The Sea is Full of Corks

I'm a cork and so are you. And so is everyone I live with. And there's a lot of us.

The ocean is a big place, but this corner of it is small. And I live in a small corner of a small corner that is overcrowded with drifting souls.

I live in a halfway house for people wanting to move to the city. It's people in transition. I fit in in that regard but fit out in plenty of other ways.

There is always the struggle between introverts and extroverts. Generally, even when living with people, I can escape into myself when I need to. This place makes it hard.

Firstly, I work from my room far too often. And working from home, there's often people around the house crowding the kitchen when all I want to do is get a drink of water or make an egg—without all that chit chat.

And there are some individuals who take up more than their fair share of the space. They are not only physically larger but also such big personalities that there is little psychic room left over for the rest of us.

Especially little for us introverts who don't like having to fight for space.

That was the brewing situation over the last month, finally culminating this last weekend.

The guy in question was large and in charge and carried around with him such weight—psychic weight—that his already overbearing personality became suffocating with any addition of alcohol. And when he drank, he drank.

And on the final weekend, he created an entire weekend of farewell to himself. And on the first night of the weekend of debauchery—he really is a Dionysian character—he got drunk, we all did, and he got surly. This is a guy who seems to love people, but it may just be that he loves being around people because he needs an audience in order to feel happy.

I am not that way and so find it irritating.

My mind was getting more and more polluted with the psyches of others. And I literally, at times, had a hard time hearing myself think.

Finally, respite. He left—much to the joy of 1/2 of the people living here—and we are left to our own thoughts. Now it's time to organize them and try to go back to the focus I was once so close to prioritizing.

Embody the Drift

I came to San Francisco 48 days ago. Finally, this feels like normal life. I don't feel like I have to take advantage of *everything* but I still feel like I am taking advantage of plenty.

Yesterday, I got sucked into the wake of a large, ocean-going vessel of roommates and, with them, had a long, moveable afternoon and evening of dancing and drinks.

It started with Burning Man. One of my roommates—I have not some several—is going to Burning Man for the first time (while everyone else in SF seems to have been multiple) this year. Her camp was having a fundraiser to help pay for their expenses: you know, basic surviving in the desert for a week expenses.

That was the dancing and a little drinking. The music was typical Burner music: trance, techno, house, tech house and whatever other sub-sub-subgenres are out there now.
In back, there was a "silent disco" where people danced to music that was only audible through headphones. It keeps the noise down for the neighbors.

After a couple hours, I started to get tired—am I too old for this?—and we eventually headed back to the house only to stumble into a bar on the way.

Finally, an hour later, we got back to the house only to have 30 minutes to get ready for our next adventure: Sunday Night Dinner.

The location was a house—not dissimilar in effect to our house—but different in execution. Instead of an old crack house, 12 tech hackers live in a full-blown mansion replete with basement bowling alley.

Every Sunday, they have dinner for the masses: generally tech folks who have been around the start-up scene for a while.

I met a number of interesting people and ran into people I've already met. It's a small world, and SF is a tiny corner of it.

And the food was all vegan (the potatoes might have been only vegetarian) and actually pretty good. I could live on that.

By the end of the evening, though, I was exhausted. It was a long time with the same group of people. I could feel us developing a hive mind and while I usually resist, it was fun to just go along with it.

But then when I got tired of it, I got really tired, really quickly.

I collapsed into my bed and dozed for a couple of hours before finally garnering the strength to "go to bed." And then slept really well—according to my sleep app.

Saturday Afternoon in the Park of Delores

Delores Park is a sort of Mecca for those who enjoy park sitting, public drinking, marijuana-infused edible treats, and intense people watching.

In fact, it was in this park that I learned of the sublet which I ended up taking.

So far, I have managed to make it to the park nearly every weekend, even the weekend of 120 miles of exhausting riding.

There's an aspect of the park that almost seems magical, like it's a sacred place like Machu Pichu or Fairfield, IA where the energy meridians of the earth coincide.

Maybe it's just been imbued with that energy by countless park-goers.

All of this is to say, coincidence is abundant in the park.

Yesterday, Saturday, I was at the park with friends (of friends of friends...) and we were discussing targeted ads, specifically the algorithm that large companies use to know when women are pregnant or about to get pregnant.

We had bought some truffles from the truffle guy but hadn't eaten them yet.

[The truffle guy is a beautiful, ambiguously ethnic human being who makes and sells truffles in bronze bowls he made himself. He has really good, fun-to-read Yelp reviews.]

I've had his truffles before but never a whole one—they are super potent for someone who doesn't dabble in THC all that often.

So I bought 3 for 10 bucks.

Half hour later, none of us had tried one yet when we were approached by another ganja park vendor.

She was a less-than-beautiful, plain-white woman in her 40s and was selling ganja suckers. When we respectfully declined, she said in a nasty, almost offended tone: "Well if you like truffles, you'll like suckers."

Target marketing!

She saw our truffles, knew that we were into edibles and figured we'd be interested in her products.

This is where target marketing fails. Why did we buy from the truffle man? Is it just for the THC? Or is it also for the reputation (fame), past experiences, and the deliciousness.

The why is important.

[Also, we already had edibles; why would we need more?]

Makeshift Gatekeeper

San Francisco is a land of contradictions. It's where every café has beer but not every bar has liquor. It's where everyone's friendly but few are your friends.

After 2 weeks of living here, I continue to feel more and more like myself. Not in vacation mode, not in adjusting mode, just in being. With each phase comes new spending patterns. The first week, I noticed I was spending too much just adjusting. The second week, I went in vacation mode as I had a visitor. Then went to spend-none mode. Now back to just normal spending.

So I went out last night. Walked around, found a bar that proposed music later, and, not thinking I'd even be around for the music, went in. 

The bar was pretty empty, so I found a spot at the bar and opened one of my new books.

After thoroughly digesting the one-page forward and imbibing a 10% Imperial Porter, I was finding myself listening more to the ambient conversations than focusing on the book.

One group of guys, long-time friends, some in from out of town—for the Google IO convention?—were talking about tech stuff that I know some things about, while the bartender and her sound guy were desperately trying to find a door man for the show.

I finished a second beer and, as she asked me if I wanted another, I asked if they needed a door guy.

In most other cities, in most situations, bars don't trust dudes who just happen to be hanging out with $100 in change and potentially 3x that by the end of the night.

But in this situation, they did. Without even so much as a "What's your last name?" or "Can you leave your id with us so you don't just run off with the money."

Not that I would have, and maybe she sensed that, but I've been noticing, as a quasi-drifter—staying at an SRO!—how easy it would be to be a con-man. These people don't know me, and I have a trustworthy face and demeanor. But maybe it's my being trustworthy that has built that demeanor—and face.

So next thing I know, I'm at the door with a hundred bucks asking people for "7 to 10 dollars, sliding scale."

This bar has shows most nights but only charges a cover on some. This was one of those. So a lot of people either didn't expect a cover or didn't know what it was.

I found that the easiest thing was to ask for IDs, because that's pretty normal, and then while they were fumbling say: "There's a cover tonight for the bands." That last part—"for the bands"—was the important part, making me feel more justified in asking for money.

It's all about working with people's expectations.

Some would come in and ask how much; those were easy. Some would come in like they were on a bar crawl. There were, in fact, people on a bar crawl. 3 people came in, learned about the cover and were disappointed. Tried to haggle. I offered 10 for the 3 of them—they weren't here for the music—and the girl said that there were 15 of them coming. I looked around the bar, pretty full with an already-slammed bartender, and said "Then I don't think this is the right bar for you."

Was that too blunt? It was true. For them, for the bar, for me.

So then 15 people walked by the door looking either disappointed or angry.

The funniest thing I saw, besides the passed out cokehead getting carried out by his friends (which wasn't so much funny as unsettling), was out the door. From my position, the door was framing whatever happened out on the street like a mini-proscenium. But most of the action was happening offstage, leaving me to infer from what I could hear—and the little I could see—what was going on.

I saw a plastic cup go skidding by—blown by wind?—and then seconds later, this mid-40s guy in one of the bands comes jumping across my view and stomps on it like he had a score to settle.

Really, the funniest thing to me was the very fact that I was where I was.

The cokehead thing wasn't that funny. Just a white dude in his late 20s, early 30s who was kind of skeezy the whole night. But skeezy in a fun, party way. He was with friends and was "friends with the band" so wasn't just some bum off the street.

At some point, 4 of his friends hurriedly carried his dead-to-the-world body out the door, lying him on the sidewalk. I thought maybe it was epilepsy or something equally strange and scary. 

I didn't even recognize him at the time because he wasn't wearing his sunglasses, which he'd been wearing the whole time—in the "darkest bar I've ever been in."

Don't know exactly what happened, but I think he'll make it. And will maybe learn his lesson.

Then the last band ended—who were actually pretty good—and I forked over the money to the bartender. Not sure how much it ended up being, but at least one person—this elvish looking blonde waif—paid with a hundo and there were plenty of other 20s left after I got my cut.

It's a little sad, if you think about it, this random guy—me—gets 60 bucks for the night, while the musicians who put forth much more effort probably got a fraction of that apiece.

Such is life. And now back to my real job.

Home is Where the Startup Is

2 weeks ago today, I got to SF. And while I wouldn't expect to feel at home yet, I'm starting to.

The first week was excitement turning to routine turning to almost boredom. A week after I got here, I was sitting in a cafe feeling stuck in this new life.

Later that day, my ladyfriend (of the "Unicorns Exist fame) arrived after having bought a flight the day before. (And after having mulled it over for 3 suspenseful days.)

And so quickly, my stuckness became unstuck as we drifted around the city for 3 days as if in a cloud—a cloud of possibilities.

We hit up vegan/vegetarian-friendly restaurants, met new friends, saw the bridge, met old friends, and generally soaked up each other's company.

The sea was tiny that day.

Hence, I didn't have the wherewithal to write about it.

Her stay ended and I continued on still transformed, finding new joy in the routine of working from home, working from coffee shops, and doing long bike rides.

But finding a good space in which to work was still a challenge. Working from coffee shops wears on you, as your "co-workers" are strangers to you and seldom do you meet new friends—or even have the mindspace to do so.

Working from home is complicated: not having a desk, it's physically uncomfortable, not having a clear space, mentally beclouding.

But in one fell swoop, I found a workspace and a (potential) community of seemingly likeminded people.

It's called Noisebridge and it's a Hackerspace. And it's 2 blocks from my place.

Same Cork, Different Ocean

2 years ago, I took a break from my life and spent 2 months in Europe.

This summer, I'm spending 2 months living and working in San Francisco. It's my 2-year itch.

A month ago, I was sitting in Dolores Park with my friend and his friends, one of whom was leaving their place open for 3 months. Subletting was discussed, and over the course of a couple hours, I went from somewhat intrigued to practically convinced.

It's hard to say no to a city when you're drinking and being offered drugs in a beautiful park in the sunshine.

It's hard to say no to San Francisco.

The sublet was a room in a space that has been described as a "tech dorm", "tech hostel", and "squat." So SF. Not having seen it, I was blissfully ignorant of what to expect. Uncertainty excites me in general, and I was particularly ready for an adventure.

After committing to the sublet, there was scant further information. As my departure date loomed closer—that is, 2 days before leaving—I finally sent out some emails to try to get more information, hoping that everything was still set.

Got a quick response from the property manager, who told me how to find the place: "We are on the corner of 20th and Mission above the T-mobile store.The door is located about 30 yards up 20th st from the corner just past the eggplant dragon mural."

Eggplant dragon mural.

I ring the doorbell, after having lugged my 20 lb bike in a box along with a suitcase and carryon on 2 trains, through 2 airports, and through 2 cities, and waited. Eventually, Suzanne opened the door and seemed to know to expect me.

I walked up the stairs past a dozen bikes and got the tour.

The floors of the hallways have been stripped of any flooring down to the wood. Other bikes—some dusty, some broken—line the halls along with various construction equipment like sanders and saws. The one kitchen is nice but small. Considering the situation, it's surprisingly clean.

Currently, there's only one bathroom, which is shared by men and women and whomever else. 3 toilets, 2 showers. There's another toilet in a separate room down the hall—a modicum of privacy.

My bedroom is surprisingly nice. Carpet, queen-size bed, nice sheets, a hard-wood dresser, and a view over the neighbor's backyard. Small and no desk but nice.

My friend, the one who helped connect me to this opportunity, came by last night and was shocked at the... rusticness. I was a little... surprised... myself, but mostly pleasantly. I don't have to bring any chaos to this place; there's plenty enough as it is.

On Land

I'm on a new mission. After 2 years of recovering, refoundationing, and rebuilding, I'm adrift again, another period of punctuation in the amorphous flow of life.

I got back from Europe with only the promise of a job (giving bike tours), nowhere to live. Stayed with friends and parents and looked. Found the Castle: a 2-story graystone with 12 people living on 3 floors at the center of Logan Square.

People came and went, performed music/comedy/poetry, built things, went out too much, stayed in too much. And only one suicide attempt.

Then, after years of threatening to give up bike tours for good, I found my way out.

I have sympathy for people who are stuck—for I certainly was—but you can't get out if you're not constantly trying. It's like shooting rockets into space; you don't always know how much escape velocity you need.

For my escape, I uncovered web development, a métier that I enjoyed so much that I would do it for no money. That not being sustainable, it's nice that it is, in fact, remunerated. And pretty well at that.

But I did it for no money, pursuing my own projects—building websites that I wanted to use—and then fell in with a startup whose website I had already tried to use.

Dabble.co has been around Chicago for 2 years. They are an online marketplace for real-life classes: scotch tasting, glass blowing, photoshop, jewelry making, and so on. I submitted a bike maintenance class before I ever thought about working in websites. But then I couldn't work out the details, and the idea fizzled.

Here's the timeline as far as I can tell:

* 6/24/11 - We start following each other on Twitter.
* 4/6/12   - An email from a new contact: "So Dabble is looking for a developer..." (But I don't yet have nearly enough experience. Just started teaching myself a month earlier.)
* 7/9/12   - I have more experience, they still have a need; they agree to bring me in.
* 7/24/12 - Came in for the first time to Catapult, the startup incubator shared office.
* Did an unpaid stint with them for the rest of July, August and September; still needed experience.
* October, took a contract for a different website.
November, started working (contract) for Dabble for real money.
Little by little, the 20hr/wk contract became more like 30-40.
Which brings us to now: working 40hrs, making more money than I've ever made.

I'm also feeling freer than ever. Funny what a little money will do.