Hitchcockian suspense. The film had it's share of faults. There were a lot of themes thrown in that made little sense, but successfully added to the creepiness. The plot was mostly predictable but had just barely enough minor twists thrown in to keep make it slightly interesting. The suspense was lacking in a few scenes that were cut a little too long. But overall, it was entertaining, and the concepts successfully more freaky than comedic. Luckily for me, I only watch DVDs. (3.5 / 5)

Drool...
Boy oh boy do I ever want one of these (warning, slow download).

Damn Yankees
Scenario: Madman sniper in Maryland takes a pleasure drive up to D.C. where he does the peaceful peoples of the world a favour by taking out the biggest threat to world peace.
Crazy talk you say? Maybe we should go with the president's philosophy. Confronting grave dangers is the surest path to peace and security. Aristotle spoke of politics as the practical branch of philosophy with which to govern people for their benefit. It's becoming clear, however, that American foreign policy is based on the philosophies of "the best defense is a good offense" as much as "might makes right".
Even if one believes that Dubya, son of oil speculator George Sr., is acting out of national defense rather than middle eastern oil-field speculation, the philosophy of using weapons of mass destruction in order to prevent another country from creating them, simply confounds me.
Yeah, I haven't blogged in a while. Most writers have their muse, whether it be ecstasy or despair, which I assume is why the less artistically inclined tend to fade into the daily grind. I think I'm missing that joie de vivre, the extra bam! I've had little to think about and less to tell the world. Perhaps I can claim that I've figured out there really isn't much to figure out. But thank you George, your October 16th Iraq Resolution has brought forth waves of revulsion in my soul like nothing else in the past year. It's no wonder the world hates America.

So damn cute

Blah blah blah
What a rut. I need to find something to do. We might go surfing this weekend.
Anyways, there was an earthquake, way back on May 13. I was on the phone at the time, and at first I heard a loud rumbling - I thought it was just someone moving a heavy load outside, but it was awfully loud. After a few seconds, I could feel the wall I was leaning against shake heavily for a few seconds. It didn't seem like any of the crazy earthquake videos I've seen, and although I could see things shake, it died down before I got anxious. The more amusing story was related by my co-worker - he thought there was something wrong with his head when he couldn't maintain his aim on the toilet...

Dark clouds over July
It's been a while since I last looked at other people's blogs. The month has been pretty dry - but who am I to talk; it's been three weeks since I've last touched this though it hasn't seemed half that long. A lot of things have passed since then, and I can't remember everything that I've meant to pen here.

June 30^th was the closest thing we've had to a perfect day trip. Our group met for lunch on the patio of the Parkside Cafe (3/5), a stone's throw away from Stinson Beach, a relaxed beachside community isolated about an hour north of San Francisco by a twisty stretch of Pacific hugging highway. After an extended lunch under the lazy weekend sun, some of us toured the beach while the rest drove two cars to the top of Mt. Tamalpais. After returning to the beach in a third car, we hiked up one of the many trails from the beach to the top of the mountain.

The seven and a half mile hike took us about three and a half hours at a relaxed pace, though sections of the trail were steep enough to feel sweat dripping down our foreheads and our hearts pounding with the ascent. We got to the top about an hour early for our goal. On the peak was a fire watchtower, where firemen were posted two weeks at a time, scanning the horizon for signs of forest fires in the dry season. While they had their supper within the confines of their cramped tower, we sat on the rocks, watching the thick fog blow in from the Pacific, over San Francisco and the Golden Gate to the southeast.

As the shadow of the mountain stretched slowly, mile by mile, over the city of Sausalito below, the mercury dropped and the rushing of the winds picked up. Most of the tourists - photographers drawn by the perfect light, couples searching for a romantic spot behind clump of rocks, or families of hiking kids - had already left the peak, but a handful, including our group, stayed to watch the last fleeting rays as the sun dropped below the mountains to the west.

On the drive back, we stopped at Cristophe for dinner. A four course French cuisine that was hearty enough to leave each of us stuffed to the seams after the long day on the trail came to $22 (4/5).

The next evening, after a church and a quiet afternoon, I was completely shocked to hear Amy's anguished cries over the phone, telling me that her father had passed. For a moment I was firmly entrenched in reality, yet the moment passing seemed surreal as the cell phone disconnected, and I felt only a total sense of helplessness. Later, when I was in Economy check-in line for United Airlines, I had the same disoriented sense watching people milling about the airport. Businessmen looked busy on cell phones. Some mothers tended their children on the benches while fathers waited in line with the luggage. Other families looked well prepared for a South Pacific vacation. One girl, who looked no more than seventeen, was carrying a baby in the ticketing line for almost the entire hour that I was in the check-in line, yet she still had a contented look on her face as she played with the child.

There's a dissonance in the perception of men. Standing there in the airport, I could see the happiness in the family gladly looking towards their vacation, the anticipation on the face of the old woman who was going home, the determination of the business flyers, yet inside I felt the incurable trauma that another family was living. As immense that it was, a complete breach in the fabric of their reality, I also knew that life went on as usual for most of the other six billion faces on the planet. Indeed, no one else at the airport would likely guess as to why I was travelling that day. Never before that day, have I ever looked at person waiting at the airport, thinking 'oh, they must be travelling to visit a dying relative'.

Already in the small circle of blogs, are there mentions of at least two other passings in the last two months. Our response - the feelings of sympathy, the words of consolation, are so drastically different than those in the lives directly touched. I sit here at my desk wondering and completely oblvious to what's going on at the current moment: children in Africa who maybe saying goodbye to their parents, parents in Cambodia who could be putting their children to rest.

"Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world."

An exceeding high mountain

Two weeks ago, a group of Waterloo grads made it to Mt. Whitney, the highest peak in the lower 48 states. That's actually a bit of hyperbole, since it only ranks 28 in the list of tallest mountains in North America.
We started on a Friday evening, with two minivans driving seven hours to Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks. After camping out for a few hours in tents and the vans, most of us were up by 4am. By 5am we were on our way to the Whitney Portal Trailhead. While we started out as a group, we had pretty much split up into a number of smaller groups after the first 4 miles.
A 15 hour hike generally gives you plenty of time to think. When you're not thinking 'how much further to the peak?', you may ponder some of life's more interesting questions. Like 'why the !@#$ am I doing this?'. I don't know what the driving force is for climbing up a mountain. In essence we hiked 22 miles that day, and ended up at the same campsite we started at. By 3pm, we made it to the summit, which at 14,493 feet, is about half the height of Everest. It's not like you're actually reaching an especially high altitude - anyone who's been on a 747 has probably been three times as high.
Halfway to the peak, you're already thinking about going to sleep by the side of the trail. The air is thin enough to give you vertigo after hiking a hundred feet, and it was cool enough for snow and ice to wander across the trail in patches. Climbing up the switchbacks become a matter of just putting one foot ahead of another until you reach the summit. By the time you reach 4,000 ft., the air is thin enough to make your head hurt. Winds are howling around you, and the trail gets rough. You have to pull out the fleece and the winter gloves. You look up to the summit, your head pounding and feet aching, the final two miles seem to stretch incredibly further than the first nine.
Somewhere along the way you realize just how rugged nature is - piles of rocks that have been around for hundreds of thousands of years. Snow that never melts. Trees and shrubs and even grass have stopped growing a few thousand feet below you. The glare of the high altitude sun blazes around you throught the cloudless sky, burning as it ripples off the icy surfaces of the lakes pooled below you.
When you look down from the summit, you realize the incredible beauty behind the piles of bleak rock, veins of ice crawling down the mountains, and half-frozen aqua lakes whose surfaces are in wrinkled with floating ice. In every direction around you, the Sierra Nevadas break the horizon while the wind bites into your skin. "What does man gain from all his labor at which he toils under the sun?" What is changed by climbing up a mountain? Compared to the age of rocks and ice, what lasting value do any of man's accomplishments have?
"Be happy, young man, while you are young, and let your heart give you joy in the days of your youth. Follow the ways of your heart, and whatever your eyes see, but know that for all these things God will bring you to judgement." Forget the pain, hunger, and cold on the way up, it all disappeared with the thrill of being at the top.

Days gone by
There are times when life simply flies by in a blur, like the cornstalks whizzing past as you hurtle down the pavement cutting through the midst of them. Maybe you're preoccupied with the traffic, maybe you're driving too fast, or maybe you've just been mesmerized by the little yellow lines flipping by regularly one after another, like days in a neverending calendar.

It was the Memorial Day long weekend May 24-27. Since Lancer and Corgan went down to E3 the week before, the rest of us up in the Bay packed ourselves up and prepared ourselves for the grueling long weekend traffic down to L.A., our rental Windstar merely an ant in the trail of crawling metal stretching 300 miles down to LA. We left San Jose, Friday night at 5pm, which was probably about the worst time we could have left. We arrived at the L.A. Westin Airport hotel seven hours later. Our two Priceline rooms, at $70 each a night, had plush pillows, clean comforters, and fancy double-headed showers. The hotel also happened to be hosting a Gaming Conference, with all the included characters.


Our first destination on Saturday was the Getty Museum. We met up with the Ottawa crew by the tram from the parking to the museum, about an hour after they were supposed to arrive. We spent the first half of the day wandering the galleries in the off white pavilions, wandering through the manicured gardens and topiary. After a lunch of grilled chicken and fig sandwiches and mozzarella, tomato and basil calabrese at the Garden Terrace cafe, we finished up at the museum and drove along Mulholland Drive, through the Beverly Hills, and up to the Hollywood sign. The sign itself is supposed to be off limits, although there's a relatively rough off-road trail that makes it accessible to those willing to make the hike. When you get to the 45 foot tall steel letters, you realize there really isn't much there, just a bit of garbage here and there, evidence of people having had their fun.


After getting up to the lonely landmark of the oppulent and taking a few photos - trophies of our conquest - we hiked back to the cars where some of the less adventurous were napping. We drove back down to Rodeo Drive; it was almost 6pm and the designer boutiques were closing up. After swinging past the far-too-expensive storefronts, browsing through the assortment of fancy automobiles parked on the street, and stopping for a few photos, we took a walk to the Ottawa guys' hotel, allegedly three blocks away. Make that extremely large values of three. Arislan eventually swung around to pick us up (since those guys were too lazy to walk and had fittingly decided to drive).


We had an evening snack at Factor's Famous Deli. It was 8pm, but it was ang evening snack regardless, since our actual dinner reservation wasn't until 10pm. Factor's served the typical deli fare; a few people had sandwiches or salads, the rest of us sat around and munched on the assortment of complimentary pickles. The sandwiches were mouthwatering, but the muffins they served were probably bought elsewhere.

It was just one of those days where you seemed to be constantly eating. Sticking food in your mouth and chewing and swallowing all so you can just do it again. The real dinner came later at Lucques on Melrose Ave for Asmodean's birthday. Reservations were made a day in advance, and that got our group of 12 a 10pm seating, which required a $20/person deposit. The decor was a subdued hip - white linens and modern furniture surrounding an exposed brick fireplace and chimney. At 10pm, the restaurant was in full swing, the tables were packed and we had to edge between seated diners to get to our table. The menu was simple, appetizers, entrees and a selection of sides. None of the mad five course menus you find at other posh places. A few people ordered appetizers but most of us just went for an entree.

The spring lamb itself was done well, it was cooked to medium for a tender yet still bouncy consistency. The peas and fava beans that garnished it seemed out of place, not adding much in flavour nor presentation. The soft-shell crab was deep fried, very similar to Japanese restaurants, with little to distinguish it. The crab's always good, but it would have been better served had it been drained - they're fatty enough on their own. Service however, was subpar in a few respects.

We returned to the Ottawa crew's hotel room to serve up the gag cake imported from San Francisco. The cake didn't quite make the trip intact. I thought it was from my poor driving in the long weekend traffic. In reality, when the trunk of the minivan was opened on our arrival to L.A., the cake had made a somersault from the top of the pile of luggage, off the rear bumper and onto the floor. It was in surprisingly good condition after the exercise.

The orignal plan for Sunday was to visit San Diego (maybe to visit the Zoo or the beach or Legoland. The weather report was rather cool for the beach, and neither of the other attractions seemed to make the 3hr drive worthwhile. It occured to me that we could go to Evergreen Baptist Church in the morning, but we were unprepared and didn't have directions. We ended up looking in the yellow pages, and ended up at Our Saviour Lutheran Church in Westchester, being the first place I could find the directions to. Three of us made our way to the ordinary little community church. Five minutes before the service, we got into the church despite the fact that it was almost empty. No celebrity pastors here, but it was certainly wasn't the usual. The congregation had about 20 very friendly seniors, the service was very orthodox, and on that particular Sunday, included a recitation of the Athanasian Creed. We stayed for donuts and recommendations to visit the Hollywood bowl before we left.

We joined the rest of the crew for a relaxed Sunday brunch basking on the patio of the Rose Cafe in Santa Monica, and spent the rest of the afternoon playing volleyball on Venice beach. A friend of my Dad's took me out for dinner in the Chinese neighborhood, Monterey Park, later that evening. First time I've had anything remotely Shanghainese since coming down to California. Dinner was followed with taro ice and red bean ice. We met up with the other guys again after dinner, and drove down Sunset Blvd. in search of nightlife. After passing by a couple of hiphop clubs with lines extending for hours and exorbitant covers. Somehow we ended up at some club near Sunset and Cahuenga (no one seems to have caught the name before entering), best described as goth, retro and new wave. Both the costumes and characters were colourful, to say the least.

Since we didn't have anything planned for Monday (other than the drive home), we lazed the morning away in Santa Monica, where buskers entertained in the avenue full of shops and restaurants, people crowded the midway on the pier, and the beach stretched forever in both directions. We had Thai for lunch, and simply strolled through Santa Monica taking in the sights and sounds of the beachfront. It was our last stop in L.A. as we picked up our cars from the parking complex and headed back onto the 405 to make our way home.

A week later I was skipping out on work early on Friday yet again. Instead of heading to the city, I was headed out to Yosemite National Park. After years of National Geographic articles and photos, I was finally going to see the park for myself. Somehow, that magazine made every locale exotic, whether it was a rainforest, a bustling city, or a farm in the Midwest. Road trips in California tend to be scenic, passing the sea, or rolling hills, mountains, desert, or even fields packed with cows.

This trip only had the four of us, so I drove my own car. The traffic was relatively light for a friday evening, probably because it was a long weekend just before. After stopping at In-n-Out for dinner in Merced, the sky was getting dark. The passengers busted out the notebook and popped in Ocean's 11. While they watched the flickering screen, I watched the flickering mountain top ahead of me, as blades of lightning lit up the night sky around the silhouette of the Sierra Nevada range.

It was 23:00 by the time we arrived at Curry Village in Yosemite. The tent cabins we reserved were made of heavy canvas draped around a wood frame. Although pretty secure against the elements, the tarp didn't do much to block out external noise. It's like sleeping with a hundred unseen campers. A cough here, a sneeze there, a creak of the bed. The dirt path crunches softly as someone walks past. Sounds of people getting up and about starting ringing through the camp by 5am.

By 9am everyone's ready to go. The sky was cloudy and the wind was cool. We head to the trailhead on our way up to Half Dome. The hike is 16.4 miles (roundtrip), ascending 4,796 vertical feet. We're already an hour behind our intended start time as we make a breakfast of Doritos, Nutri-grain bars and Gatorade. We started the trail, guessing at which peak the trail lead to. In late May, the rivers running through Yosemite are mostly in full swing, carrying down the winter melt. We passed Vernal Falls, and the higher up Nevada Falls, both roaring with icy white water.

Eventually the rocky trail smoothed out into a softer forest trail, and we covered most of the distance shaded by trees. We spotted a wolf, a deer, and numerous rodents and birds. Dark blue Steller's jays would occasionally appear and fly ahead of us. Toward the top, the trees thinned out as we approached the bald rock that was the summit. Two heavy cables were strung to assist hikers up the 45° incline up the final few hundred feet to the top.

By 16:00 we had all made it to the top, although it seemed as if everyone else had already left. The sun was peeking through some of the clouds as we spent a few minutes savouring the victory and the view at the total elevation of 8,836 ft. When we started heading down, it was clear the steep steps up to the summit had taken their toll. Our pace was slow despite the downward incline. Two of us had gone somewhat faster, and we stopped by Nevada falls and rested, watching the sun drift slowly towards the mountains, casting the rocks rising above the valley in an orange glow.


We hurried along after that, since no one had expected the hike to take so long - none of us carried a flashlight and the light was dimming fast. By 21:00 we were mostly traveling by the starlight that trickled in through the trees, and had split up into two pairs since we were going down at different paces. Behind us came a few lights swinging through the darkness, we waited as a large group of Hispanic hikers met up with us. They had spotted two people headed down the stock trail (as in, a trail for horses). I had hoped it wasn't the other two members of our group - they must have been further behind since the flashlights were actually pretty close behind us. We took a shot down the horse trail for a few minutes, but didn't find anyone. If anyone had actually headed down there they were going at a fast pace in the dark.

We returned to the fork, where two guys from the other hiking group volunteered to search the stock trail while the rest of us headed on to the bridge at Vernal falls. We waited in the dark, staring up into a deep blue sky specked with stars. Someone in the other group said a prayer in Spanish for our missing friends. The two guys returned in half an hour, they hadn't seen anyone on the trail. We continued slowly down the trail. By the time we got to the bottom and got a ride back to Curry Village, it was already 22:30.

If the lesson learned wasn't 'don't overestimate your group's pace', then it's 'park rangers will not come help you'. Throughout the evening I called the park ranger dispatch a number of times. It seemed her job was to pacify callers. We spent the next few hours trying to hike up the trails with a dying flashlight in hopes of finding them. We tried calling out, but any voices were simply drowned out by the river. Finally, the dispatch agreed to lend me a few fully charged flashlight, but the park rangers didn't come to deliver them till 01:30, by which time I was already exhausted. After assurances that they wouldn't suffer hypothermia in the wind, we resigned to parking by the trailhead and sleeping until morning broke.

We went back to Curry Village to call the park ranger at 5am before heading back up the trails. After searching the two mile loop from the trailhead to the end of the stock trail, we managed to find the two of them sitting satisfied in the Food Pavilion, after having survived the night in the wilderness, making it down sometime during the morning, and polishing off a buffet breakfast. After grabbing a Red Bull for the road, we made our way home.

The weekend after that I hiked Mt. Whitney, the highest peak in the lower 48 states and Hawaii, but I'll leave that story for another day.

More of the same
There's a lot of times I sit down and wonder, where have the past two weeks of my life gone? Sure most of it was at work, and much of it seemed pretty unproductive. Like the times you take a week to solve a problem, since you need the first four and a half days to get up to speed with things. I think that's why I'm in engineering, not theoretical physics - it's really nice to have something tangible done at the end of the day (even though software is often considered an intangible).

What else have I managed to do lately? The usual of dinners, movies, and going hiking with friends. It's amazing when I think about it, a year ago I was leaving Toronto for Delhi: I can never quite grasp the immense range of conditions that humans live in. I think given another year, that third world itch will really start itching. I've started reading through my Morocco Lonely Planet guide. I'm also looking to read Wolfram's A New Kind of Science. Also tried helping out with Santee Bible Club, a monthly day camp for lower class kids in South San Jose. Interesting as it was, I don't think I'm particularly adept at dealing with kids.