babies being cliché
Friday, November 26 2004
setting: San Jose, Santa Clara County, "Silicon Valley," California, USA
This morning we had an prolonged breakfast of pie, bagels, and coffee, with many of the people from last night coming back from wherever they stayed and conversations picking up where they'd left off last night. But the mood was now dictated by caffeine, not alcohol. In these sorts of situations, as the social setting is winding down, I find myself becoming gradually preoccupied with the question of whom I am going to have to hug when I leave. I don't really mind the hugs themselves; what I mind is the discomfort that accompanies them.
We drove up to San Francisco, dropped off the car at the airport, and then caught our plane back to Newark. Again the main characteristic of the flight was the near-constant squalling of babies. I know it's terribly unfair, but whenever I hear a baby crying the first thought that enters my head is, "Oh Jesus, it's such cliché to carry on like that! Do something, anything, different to register your complaint!" I've also been known to think the same thing when hearing a dog barking monotonously. This thought leads to another: what exactly is the proper balance between communicating a well-understood message and doing the unexpected?
The other dismal feature of our flight was the vegetarian dish we were served. Its main course was a piece of pita bread containing tomatoes and cucumbers and absolutely no sauce, cheese, or protein of any kind. To make it taste like something, anything, I had to pour my runny fat-free salad dressing into my sandwich. This is the sort of food you get when you ask a steak and potatoes menu planner to add a vegetarian option. Next time we're going for the "Indian vegetarian" option (which we only became aware of today). Chances are the menu planning on such meals is outsourced to Bangalore, and in this case that's most definitely a good thing!
One of Gretchen's second cousins once removed loves puffins, so she always gets them as gifts.
South of the San Francisco airport.
"South San Francisco, the Industrial City." Who knew?
I saw this tarmac plane director guy doing all sorts of tricks with his orange sticks, though none were all that impressive. I felt sorry for the guy, since so much of his work consists of sitting around waiting for something to happen. Then Gretchen reminded me that his is a nice union job and that he has full medical coverage and I felt a pang of envy.
Ours is a beautiful planet.
But assholes are always tearing it up. Here we see a series of ridges that have been leveled at the top by humans. I think this is in Nevada.
There was a lot of snow on the mountains throughout the West.
The "vegetarian" option on the flight home featured a main course comprised of pita bread containing tomatoes and cucumbers with absolutely no flavoring of any kind. Lots of people seem to think that vegetarianism is a synonym for gustatory masochism.
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