Alex and I have organized a last-minute trip to the Boundary Waters (seriously last-minute. I booked the flight yesterday).

From San Francisco to the middle of nowhere. From cosmopolitan to canoe.

Also, I've developed an absolute obsession with Mermaid Avenue.

That is all.

My first pride parade. I got to march in the San Francisco Pride Parade with the Google contingent. I found a photo of myself on Flickr.

The shirts rule. Camden helped design them.

I've become completely obsessed with this song:



Punk Rock Girl by the Dead Milkmen

From my current read, Population 485. I finished it yesterday:

How does one negotiate the terms of belonging? Speaking perhaps too broadly, I consider my loyalties divided between the Gun Rack Crowd and the Pale and Tortured Contingent.

The book was a find while on a used-book shopping trip with Justin. It really reminds me a lot of Lummox—a talented writer with a backwoods Wisconsin background. Lummox is Magnuson's novelized quasi-autobiography (Perry actually mentions going biking with Magnuson in his book—woah, Northwestern Wisconsin memoir worlds colliding, man). Michael Perry is a volunteer firefigher and EMT in New Albion, a tiny town in the northwest corner of the state—the state's poorest congressional district, the same one I'm from.

Perry's book is engaging. New Albion is presented like Lake Wobegon stripped of the nostalgia and romanticism. The town is filled with small-town eclectic souls, and no attempt is made to gloss over the hickishness—I particularly loved the section on customary lawn ornaments in the general locale (bent-over gardening grandmother and little boy peeing are meaningful to me because I remember them from my childhood).

But let me elaborate on the quote. This plays into my own concept of identity. In the Valley and in San Francisco, I'm surrounded by young professionals—products of suburban upbringings and ambitious peer groups. I too, admittedly, am the son of professionals, but from a small town where, last time I visited, I helped my dad scout turkey-hunting locations in rural Adams County, Wisconsin. I love what the Valley is—this crucible of tech, capital, and talent—but after reading the book, part of me wants to move to a small Wisconsin town, volunteer with the local fire department, and watch the Packers every Sunday.

Of course, nothing about me would thrive in that environment. Besides what little wear they get from guitar, biking, and boot camp, I've got typists' hands—pink, uncalloused things that can dance out code but wouldn't be all that good with a hoe—or a fire hose, for that matter.

Maybe I could telecommute...

The folks in my cube are arguing over this one.

Which has a higher chocolate-to-peanut-butter ratio: regular or mini Reese's Peanut Butter Cups?

Discuss amongst yourselves.

They added geocoding to the Google Maps API.

Finally.

I got the photos:


It's all gone now, though. Sorry.

...was a few weeks ago.

But due to Lilly's insistence, I finally took the Creamcycle (which has been in pieces for almost a year) to the bike shop and had them assemble it and tune it up. At 6 AM, I took BART from San Francisco to Millbrae and rode in from there with Lils and a Google group. 28 miles. Not bad for a guy that hasn't been riding in forever.

I'd like to start doing the rides once or twice a week. Just keep thinking Magnuson.

I lack discipline.

When Dave and I had our SERFing adventure, I had one thing that would keep me actually going to the gym: Dave. Dave would knock on my door at the (then-ungodly) hour of eight in the morning. Dave would keep me from skipping reps. Dave would, mostly, keep me from cheating.

When I was in cross country in high school, one thing kept me from running: Mr. Steve. Mr. Steve would make us run sprints barefoot across the football field. He'd make us run fartleks. He'd make us, well, run period.

Whenever I try to run or lift as a solo endeavor, Doctor Wellness and Doctor Lazy fight it out within my psyche, and Doctor Lazy tends to win (he then goes and gets a beer).

What I need is somebody to yell at me.

So today, Camden guilted me into signing up for "boot camp," which is a short name for "run a few laps, do too many situps and pushups and things, then repeat ad nauseam." It's three days a week for the next five weeks. I pay the instructors to yell at me and make me run around (actually, they don't yell, they're very friendly. But still).

I'm now laying in my bed with the best post-workout high I've had in years.

So you know, May Mustache Madness is complete. I'm waiting on the photos from Jeff so I can share them with you, my faithful readers.

Anyway, Thursday night my roommate made dinner for a few friends. Mustaches were one topic of discussion (on account of my recently created one).

Nobody really knew any mustache jokes. One of the diners was a Yahoo! employee and suggested using Yahoo! Answers. I did, and put up a question: What is a good mustache joke?.

From the results that came in (surprisngly quickly, I must add) that weren't lol-ridden, there were two gems (I'm going to paraphrase slightly):

An angry mob is walking along the street. Someone yells, "Hey, let's hang that guy with a mustache!"

Someone else yells, "Nah, let's use a rope!"

I'll give you a moment to regain composure.

Ready? Number two:

"You know, except for the mustache, you look a lot like my mother."
"But I don't have a mustache."
"Yes, but my mother does."

Thank you, technology.