Objet d'Art.

I've been noticing that the more modern art museums I go to, I'm seeing an increasing amount of chairs. Not chairs for weary travelers to rest upon, but chairs as art installations. This thought strikes me as I'm wandering through the Centre Pompidou's Musee National d' Art Moderne. Truth be told, I don't know that a chair belongs in a museum. As if the well of obscure paintings is running dry, they're now turning to the chair as objet d'art.

In fact, they much resemble the ones in my home, but perhaps that's the point. Chair at home is a replica of revolutionary design that has been mass produced and knocked off to no end, so as to seamlessly become something so commonplace that one does not give it another thought.

I suppose I can understand this sudden insurgence of household items from a design standpoint. From a purely design perspective, there was once a problem (fatigue) that needed solving, and this led to the development of the chair. But that is problem singular. Just how many other problems could there be, other than perhaps ones addressing posture?

As I pass a gnome stool designed by Phillippe Starck, I have to wonder, what correlation could a mythical garden dweller have with exhaustion or respite?

The thing is, I've grown rather fond of these chairs. The fanciful designs, the graceful curvatures. Had I the resources, I certainly wouldn't protest a work by Eames. As I migrate from room to room, contemplating the selection of furniture, all I want to do is sit down in one of them. But I suppose that's the problem with the chair as art. You can't use them in the capacity they were intended for.

Push zee Button.

So there's this scene in the first season of Felicity, when her parents come to visit New York for the first time to see how she's faring, and to convince her to move back home and attend Stanford. Defeated, she's all ready to move back to California.. when they hand her a set of car keys as an added incentive. And then she realizes that that's not what she wants. She doesn't want the easy way out. She wants to stay in New York and figure things out on her own. Yes, it will be hard, and yes, she feels overwhelmed. But it's what she has to do - grow up and live her own life. And as she fingers the keys in her palm and turns them around, the camera zooms in on her thumb inching toward the panic button.

So I got out my keys and pressed my panic button. Nothing happened.

The Evolution of Exercise.

I am learning yoga from an elephant. As I have neither the time nor the resources to take a proper yoga class at the local studio around the corner, I have settled for five minute sessions with Babar, the Elephant King. Every morning I flip through the illustrations and try a new pose, going until I break out into a light sweat before heading off to work. The mornings I wake up with time to spare, that is, which really amounts to maybe once or twice a week, if that. Babar's Yoga for Elephants - you should try it.

My mum likes to tell me to exercise, but what she's really implying is that I'm gaining weight. She says this not as a stage mom or an iron-fisted matriarch, but matter-of-factly, kindly. I think mostly, she's worried that I'm scaring the boys away.

It's been years since I worked out at a gym. I once accompanied my best friend to Club One to use the immaculate showers and to check out firsthand what these widely-referenced "elliptical" machines were. But that's about it.

I do ride bikes, however. Just today, I had the following exchange with my co-worker:
"Hey Houghton! Where you off to?"
"I'm going to Slice and the gym!" she replies, as I ride by, one hand maneuvering my GBike and the other, shoving a double chocolate fudge brownie into my mouth.

As Google promotes this type of active lifestyle and green living, I find that I, too, am evolving in unexpected ways. After ten months at the Googleplex, I have yet to sign up for the gym, although I have given many a tour of it. When I worked for Nissan, I registered the first week of employment only never to return. I like to think I have grown more self-aware.

After all, you can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. And Steve Jobs is absolutely right. So I have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in my future.

Ugly Jesus.

I went to visit my friend Dave at his studio the other night, when he reintroduced me to a familiar figure. After walking around his studio and stopping to examine each piece, I then came across a face painted on a small square canvas that had been casually strewn aside.

"Who's that?" I asked. "Santino Rice?"

Now Dave is the kind of guy who can't remember what happened thirty seconds prior. He once called me and the first two minutes of the conversation consisted of him trying to recall whether I had called him or he had called me. He's an artistic soul.

To say that Dave knows pop culture - music notwithstanding - is to say that I am coordinated. Unless it's Yo La Tengo we're talking about, all I'll get is a blank stare. That an homage to Project Runway could lie amidst the rest of his artwork is unthinkable. I should have known.

"That's Ugly Jesus," he replied.

Now, I was thoroughly confused. Dave is a fellow believer, but not cut of the same cloth as the conservative right wing Bible belt Christian that seems to be today's prevailing stereotype. Come to think of it, I don't know very many of those. We probably wouldn't get along.

"Ugly Jesus?"
"Yeah, Ugly Jesus."

Dave simply believes. And so he explained. Explained how he thought Jesus was ugly, of how he was rugged and dirty but charismatic in the unconventional sense - the guy that marches to his own beat and everyone loves him for it - much like San Francisco. Of how in order for him to care for the people that he did, how he couldn't possibly have been a smooth operator.

"Oh, okay," I said, nodding thoughtfully as another painting caught my eye. And I proceeded to ask him about that.

Let's Get Symmetrical & Feel Alright.

They say that symmetry equates to beauty. According to Wikipedia, in evolutionary psychology, symmetry, especially facial symmetry, is one of the traits associated with the health, physical attractiveness, and beauty of a person. And if it's in Wikipedia, you know it must be true. I've heard that Denzel Washington has one of the most symmetrical of faces, which if the theory holds, makes him one of the most attractive men around. Which I suppose he is. And while I am an advocate of such beauty ideals as natural beauty, inherent style, and pretty much anything embodied by Liya Kebede - I was never fully sold on the symmetry bit until now.

Through a series of rather unfortunate events, I'm coming to realize that whether we realize it or not, this very notion is built into our genetic makeup. Maybe it does have to do with beauty ideals, or maybe we're just wired to compete and compare. What one side has, the other must eventually follow suit. Take, for example, the following:

When I was in the sixth grade, I ended up with stitches just above my right knee - a freak accident from foolishly trying to do axels before I knew how. The next thing I knew, I was sprawled out on the ice, with my blade protruding from my right thigh and blood everywhere. The six stitches eventually came out, and I was left with a scar the size of a quarter. Twelve years later, I find myself with another round of stitches, this time in my left knee from having tripped and fallen at work. Scars from injuries sustained on both legs. It all comes back to symmetry.

Not wanting to be left out, my arms followed suit. Two weekends ago, while playing tennis, I somehow managed to spin around and fall while swatting an off-balanced forehand. As I peeled my face off the pavement, I saw that my right elbow was speckled with blood. Ominous. Just yesterday, I fell down a set of hardwood stairs. Lo and behold, it was my left elbow that broke my fall, and I was left with a bloodied, possibly fractured left arm. The extensiveness of the damage remains to be seen. If beauty really were about symmetry, I must be off the charts.

I wonder if I ought to simply double-fist it. Next time I catch myself plummeting rapidly to the floor, I shall extend both elbows, and thereby save myself two trips to the emergency room. Kill two birds with one stone, if you will.

And that, I suppose, is the evolutionary process. I like to think that man learns from his mistakes.

And The Beat Goes On.

I'm in a fight with my washer/dryer. We're no longer on speaking terms. I have no desire to be in the same vicinity as said Machine-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. This has been manageable by simply throwing in detergent and skulking off; good riddance! I am pounding away at my keyboard as we speak.

It all began with my second favorite pair of jeans. Being the sneaky little machine that it is, it decided to play games with me and v. deliberately, shrink the denim pant. The first time was funny. I have a sense of humor; I can take a joke. And then a second and a third and a fourth.. As a result, I am currently one pair of light blue Citizens short, and I no longer fit into the entirety of my pants collection.

I don't know where this sudden grudge came about, but one thing's for sure. Unless it coughs up my long lost pendant or 7 mates to my mismatching socks, I'm not apologizing first.

And to think, we were such good friends until I started working at Google..

We Never Change.

I've been experiencing a bit of writer's block, so I'm resurrecting something from the past for some much needed inspiration:

Every morning I wake up, and the first thought (or word, rather) that enters my head is “shit.”* I find this rather troublesome. I am beginning what may potentially turn out to be a glorious, God-given day with “shit.”, which proclaims doom from the start. This is usually due to the fact that I oversleep every single day and am either (a) late to work or (b) waking up at an obscene hour at which I feel like a disgusting slob. I wake up in an utter state of panic and irritation, running around, stubbing my toe, hastily slapping together what is erroneously labeled a lunch, and proceed to skivvy on out the door, face the unrelentingly malevolent wind, and run into oncoming traffic, at which I then continue to mutter obscenities under my breath in a state of sleepy disillusionment. I'm really not sure if this is the best thing.

Somethings never change. I wrote the above during the quarter I spent in DC during my senior year of college, and three years later, here I am, still v. much the same person that I was back then. Only now I don't slap together makeshift sandwiches - I get gourmet ones for free at work.

I like to think that I have shed any and all vestiges of LA. A past life, I'd rather leave to compartmentalized boxes in mental storage, collecting dust as I move forward with this new chapter in life. As with anything else, life in a new city takes acclimatizing to. First the weather. I work in an environment where knowledge of the power of 2 is a fundamental. My work has crept up even into my wardrobe, as the number of outerwear hanging in my closet has grown exponentially. Then there is the local culture. It is no secret that I have wholeheartedly embraced a local sports team – the San Jose Sharks. Some time ago, I compiled of checklist of things I needed to do in order to become a bona fide San Franciscan. I became a fan of public transportation, moved into a pre-1920's Victorian flat, and the clincher: I purchased one black North Face denali.

The other day, I happened to meet both Will.i.am and James Taylor independently in the same day. One at Google, and the other while en route to my design class. I got off the early shuttle at Civic Center, and there, surrounded by fans, was a man I recognized from UCLA Spring Sing 2004: Mr. Country Road himself, James Taylor. And as much as I love his music, I hesitated. No self-respecting Angeleno would behave the part of the shameless groupie, so I simply played it cool and walked on by. It then occurred to me that this was James FREAKING Taylor (yes, little known fact: Freaking is indeed his middle name) that we were talking about here, so I proceeded to shed any and all dignity, pivot, and walk on by again. This was my chance! Shake hands? Take a picture? A signed forehead, perhaps? The possibilities were endless. And in that moment of hesitation, that fleeting need to play it cool, the security guard ushered him back into the theatre where he was to perform, to perform songs like Carolina on My Mind and Sweet Baby James.

And in that moment, it dawned on me. I will never get LA out of my system.

* Subject to change and directly correlated to number of minutes late. Variants include: 'shiiit' (not to be confused with Shi'ite), 'SHIT!', and the milder, 'oh dear'.