Productination

My wheels rolled smoothly on the parking structure floor. After hours, it was an absolute pleasure to skate here. The asphalt knew not the wear and tear of the rest of the city, and its surface felt almost polished in comparison.

I usually started my day off with a nice downhill slalom from my car to the bottom of the structure. It was the perfect way to kick off my work day, lingering on the last few moments before heading into the office, focusing my mind and allowing me a little extra time to put on my game face. Similarly, after an eight hour day of putting out fires and solving arcane, illogical puzzles, I tried to get in a few minutes more on the roof before heading home, if I wasn’t completely exhausted.

The air tonight was cold and moist and wonderful, and the city just oozed gorgeousness.

As should be pretty obvious by now, at its core, my story is no more complicated than one about a guy who skateboards, writes code, takes pictures, writes stories, sometimes talks to girls, and occasionally trolls the intermawebs. Certainly, I have my fair share of wild and crazy adventures, but some days are just the basics, and there’s nothing wrong with that. I pride myself on being able to enjoy even the most mundane tasks. Even moments in my life most people would label unpleasant or painful are beautiful in their own right.

Every moment is perfect, just the way it is.

After skating around the rooftop, taking in the night, I drove home, had a hot meal, read for a while, and went to sleep.

I read my first word when I was four years old. I still remember the event vividly. I was in Berkeley with my mom. I recognized the logo of The Gap and told my mom, unprompted, “Look mommy, the gap!” Mom had never previously made a big deal of pointing out to me The Gap or the sign. She only mentioned the name of our destination in passing, if we happened to be going there. We had never been to this particular Gap before, so it was clear that there was some sort of shape recognition on my part.

My parents were ecstatic. Whenever we went on walks together in our neighborhood, they would point out signs for me to read.

It wasn’t long until I read my first book, a beautifully illustrated dissertation entitled “Can You Imagine?” that boldly dared us to think outside the box and envision a world in which cubed balls bounced off round walls! And flowers…talked? Admittedly, my memory on the subject is a bit hazy.

Plus, as excited as I was to read the book, I was equally interested in improving it with judicious use of my dinosaur markers, natch.

I then discovered the joys of the two awesome used book stores in my neighborhood. My father, a fellow bibliophile, would sometimes take me to them, and I’d lose myself in the children’s section for hours at a time, trying to find Waldo’s cursed cane, or perhaps sharpening my already keen sense of humor.

Even at an early age, I delivered classic punchlines like “because she saw the salad dressing” with my trademark acerbic wit.

Both the used book stores in my neighborhood went out of business.

Fortunately, there was much more comfort to be found at my local library, located a mere three blocks from my house. I’d make regular trips there to load up on the maximally allowed limit of twenty books, only to return them all in a week or two in exchange for another twenty.

Of course, my tastes at the time consisted mostly of entries in the incomparable Encyclopedia Brown and Ramona series’.

Holy good goddamn do I love the library.

Nowadays, I am limited to the Westwood branch of the LAPL, which is a bit lacking. At least I can rely on every library to have a substantial collection of “classics,” books that, for better or worse, are part of The Canon and are force-fed to reluctant high school students the world over.

The problem is that most high school students simply aren’t ready to receive the wisdom contained in these ancient tomes. It wasn’t until college that I revisited some of the greats, enjoyed them, and hungered for more. I wondered what other things, supposedly good for me, but foisted on me too soon, I would now find edifying.

I love broccoli, and fish oil, too, now.

I feel bad for those who have to write for video games.

This is especially true for action games, like the Castlevania series. If there is a reason behind why I’m running through an ancient castle, whipping vampires, I don’t really care to know it. Hell, it just takes time away from the whipping! No, whenever dialog comes up, I have my stylus poised over the “skip” button, ready to plow ahead.

I can just imagine myself, still green in the professional writing circuit, toiling for hours and hours on end, crafting a powerful, epic tale of champions, betrayal, unrequited love, and triumph over evil, but in an original way, dashing all expectations and cliché so common to the genre, only to have ten year old kids completely ignore it.

RPG and adventure game writers get a little more credit, as the narrative plays a more central role in the story. It is at least inconvenient to ignore the stories in well crafted RPG’s. Most often, I find myself hungry for that content, talking to every villager, solving every side quest, reading any lore that can add depth and context to the fictional world.

And the writing doesn’t have to be incredible or particularly challenging to have a strong impact; I don’t require game writing to be on the level of King Lear or The Great Gatsby. A lot of the games that have moved me were translated from Japanese, and were easy enough for me to understand as a kid. Chrono Trigger, for example, is probably my favorite video game of all time, and its English translation held up because of its universal themes. Every character had an extensive backstory (as revealed through in-game missions) that gave each credible motivation for joining your quest. Because of the interactive nature of games, it also got me invested in their journey.

It was one of the first games that made me cry.

I plopped myself down into my chair at my computer desk. Cupping my mug with both hands, I took a big sip of the fragrant chamomile. Steam immediately fogged my glasses; I took them off and rubbed my strained eyes.

It was another typical Friday night in LA. There were a million and one things I could do, but I only wanted to do one of them: collapse.

Having just completed my first week of working full-time since the summer, and with the considerable amount of caffeine I required each day to stay productive, I was exhausted.

And so began the almost nightly debate I had with myself. Would I go out or stay in? Having been through this decision process countless times, I knew the pros and cons pretty well. Most of the time, I forced myself to go out, falling back on my catch-all advice to live life storyworthily.

And yes, “storyworthily” is too a word. I’ve used it enough times that it should be, at any rate.

Recently though, my motivation to go out has been in a waning phase. There were so many interesting things for me to do at home. And going out every night was slowly killing my health and productivity.

“Fuck, should I go out tonight?” I asked my friend, not really wanting her answer, but just seeking validation for what I already decided.

“When you’re 80, what are you going to regret more, staying in or going out?” she said.

Damn, she had a point. That was the exact opposite of what I wanted to hear. In fact, her input only complicated my decision. Now I had another person who also thought that going out was the more storyworthy choice, even going so far as to say I might regret the alternative.

But, hey, the story would be boring if it was the same every night, right?

Despite the possibility of getting drunk, dancing with some girls, maybe even throwing up on myself in a truly hilarious Tucker Max’ian fashion, I had no regrets about watching my man Ash get medieval and then sleeping for 10 hours.

Every year, at Thanksgiving, we perform ritual animal sacrifice of bird, swine, and vegetation to appease the ancient hunger of the Harvest Gods. If we perform the ritual correctly, they allow us to survive in our sacred New World for another winter. But if we fail to stuff ourselves beyond capacity, our voracious overlords cast a frozen, pestilent, blight over the land until spring, when we are allowed to collect our dead, replant our crops, and begin anew.

At least, that’s what I’m telling my kids. They might have some explaining to do during their first Thanksgiving celebration in kindergarten. In the parent-teacher conferences that will inevitably follow, I will deny vigorously having told them this version of the Thanksgiving myth, you know, just to fuck with their heads.

Ah yes, nothing like instilling a healthy sense of skepticism and distrust in the next generation.

But seriously, no one I talk to really knows why we celebrate Thanksgiving. It has something to do with Pilgrims and Indians, and turkey, planting fish with corn…?

Plymouth Rock sometimes comes up in these conversations.

Regardless, it’s an opportunity to stuff myself silly. This is a holiday I am genetically predisposed to love.

Today’s company provided lunch consisted of a traditional Thanksgiving spread. Long tables had been set out in the common area, so that we could enjoy our meal as a family, sitting together.

Our company is very big on employee culture. In addition to biweekly free luncheons, we have an assortment of employee activities, both on and off-site. I didn’t attend all of them, but the Thanksgiving lunch was something I could get behind.

Plus, you know, I relish any chance I get to drink in the office.

I had been looking forward to it all week, especially after yesterday’s additional stress. But, speaking of which, I had yet to finish the project.

I got my food and ate it at my desk while I worked.

I like to listen to music when I write code. There’s just something about the gangsta rap that makes even the most mundane tasks seem hawdcore.

“Where you been?” he asked, via instant message.

I had just stepped into the office five minutes ago. My gorgy clock read 12:07.

“Something came up,” I said, nonspecifically. He seemed satisfied with this non-answer. I think he just wanted to hear something. It was my first week of working full time; I was still adjusting to waking up and getting to work on someone else’s schedule.

“What’s up?”I asked, eager to change the subject.

“I’m positively buried here, I need your help with something,” he replied.

My boss is awesome, but he was not his usual, jovial self today. With deadlines looming, and management breathing down his neck, he seemed a little stressed. I was glad to alleviate his burden in whatever way possible.

With most of the stuff we work on, we have some freedom on how we prioritize things and setting our own deadlines. With larger projects though, ones involving several departments and lots of people, we have cement release dates, because we have to coordinate a few things simultaneously.

Being on a smaller team means working closely with my boss, because guess what? We are the team. We are literally the only two people on the web team at our company. And before I arrived, it was just him.

When the shit hits the fan, it occasionally lands on my desk. I don’t mind it, it comes with the territory. Such is the blessing, and the curse, of working for a smaller company. When it happens though, I don’t let it affect my performance.

I don’t get stressed, I just focus.

He explained the project to me. I turned up the volume in my headphones and got to work.

“Haha, you’re such a dork. Don’t pretend like you don’t want to see me ;).” I wrote.

“You must think you’re God’s gift to women don’t you?” she shot back.

Whoa, where did this come from? This was the second text message in a row that was not very friendly or inviting. Without exclamation points, unnecessary use of capital letters, or emoticons for emphasis, it didn’t seem particularly playful either. What was going on here?

I considered several ways to respond. The first was the classic passive-aggressive shutout. I could have just ignored her for a day or two, demonstrating I don’t need her, maybe get her to think about why I might have reacted that way. I never liked doing that, but it has worked on occasion in the past.

The second way was more proactive. I could have actively displayed my disinterest in her, try to get her to chase me, or not, because why would I care what she thinks anyway? This has also worked for me before, but always seemed kinda lame to me.

A third possible response assumed that I had done something wrong, that she was upset with me for some reason. I had a girlfriend in the past who wanted me to read her mind and often used this tactic, never telling me why she was mad, actively denying it. I always ended up apologizing to her even when I had no idea what she was mad about. This was a terrible pattern and I was glad to get out of it.

I am man enough to admit when I’m wrong. In this situation, I could think of no wrongdoing, so there was no reason to apologize.

The fact remained, she was not her usual perky, playful self. Something was bothering her, but I didn’t know what. I sent her the following,

“Hey, is everything ok? You usually humor my jokes ;).”

To which she responded, “Yeah, I’m sorry babe. I’m not mad at you. It’s just that today I saw the cold, bureaucratic side of UCLA :(.”

“That sucks, hon. :( Welcome to LA,” I wrote.

“Haha thanks,” she wrote, “what are you doin tomorrow? :)”

They say that in the office, you should dress for the position you want, not the position you’re in.

With my penchant for t-shirts, jeans, hoodies, and skate shoes, you’d know that I’m definitely not going for a job in middle management, or anything customer facing, really. In fact, there are few positions that would embrace such attire, maybe “Chief Creative Officer” or “Youth Community Manager.”

No one expects that I’m an engineer.

At first glance, it might appear that I don’t really take how I look seriously; quite the opposite is true in fact. I take extreme care in selecting my clothes and constructing cute outfits.

If something looks sloppy or done effortlessly, trust me, that’s intentional. Take a closer look.

Not that it matters, but I’ve been told that I have a pretty interesting fashion sense. Though not strictly necessary, it’s nice that there are some people out there who appreciate my efforts. Everything I wear, everything I buy, and everything in my house is a reflection of what is important to me and what I stand for. I am in complete integrity with all my possessions, and I rarely buy something that is not completely me. My appearance is an accurate window into my personality.

Of course, my fashion and grooming choices affect how others perceive me and interact with me. This in turn shapes how I will interact with them, which reinforces their perceptions, etc.

I am one of the youngest people working at my company, and I look and act the part.

The CEO of my company sometimes dresses pretty casually, and in general eschews suits and ties. He once complimented me on my t-shirt.

I can only speculate that he wants to be me.

When I heard that Jonathan Coulton was performing tonight at The Echoplex, I didn’t think much of it. Jonathan Coulton is the Ben Folds of geek rock. It is my opinion that he tries a little too hard to be clever. Certainly, I am in the minority of my friends when I voice this opinion.

When I realized Wil Wheaton would be in the audience, my interest in the event suddenly skyrocketed. Apparently, this was a combination JoCo concert and John Hodgeman book tour type hybrid event?

After much internal debate, I fell back on my guiding principle of living a storyworthy life. If nothing else, I’d get a blog post out of this.

Plus, you know, nerd chicks.

Upon my arrival, I noticed that there was no one sitting at the ticket desk to take my money. I pushed open the door and just walked in. Amazing! I immediately took the $15 I would have spent on my ticket and bought $18 worth of beer.

Dang beer, why you gotta be so expensive in venue?

The first time I was at the Echoplex, an experimental “noise rock” band was playing, and everyone was numbly lumbering around the dance floor. The sight of everyone seated, while a chubby man in a suit and an unusually sharply dressed JoCo bantered on stage, was quite a strange scene to behold.

Beers in hand, I settled by a spot near stage left. I was feeling pretty good, and found myself actually enjoying both Coulton and Hodgeman. It was when Wil Wheaton took the mic that I lost it, though. Of course, he was just another audience member, asking Hodgeman a question during the Q&A, but even so, I got giddy knowing he was sitting a few, scant feet in front of me.

Being an alcoholic lightweight, I was afraid that I’d say something really stupid to him. Perhaps against better judgment, I wrote him a fan letter on a page from my moleskine. In it, I gushed, fanboy like, but I also wrote sincerely about how he played a big part in my desire to pursue a writing career, and how I really appreciated his positive outlook on life.

“We are all the products of our choices,” and “Don’t be afraid to suck,” are two gems that, while I’ve heard them elsewhere, stuck with me when Wil uttered them because of their simple elegance.

After singing along with “Re: Your Brains,” I caught Wil checking his Blackberry. Already, another fan had lined up next to me. I gently put my hand on Wil’s shoulder. Completely solid in himself, he would not be interrupted (presumably tweeting), and he turned around when he was good and ready.

Slightly tipsy, I said, “Wil, I’m a huge fan.” “Thank you!” he said. “I wrote this for you,” I said, handing him the letter and running away.

“Ok? Thanks!” he said, slightly surprised and laughing.

I was so happy and nervous I completely forgot about the nerd chicks.

I was feeling a mixture of cold, loneliness, hunger, and sadness.

I was in the perfect mindset to enjoy the bowl of ramen in front of me.

Don’t let the skinny façade fool you, I am an emotional eater, and one of the foods that provides the most comfort for me is noodles in soup. There is just something very satisfying in the act of eating a hearty bowl of noodles in flavorful broth. I dunno if it’s science or nothin’, but it helps me clear my mind.

When I was younger, I had much greater access to good noodles of many different cultures. They were readily available to me, and I took advantage. When I moved to Los Angeles, I had to start the search anew; finding good food was a challenging and exciting adventure again.

I began my search for noodles by looking into Vietnamese restaurants in the area. According to the internet, there were no good Vietnamese restaurants near where I lived. My taste buds verified that indeed, one had to go as far as the valley, or that other valley, to get anything decent.

I then leveled the barrel of my sawed-off culinary shotgun at the ramen shops. Certainly, with Los Angeles’s successful Japanese population, there had to be some good ramen in this town. I eventually found a couple gems, including one place that I’d be ready to give the crown of best ramen in LA.

Sure, it was a little expensive for comfort food ($11 for essentially noodles, broth, pork, rice, and salmon roe) but it is alwaysworth it. From the moment I sat down and first inhaled the steam from my broth, to the time I looked at the bottom of my empty bowls, I didn’t look up.

I left transformed, feeling enriched and uplifted.