Memoir Outtake: When Did It Begin?

This is an early chapter I snipped from my book. In the end, I condensed nine pages to a few paragraphs.
 

Photo by Frankicello

When did I know that my body had a Life-threatening Disease in Residence?

My Long and Winding Road to Diagnosis began in June 2008, ten months before I was given The Bad News. I was at home, chatting in the hallway with my roommate, Adam, after a day at the office. I wore a sky-blue button-down shirt and gray slacks. While we conversed, I touched the area by my left clavicle. There was a lump. It seemed peculiar, though I never made a habit of touching that part of my body. I reached over to my right clavicle to see if I had a symmetrical lump.

I didn’t.

I made an appointment to see my doctor the following week.


“What you have is a swollen lymph node,” Dr. Chen said in the examination room, after he felt it. “There are a number of things that can cause a swollen lymph node. It’s usually from an infection or a cold. Have you recently had a cold?”

“No,” I said.

“Have you been scratched by a cat lately?”

I nearly laughed. It seemed like a curious question, but that’s why he got paid the big bucks and why I forked over $15 co-pays to be in his smarty-pants presence.

“I don’t think so. My parents have a cat, but she hasn’t scratched me recently.”

He went on to explain that cat scratch fever (yes, its not just a Ted Nugent song) can also cause swollen lymph nodes. Other possible causes were HIV (yikes!), histoplasmosis, sarcoidosis, tuberculosis, and lymphoma—a blood cancer. After he asked a number of questions that seemed to eliminate those possibilities—minus cancer—he ordered blood tests to be certain that I didn’t have any of those ailments. A few days later, my results came back fine.

The following week, I returned to Kaiser Hospital for a chest x-ray. Dr. Chen called a few days later. He left a voicemail message, which I played back four or five times, start to finish, to absorb every word, every nuance in his tone. He sounded clinical, devoid of emotion as usual, but I swore I heard a smidgeon of concern when he said that he had spoken at length with the radiologist concerning my x-ray. The space between my lungs, he reported, was “abnormal”—wider than it should be in a normal male due to “a large mass of lymph nodes.” He ordered a CT scan (short for computed tomography, which is a series of x-ray views that combine to make a 3-D scan of your internal body) the following week, along with additional blood tests.

That was June 26th, 2008—the first time my stomach twisted at the specter of C-A-N-C-E-R.

I bicycled to the hospital for my CT scan appointment. In the waiting area outside the CT scan room, I sat wearing only my chonies, socks, and a hospital gown. My hands felt clammy. Beside me was an Asian man in his fifties and a woman of the same age who must have been his wife. He was stripped to a hospital gown, too. They huddled close together while they spoke in their native tongue. I had no idea what they were saying but their body language told me they were deeply concerned about the results of his CT scan. In my experience, Asian people their age typically aren’t affectionate like that in public, which made it all that more exceptional. She was there to support him. When I realized that, I became even more nervous. Hearing the cold, automated voice of the CT scan machine saying the commands “Hold your breath” and “Breathe” behind the closed door didn’t help either. Before I knew it, I felt as though I were in a modern-day hospital episode of The Twilight Zone, starring Hal-9000 from 2001: A Space Odyssey. (“I’m afraid. I’m afraid, Juan.”)

The CT scan didn’t show much more than the chest x-ray had. My blood counts came back normal. Dr. Chen and I had exhausted all possibilities to explain the swollen gland until the only option was to snip it off for biopsy.

To confirm if I had lymphoma or not.

* * *
Did I know in my heart that I had cancer after I visited Dr. Chen the following week?

I am not sure if I will ever forget that last visit I had with him. I was beat and tired from work. Bags under my eyes from partying a little too much to get my mind off of troublesome thoughts like the possibility of having cancer. Dr. Chen’s tone had become graver with each visit I had since discovering the lump by my clavicle.

A number of months before that final visit, I was having my periodic sleeping problems. I asked Dr. Chen for some pills to help me sleep. I asked for a few—enough to last a week or two. He refused. He told me they weren’t effective long or short-term remedies for insomnia, which I already knew.

But now, months later, I sat across from him in an examination room, beneath that cold, bleach-white light. He leaned forward, his head bent to the side. He looked at me in a compassionate, I’m-concerned-about-you way and said, “Is there anything I can get for you?”

Inside, I shit myself when I heard those words. Inside, it felt like my head rolled off my shoulder, splintering on the floor while it cackled hahahahahahaaaa! I’m fucked! I’m FUCKED! NOW he’s willing to hook a brother up with pills because I am FUCKED!

But instead, I shook my head.

“No, I’m okay,” I said, trying not to hang my head and cry.

When I stepped out of the hospital, I had difficulty thinking. A blustery wind blew. It felt like there was a whirlwind blowing through my head. I had a strong urge to call my co-worker, Caitlin. Until then, she was the only person whom I had confided my health fears with. I had not told my family a thing. I didn’t want to scare them. In the end, I didn’t call her. I didn’t want to burden anyone with my troubles.

I unlocked my bike, put my helmet and gloves on and took my iPod out of my backpack. With my bicycle beside me, I walked to the busy corner of Geary and Divisadero listening to a José José ballad I hoped would settle me. When the light turned green, I hurriedly pedaled across the street. Once across, I rode close to the parked cars while traffic whizzed past me. Then I cycled through a signal. I only realized it was a red light once I crossed it. My mind was so rattled that I couldn’t focus on something as automatic and crucial as not crossing a red light. A car could have smacked me into windshield-wiper splatter long before a potential cancer invasion could kill me.

That night, I went barhopping with Caitlin. I got plastered. Blurred all senses. Uttered those fears. Diluted them by voicing them to her. Early that evening, when I was merely tipsy, I walked to the dark, grimy, graffiti and stickered bathroom at Dalva. I bent over the toilet that stank of urine. I coughed out saliva that was salty from the contrast dye that had been injected into my arm for the CT scan. It occurred to me that I was viscerally spitting out what was plaguing me. “Ha! How appropriate is that,” I thought when I walked to the sink to rinse the phlegm out of my mouth.

* * * * * * *
On July 21st, I met with a surgeon about scheduling a biopsy. We met for about two minutes in an examination room before he escorted me to the receptionist to schedule the “minor surgical procedure.” (Minor? Haa! Dude, there’s nothing “minor” about the potential results.) We were unable to find an available date before I left my job and lost my coverage in four days, before I left on one last vacation prior to starting grad school. I asked the surgeon if I should be concerned that I was not getting this procedure done as soon as possible. He grinned and patted me on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine,” he said. “Enjoy your vacation, Mr. Alvarado.” It was a remarkable contrast to Dr. Chen’s increasingly bleak tone. Essentially, he was saying, “Smoke a blunt, chill out, enjoy the rays.”

A week later, my feet sifted through the soft white sand of Haad Rin, one of Ko Pha Ngan’s tropical beaches. I gazed out to the tranquil ocean. My first afternoon on that Thai island, sitting cross-legged on a blanket at the most beautiful beach I have ever seen, I had a quandary: how can I relax and enjoy this when I’m seriously worried about my health? Everywhere I looked, I saw couples wading and frolicking in the twinkling waves, fellow travelers laughing as they ran and splashed after a rubber ball that they skipped along the blue water, people basking on towels all over the beach, their tanned bodies glistening in the sun. I felt like a pretender. An imposter. Their carefree spirit was something that was not churning within me. Not when I couldn’t help but remember Dr. Chen’s expression when he asked, “Is there anything I can get for you?”

That afternoon was the first time I had to train my mind to do something similar to a Jedi mind trick. It was a trick I had to employ at other intervals of my “cancer journey.” ¹ With my eyes fixed on the horizon, where the twinkling ocean seemingly met the azure sky, I straightened my posture while sitting cross-legged on my towel. I concentrated on the lapping waves. I recalled the surgeon’s smoke-a-blunt, enjoy-your-vacation attitude and told myself: while you’re here, there is nothing you can do about your health. Enjoy your time here because you should presume you’ll never have the privilege, the opportunity to be back. Enjoy the present, what you have right now. Worry about your health when you get back.

I lay back on my towel, covering my eyes from the sun. Breathing slowly while repeating those thoughts, I was, to my amazement, able to chillax. The sound of bustle and laughter were drowned out by the meshing of my breathing and the lapping waves.

After my three-week vacation in Thailand and Cambodia, I returned home to begin my graduate studies at Saint Mary’s College in September 2008. It had been seven years since I had been a student, studying Cinema at San Francisco State. (Back then, I dreamt of being a film auteur like Stanley Kubrick, Billy Wilder, or David Fincher.) Being there, walking around campus with a backpack amongst fellow word nerds and teachers who also thirsted and lived to read and write good stories was nourishing for my spirit. From the get-go, I felt at home. Contented. At peace with myself. I had found a corner of this world where I belonged.

It took several weeks before I began to acclimate to the rhythm of being a full-time student, of working my life around my classes and homework instead of a full-time job. Graduate school felt like being swallowed up by a splendid, tubular wave (cowabunga!) That’s why it took some time to get myself oriented to my new life, let alone remember, oh yeah, shit. I might have a serious health problem!—a deadly serious problem. I had done such a bang-up job of pushing those cancer whispers out of my mind while I was in Southeast Asia.

In the fall, I secured health coverage through the city. I was seen by a new doctor who scheduled a biopsy of my swollen lymph node for November 24, 2008. The procedure would take about half an hour. And I wouldn’t have to be knocked unconscious.

I went alone to the hospital. My parents wanted to accompany me but the doctors did not require that someone provide me with a ride after the procedure. Having them drive 40 miles from Fremont to San Francisco to give me a paltry 1.2 mile ride home seemed wasteful. Instead, I took the bus to and from the hospital since the doctor told me I might be too woozy to cycle home.

The week after Thanksgiving—my favorite holiday—I got the results. They were ( - ). It was a relief for my family and me. However—and probably the biggest However of my life—the doctors had warned me that the blood cells from the swollen lymph node could test negative but I could still have cancer elsewhere in my body.

* * *
Did I know I had cancer when the skin on my left calf got itchy?

During November and December, my left calf became unusually itchy. At first, I figured it was due to cycling to Saint Mary’s three times a week in the cold. My legs got super-sweaty from cycling five miles to and from the Lafayette station. I thought my calves were getting dry and subsequently itchy from this. Or perhaps it was mild eczema—something I have never had—since the rashes from itching did look like it.

I thought nothing of the itching—other than it was odd.

Swollen-lymph-node odd.

My first semester of grad school finished in mid December. Christmas passed. The beginning of a new calendar year was celebrated. Physically, I felt great. Normal like I always had. Since the biopsy tested negative, I figured the swollen lymph node that was removed from my body was an anomaly. A freak occurrence that was not indicative of anything bad—graveyard-bad—growing inside of me.

Even though I tried to convince myself that my swollen lymph node was nothing, I became frightened of touching the area where it had been. After the incisions healed, a tiny bump took its place. Scar tissue, I reasoned. As the weeks passed, I could tell it was still there since I felt some discomfort whenever the shoulder strap from my backpack pressed against it when I bicycled. I was terrified that another swollen lymph node would grow back. And so, that part of my own body became off-limits. A no-touch zone. Every morning when I showered, I was careful to gently pass the soap over my clavicle area so that there was NO WAY my fingers would feel a telltale bump.

* * *
Or did I really know I had cancer when two swollen lymph nodes grew back?

Classes commenced the first week of February. The hillsides by school bloomed a verdant green. For my Craft of Fiction class, we had to read Paula Fox’s Desperate Characters over the weekend. I was at home, reading the book in the living room, curled up on our green couch. The house was quiet, tranquil, since my roommates were out about the town.

Near the beginning of Fox’s novel, one of the protagonists—the wife in a deteriorating marriage—is bitten by a cat. Her wound does not heal quickly. She becomes concerned that the cat was rabid. While I kept reading, watching her struggle to assuage and deny her fears, I couldn’t help but think about the fears I had over my health. Ever since the cancer whispers began six months before when Dr. Chen couldn’t figure out what was causing my swollen lymph node, the books and student manuscripts I read for school became a peerless distraction from those fears. But now I was reading about a character, a situation that closely mirrored my own.

The cancer whispers blared while I read the book. I had to close it, set it aside. I couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t follow the storyline. I had to face the grave uncertainty I had felt for months. The house was deafening quiet when I raised my hand to my clavicle and pressed two fingers over the scar I had from the biopsy. There was a bump—a round, oblong one that was not scar tissue. My face began to flush hot while my fingers dug into the crook by my clavicle.

Oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god.

Not only was there a swollen lymph node replacing the one that had been removed, but there was also a smaller one, deeper beneath the surface of my skin.

Oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god something’s wrong! something’s VERY wrong! I THINK YOU HAVE CANCER! I THINK YOU HAVE CANCER! I THINK YOU HAVE CANCER!

Now when I look back, that was the moment I must have known I had lymphoma. I knew, without a doubt, that there was something wrong with my body. Despite that, I still clung onto an increasingly unrealistic hope that it was something other than cancer. There was no way I would accept that without an official diagnosis. (And who would?)

Two surgeries ² and two worry-filled months later, despite the fact that I felt physically great, despite the fact that both sides of my family have no history of cancer, I was diagnosed with Stage 2A Hodgkin lymphoma, a rare dis-ease that annually comprises 1% of all cancer diagnoses in the United States.

I felt like a lamb walking along a plain on a cloudless day before being struck by lightning.


1 This is the term people in and around cancer—particularly medical caregivers—like to use to refer to this period of our lives. It’s a term I was never comfortable with. The word “journey” implies a sort of willingness, which I never fucking had. The word “journey” following the word “cancer” has a softening quality, as though what was happening would ultimately be fine. Safe. Not quite a cruise on The Love Boat, but not too entirely off. But cancer is far from that. More like being dumped into the middle of an ocean at night with only a life vest.^↩

2 I used to get animated when I described the second surgery on My Long and Winding Road to Diagnosis—a CT-guided needle aspiration—to my friends. I usually began by saying, “Remember the scene in Pulp Fiction when John Travolta’s character had to plunge a needle into Uma Thurman’s chest? It was kind of like that.”

A white light glared down on me in the surgery room. Two nurses—a tall, funny, middle-aged guy who was like a less flamboyant John Waters and a heartachingly gorgeous brunette—laid me down on a tray that could slide through the ring-shaped machine. They covered the lower half of my body with a blanket. The CT scan operator advanced me in and out of the whirly-sounding machine a number of times to pinpoint the exact location of the worrisome nodule off my right lung. (A nodule is a term radiologists use to describe a knob, a knot, or something unusual on a CT scan that they cannot identify.) The surgeon—a handsome Asian man who was calm and smiley—made an X below my right nipple with a marker. The nurses injected four numbing medications around it. I clenched the blanket. Then they stuck a small needle into the X spot and left it there like a raised flag. They put me through the CT scan again; the needle planted in my chest was an inch away from hitting the top of the machine. Once they confirmed they had it in the right spot, they pulled me out to lie beneath the bright light.

The surgeon stepped toward the back of the room where the nurses, a pulmonary assistant, and a pathologist stood by the wall. They stood by in case the four-inch needle the surgeon was going to plunge into my body punctured my lung. From my vantage, laying on the sliding x-ray table, I could see and hear the surgeon unwrapping something. But his back was to me. He walked to my left side, holding something against his side.

“Okay—now close your eyes and hold your breath!” he said.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and held it for a long time before he said, “Okay, you can breathe.”

What he had done was plunge a thin, four-inch long needle within the one in my chest to extract—aspirate—a sample of the nodule. I barely felt a thing but my goddamn curiosity got the better of me; after he did it a third or fourth time, I opened my eyes for a flash. I saw his arm, lift and plunge, lift and plunge what looked like a wire-thin clothes hanger (if it were straightened out) into my chest. He did that horror-flick act at least six times before the pathologist confirmed that a sample sufficient for testing had been yielded. By the end of the surgery, the parts of the blanket I clung to were drenched in sweat.

The result a week later? “Non-diagnostic,” which meant they couldn’t determine if the nodule sample was benign or malignant.

So back to Limbo I went.
(Here’s a kōan: if a man has cancer but is not diagnosed, does he really have cancer?)^↩

Shit to Do During a Summer Internship in the San Francisco Bay Area

My employer hired a number of fellows and interns to work for us this summer. I was involved in hiring our two undergraduate interns, including one also named Juan who came out from Texas for a ten-week internship. Having grown up in the San Francisco Bay Area I felt a responsibility to make sure he squeezed all the juice out of his time here. This served as the inspiration for this post.

Like anyone, I have my own style. I roll in a particular way. Por ejemplo, when I’m traveling to an unfamiliar city or area I am far, far more likely to gravitate toward a seedy dive bar than some wine-tasting tour. Also, since I’m a restless human being (if I were a dog, my energy would likely match that of, say, an English Springer Spaniel) I like to keep on the move.

And so, here’s a list of activities to do in the San Francisco Bay Area—mostly centered around San Francisco and Oakland—that meets my personal stamp of approval.

1)                Go for a hike!

We Californians are a blessed with gorgeous natural landscapes. Within the Bay Area we don’t have to go far to leave the suburban tracts and urban humdrum behind. The East Bay Regional Park District alone comprises 65 parks. San Francisco’s Golden Gate National Recreation Area is home to Land’s End, a ridiculously gorgeous trail that hugs the coast. Exquisite natural areas in Marin County (Muir Woods!), Santa Cruz County (Big Basin!) and the Peninsula (Memorial Park!) are within a two-hour drive. Shit, Yosemite and the Stanislaus National Forest can be reached within three hours of driving.

Joaquin Miller Park, Oakland, CA

2)                Ride a cable car

What is a trip to the San Francisco Bay Area without riding a cable car in San Pancho? An incomplete one, I say! Sure, the queues can be long, and the cable car fares are not exactly proletarian-friendly, but I humbly believe it is a uniquely San Franciscan experience. Personally, I enjoy riding a cable car by hanging onto a pole. This way, you can truly feel the wind swirl around you and you can really feel other vehicles swoosh past. From an aesthetic and physical standpoint it’s a complete experience but I imagine sitting on a seat facing the passing streets is aesthetically pleasing as well.

3)                Eat out a lot!

You will never ever catch me referring to myself as a “foodie,” let alone using that word (I happen to think terms like “foodie” or “selfie” are symptomatic of a largely vapid popular culture), but I do love to eat yummy food. I’ve been around enough to know that we’re pretty spoiled here in terms of our dining options. You like eating pizza? We have tons of excellent pizzerias. Mexican food? We got that, too. I have yet to find a restaurant in the Bay Area that prepares genuine-tasting New Mexican cuisine, or good Puerto Rican food, but we’ve otherwise just about got it all. So gobble it all up! (Can you tell I’m an American?) That’s what your mouth and digestive system is for!

4)                Sample the local green (unless you’re not into that)

The late Robin Williams said it best:

Fact: California’s medical marijuana is potent shit, man. In terms of THC content, you’d have to fly to Amsterdam to procure stuff that is as potent as what’s being grown in the Emerald Triangle.

5)                 If you’re 21 and like drinking beer, visit a brewery

The West Coast has some of the top hot spots for craft beer: Seattle, San Diego, Portland and the San Francisco Bay Area. If you love good beer as much as I do my legal counsel would advise you to hit up a brewery or two during your extended stay. Anything less would be a disservice to your liver and kidneys.

In San Leandro you can check out either Drake’s Brewing Company or 21^st Amendment Brewery off of the Davis Street exit on Hwy 880. In Oakland you can head past Jack London Square to visit the Linden Street Brewery. In San Francisco you can visit the Speakeasy Brewery or Anchor Steam’s brewery in Potrero Hill (and couple it with a meal at Goat Hill Pizza, which uses mild sourdough for their pizzas). Or, if you want a little day trip, check out the Lagunitas Brewery in Petuluma.

6)                Visit the Golden Gate Bridge

What’s a trip to San Francisco—or the Bay Area—without visiting the Golden Gate Bridge? Blasphemy, I say!

7)                Visit Baker Beach on a sunny day

Speaking of the Golden Gate, this is the place to visit if you want to breath in some super-sexy views of the bridge and the Marin Headlands. A couple of points of caution:

·        True summer-weather days in San Pancho are rare. If you decide to go to Baker Beach on a typical overcast day, it will likely be a bit cold there.

·        If you decide to visit Baker Beach on one of those rare summer days—unless it’s during the week—it will be packed. Parking can be a pain.

8)                Catch a game at AT&T Park

So I’m not a big fan of baseball for several of the reasons Chris Rock pointed out on his recent HBO Sports spot:

But I’ll admit, attending a baseball game is kind of a quintessential summer experience in ‘Murica, no? If you’re in the S.F. Bay Area for the summer, do yourself a favor and catch a game at AT&T Park. Sure, I haven’t attended games at Wrigley Field, Fenway Park, PNC Park or Camden Yards, but I’m fairly sure the Giants home park is one of the most beautiful baseball stadiums. My buddy and fellow blogsmith, Justin—who’s a big baseball fan—lists it as one of his favorite baseball parks. He knows what he’s talking about!

9)                Take a tour of North Beach

If you ask me, a visit to San Francisco is incomplete without a visit to the North Beach neighborhood. Being a writer, I’m biased; I recognize that. And so, it should be no surprise that a neighborhood that used to be the stomping ground for the Beats is appealing to me. It should also be no surprise that a neighborhood with the most iconic book store in the San Francisco Bay Area is alluring to me—and a historic bar where Kerouac and the Beats used to hole up just happens to be next door. Mentally, I always cream myself when I see both establishments, I’ll be honest.

view from Coit Tower

But there’s even more to North Beach: a visit to Coit Tower is a must in my book. You might catch a glimpse of the wild parrots of Telegraph Hill. There are some excellent joints to grab a quick bite: Golden Boy Pizza, Giordano Bros. There are plenty of superb sit-down restaurants that are excellent places to take someone you’re trying to bag, like Rose Pistola, Capo’s (The Dillinger is probably the best Chicago pizza I’ve ever eaten, with all respect to Gino’s East, which I have had the pleasure of eating) and Sodini’s.

And if you’re into strip clubs, sweet baby Jesus this is your part of town!

10)               Check out Dolores Park

In a city composed of dips and hills (that’s not a metaphor)—with a minimal amount of gumption—one can inevitably stumble upon a good vista of this urban jungle. The corner of 20^th and Church is one of those outstanding spots—if you can stomach all the hipsters lingering about the park (unless you are a hipster, in which case, this is apparently one of your worldly meccas).

11)                  If you like murals, take a mural tour in the Mission District

mural on the corner of Lexington and 18th St.

El barrio Mission is teeming with murals. Precita Eyes, one of only three community mural centers in the United States, offers walking tours of the murals along two of the main throughways. Their tours are held on the weekends and range from $15-20.

12)                   Go kayaking!

In my adulthood I’ve become a fan of kayaking. Maybe you like it, too? If so, there are various places you can get your kayak on.

In Oakland you can go kayaking out in the bay by renting kayaks at Jack London Square. For a true urban experience you can rent a kayak at the Lake Merritt Boating Center (cash only; Oakland residents get a discount) and steer that baby around the lake. In San Francisco kayaks can be rented from City Kayak at Pier 40 by AT&T Park. (It’s worthwhile to make reservations, especially on a day when the Giants are playing at home.)

13)                   Have a lunch at the Kaiser Rooftop Garden in downtown Oakland

The Kaiser Rooftop Garden in downtown Oakland near the west side of Lake Merritt is a gem. Situated atop Kaiser’s downtown parking garage, the surprisingly beautiful rooftop garden is a delightful, chillaxing urban cove. During the summer they hold free concerts every Friday from 12 – 1 p.m.

Kaiser Rooftop Garden

If you’re in the downtown area during the workweek (the garden is only open Monday thru Friday from 8 a.m. – 5 p.m.), grab a lunch at one of the nearby yummy local eateries such as True Burger, Athenian Deli and Cafe (their falafel plate is outstanding), Aroma Bakery & Café, The Lunch Box, Taiwan Bento or Deli Fresh and head up to the rooftop garden.

14)                  Visit the Mountain View Cemetery in Piedmont

Trust me on this: Mountain View Cemetery in Piedmont is a gorgeous place. With the exception of Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris, this is the most beautiful cemetery I’ve seen—and I’ve inadvertently visited four of the twenty-one cemeteries listed on Travel+Leisure’s World’s Most Beautiful Cemeteries.

Designed by Frederick Law Olmstead, the cemetery provides beauteous vistas of the surrounding bay. On clear days you can see the Bay Bridge, Golden Gate Bridge and the Carquinez Bridge in Vallejo from the same spot up atop the tallest hill. In the mornings you can see locals jogging about the cemetery’s foothills, or walking their dogs. It’s not because Piedmont is teeming with morbid fuckers: it’s just a beautiful, tranquil spot that happens to be home to the dead.

15)                   Check out a film!

My inner geek was bound to make his presence felt in this post, and this is where he comes out.

Although we’ve lost many of our independent movie houses in recent years (RIP Bridge Theatre, Fine Arts Cinema, Lumiere Theatre and UC Theatre), the San Francisco Bay Area still has some wonderful movie houses. My favorite one has always been The Castro in the—you guessed it—Castro District. In my humble opinion, The Castro’s East Bay brethren is the Grand Lake Theater in Oakland. The Parkway closed a few years back but reincarnated as the eclectic, bike-friendly New Parkway in Oakland’s Uptown. Downtown Berkeley still has the California Theatre and Landmark’s Shattuck Cinema with its bedazzling ceilings. Up north in San Rafael they have the Rafael Film Center, which is home of my most treasured movie-going experience when I saw Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange for the first time on the big screen. Oakland’s ridiculously gorgeous Paramount Theatre has their Movie Classics series in which you can catch a classic film for the price of a pint of beer.

All this to say: if you treasure a superb movie-going experience, check out a film at one of our movie houses.

16)                   Catch a music show!

On a similar note, we have a bunch of terrific music venues throughout the Bay Area.

I will inevitably fail to mention a few outstanding venues, but here are a few off the top of my head: Bimbo’s 365 Club in North Beach; Yoshi’s in Oakland’s Jack London Square (or their location in San Francisco’s Fillmore District); the Great American Music Hall in the Tenderloin; the renovated Fox Theater in downtown Oakland; Oakland’s Paramount Theater; Café Du Nord in San Francisco’s Upper Market area, and, of course, the historic Fillmore in San Pancho. Outside of the 415 or Oakland there’s the Greek Theater in Berkeley. The Chapel in the heart of Hipsterlandia (a.k.a. the Mission District) is one of my new favorite venues.

If you’re in town for the summer, you’re bound to find a musical act passing through the bay that’s up your alley.

17)                  Check out the Berkeley Kite Festival

Photo by Daniel Parks

Do you like kites? Does running around with one bring out your inner child? Or does seeing a sky filled with kites make you fleetingly feel like everything is okay in the world? If so, check out Berkeley’s annual Kite Festival! It’s held at Cesar Chavez Park by the Berkeley Marina on the last weekend in July.

18)       Take a cruise or ferry ride on the bay

Consider this advice I wish I would take.

A ferry ride from Jack London Square to San Francisco’s gorgeous Ferry Building should not be missed. For around $5 you can take a ride past Treasure Island, beneath the Bay Bridge with a sexy, sprawling view of San Francisco for the final act.

The Red and White Fleet from Pier 43 ½ out of Fisherman’s Wharf provide an assortment of cruises along the bay. Instead of queuing for a trip to Alcatraz—which is fun to visit—you may want to opt for one of these cruises instead (though they are pricey).

19)                   Hit the beach!

Sure, the ocean water here is dialed to freezing-fucking-cold but that doesn’t mean our beaches should be missed! In San Francisco there’s Ocean Beach although it tends to be overcast and blustery. (I may be in the minority camp here, but I think it’s only worthwhile to visit the beach on a nice day, which means it will be crowded.) If you’re the warm-water beach-bathing type, my sources tell me Crown Memorial State Beach in Alameda—a charming suburban island separate from Oakland—is the place to go in the Bay Area.

Along the coast you might consider visiting Pacifica (which, in all likelihood, has the world’s most beautifully-situated Taco Bell in the world!) or Half Moon Bay for a trip to the beach. If you want to couple a beach outing with a day trip than drive out to Santa Cruz or Capitola.

20)                   Hit up the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk!

If you’re going to be in town for more than a few days, I humbly feel like a pilgrimage to the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk is necessary for a complete summer experience.

The Boardwalk has been open since 1907. The park charges no admission though it will, of course, cost you to hop aboard their rides. A couple of must-rides include The Giant Dipper, a creaky, hulking wooden roller coaster ride that has been running since 1924. Their carousel ride is my favorite since 1) it’s relatively cheap, 2) it’s charming in a genuinely old-timey way, and—most importantly, 3) the ride dishes out rings you can grab on each rotation to try to toss into the mouth of a clown. (I am easily amused sometimes!)

Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk

The amusement park grub is okay and reasonably priced. Their arcade should not be missed; they have a corner of the arcade devoted to old school games like Asteroids, Centipede and Tetris. The park has a water ride that may get you soaked—if that’s your thing. It also has a Ferris wheel, a potentially vomit-inducing Cyclone ride (if that’s your thing), a haunted house, a fanciful swing ride, and a few respectable-looking thrill rides.

And the beach is right there. Perfect spot to catch a sunset.

It’s tough to beat all that.

21)                   Three words: Weekend Camping Trip!

I may be a homer, but sometimes I forget just how close we Bay Area folks are to a bewildering assortment of natural parks and areas. Here’s a few off the top of my noggin: Yosemite (3 – 3 ½ hour drive away), Stanislaus National Forest (3 hour drive), Big Basin Redwoods State Park (1 – 1 ½ hour drive from the Bay Area, depending on traffic and starting point), Big Sur out by Monterey (2 ½ - 3 hour drive), and Mount Tamalpais just north of San Francisco in Mill Valley.

Here’s a link to find California State Parks. Reserve America is another nifty site to help you find a camping spot.

Unless you’re not the outdoorsy type—and god help you if you’re not—a summer trip to California would be blasphemous without visiting at least one of our state or national parks.

Pfeiffer Beach, Big Sur

What did I miss? I'd love to hear from you!

Honorable Mentions:

·        San Francisco Pride (last weekend of June)

·        A visit to the de Young Museum and Golden Gate Park (if you visit the museum, make sure to go to the top of the tower for a fantastic panoramic view of the city)

·        A visit to the Legion of Honor and surrounding area

·        Ride a bike in San Francisco’s Critical Mass (last Friday of every month starting at 5:30 p.m. from Justin Hermann Plaza in front of the Ferry Building)

Thoughts on Work, the Forty-hour Workweek and Work-Life Balance

At my office we have a large dry-erase board in the kitchen. We use it to ask questions for staff members to anonymously respond to. Recent samplings include: “If California could have a state meal, what would you include?”, “What are your favorite water-saving tips?” and “What was your first memory?” For the past week the question has been, “What are your strategies for maintaining a healthy balance in life between work, family …?”

I was the first to respond.


I scribbled, “Kind of impossible to achieve (for long) w/ a 40-hour workweek. Or, as Faulkner put it: “One of the saddest things is that the only thing a man can do for eight hours a day, day after day, is work…. Which is the reason why man makes himself and everybody else so miserable and unhappy.”

By the end of the day the board was practically covered with responses from our staff:

One response stood out to me: “Find work that feels like your not – work” In all likelihood, it was hastily written, but I think we all can understand what this person meant to write.

I was driven to write this post in response to that comment. See, throughout my adult life, I’ve heard iterations of that sentiment. The most popular ones I’ve read and heard is “Find work that makes you happy,” (a classic American directive) or “Find work that fulfills you.” I can only speak for myself, but I can tell you that I have, over many years, drunk the proverbial Kool-Aid on such sentiments. For years I was in complete accord with that goal. In theory, I still believe it’s a novel goal to aspire to, but as I’ve gotten older, the more I see how impractical and foolish that sentiment is for the vast majority of humanity.

Because here’s the deal: according to the Worldometers page, our present human population is over 7,329,000,000. In part, it is:

a)      ludicrous to expect that we can provide a job for every single human being, and

b)      it’s absolutely insane to expect that each of these human beings can one day have and retain a “job that feels like you’re not working.” 

Last year I got married at the ripe age of thirty-five. I’ve been working longer than I’ve been making out with women. (I’ve committed a lot of mistakes in life.) Honestly, I am willing to posit that it is farmore difficult to find a fulfilling job, a “dream job”—a job that you love—than it is to develop a loving relationship which results in getting hitched. That’s why, from this day forward, I say a resounding, all-caps, put-it-in-bold fuck that to this ridiculous societal goal in which we’re all supposed to strive to find a job that feels like you’re not working. It is simply not feasible for the vast majority of humanity. It’s akin to telling everyone—men and women—that we should all strive to be physically beautiful when that’s just not realistic because we have this element in nature called “diversity.”

But anyway, now let’s turn our attention to this whole life-work-balance thing. I happen to have opinions on that matter, too.

Let me start by saying that unless you’re one of the fortunate ones who does have a job that doesn’t feel like working, I think a forty-hour workweek is inhumane. I think it’s “inhumane” because it inevitably tilts the scales toward a waking life that is disproportionately devoted toward earning money than, you know, actually trying to fucking savor life. That’s why I call it inhumane.

I’ll use my current worklife as an example. Right now, thanks to having a job in the city I live in, 46 ½ hours of my week—about 41.5% of my waking life (if we base my total waking hours on eight hours of sleep per day—and god knows I never achieve that)—is devoted toward making money (or earning bananas, as I prefer). Here’s the breakdown:

40 hours worked per week

+4 hours per week spent getting ready to go to work (40 minutes per workday)

+2.5 hours per week spent commuting to and from home (.5 hours, or 30 minutes per workday) = 46.5

Other than that 40-hour workweek, I have it pretty sweet. (And how many of us work more than forty hours per week?) Sometimes I cycle to work in less than ten minutes. The ride back home takes about 15 minutes, on average. I’ve had much worst commutes—and I certainly know people who have much longer commutes.

This leaves me with 58.5% of my waking life away from work (7 days x 16 hours = 112 – 46.5 = 65.5). Since none of this time is spent commuting or preparing to go to work, it is, in theory, supposed to indicate the total amount of time I have to be free.

 

But how free can we be?

A few common activities that cut into this time may include:

• Buying groceries
• Preparing or procuring meals
• Washing your dirty laundry
• Cleaning your abode
• Maintaining your personal hygiene (which could including bathing, brushing your teeth, et cetera)
• Getting your daily exercise
• Miscellaneous errands

By the way—if you haven’t noticed already—these common activities I listed do not include anything related to child-rearing or taking care of a pet because neither one is a responsibility I currently have. But if you’re a parent, just think of all the other daily duties you can tack onto this modest list.

And this list doesn’t include resting, or recuperating from our respective occupation.

In the end—in comparison to the significant chunk of time we devote each week toward earning income—we’re often left with little time for everything else. Like time for physical recreation. Time to be with our family. Time to be with our friends. Time for play. Time to create. Time for cultural exposure (like catching a play, visiting a museum, or watching a film). Time to volunteer in our communities. Time for religious/spiritual observation. Time to devote to being a well-informed citizen. Time to debate. Time to reflect. Time to read. Time to think. Time to breathe. Time to be.

So how free can we be within the confines of a 40-hour workweek?

Not too free, in my humble opinion. Which is why—if I could change one policy in our nation—I would change our workweek to 30-32 hours per week. Those 8-10 extra weekly hours may not seem like much, but they add up over a year. They add up over a lifetime. Just imagine what we could collectively do with all that free time.

But that’s the thing—if I may take my turn in sounding like a conspiracy theorist: I don’t think the elite rich who really run this country want us to have more free time. 

They don’t want us to have more time to read. 

They don’t want us to think. 

They don’t want us to get educated. 

They don’t want us to be a well-informed citizenry. 

Instead, they want us to be divided. They want us fighting for scraps. They want to have us pitted up against one another when we should be acutely aware of just much they have fucked us over the past 30-40 years. Keeping us occupied with little time to ourselves is part of their plan for maintaining their exuberant wealth and power.

See:

[End rant]

A Survivor's Celebration

Last night the Golden State Warriors defeated LeBron James and the Cavs to win the NBA Championship. As you may know, it’s Golden State’s first championship since 1975, Oakland’s first championship since another duo of brothers—The Bash Brothers—helped lead the A’s to a World Series victory in 1989. In 1989 I was ten years old. In 1975 I didn’t even exist; I may have existed as an idea, a dream, una esperanza para mis papas.

After the game, I joined my homies, Kevin and Joanne and a few of their friends as we walked to the 14^th and Broadway intersection, a stone’s throw from City Hall. A mass of rowdy revelers, donning yellow and blue, had united there to celebrate our team’s victory. Downtown was joyous bedlam—a never-ending stream of vehicles honking and hollering as they coasted down Broadway and its adjoining streets, the sidewalks teeming with fans shouting back in a give and forth with the celebratory honking, a helicopter hovering high above. It was a swirl of exaltation. It was thirty-nine years in the making.

I cheered and shouted with my friends and the crowd gathered in the middle of the street. The streets echoed with chants of “WAAAAAAAARRRRRRRIIIIIUUUUUURRRRSSSS!” “Fuck LeBron!” and “M-V-P!” when one man held a blown-up drawing of Stephen Curry’s face sneering like he did after sinking a three near the end of Game 5. I used my voice recorder to capture these chants, these roars, these moments. I also snapped some pictures and video-recorded our celebration. With camera in hand, as I did a pan of the crowd, I stepped back and remembered that this moment might not have happened for me. (This happens every once in a while, especially when I’m seeing something beautiful, almost never for something mundane like biting into, say, a Whopper Jr.) If I had not received treatment, I might have been another lymphoma statistic. My life may have culminated to becoming a few handfuls of ash scattered up into the sky—in a redwood forest, up along the Salkantay Trail, or perhaps at the foot of El Misti. I’m not sure what my parents would have done with my remains.

Being reminded of all this made the celebration even sweeter. And that’s the thing about being fortunate to be a cancer survivor—that well of gratitude never ends until we’re dead. It never ends as long as we remember to remember. I lived long enough to see my team, the city I love so much, win a championship.

It was a beautiful night. 

Memoir Outtake: Never Underestimate the Healing Power of a Super Soaker

Mariana and I sipped stiff cuba libres in our parents’ backyard. We stood beneath the patio roof as my brother-in-law, Rick, and my dad prepared the grill with lighter fluid and charcoal. The first drink I slurped down produced an immediate giddying effect. I’d slept for shit the night before which is why I thirsted for that caffeine-liquor kick. At some point, while we flashed the gab, Rick mentioned these Super Soakers he had in their car trunk. He bought them to shoot around with his four-year old nephew. He typically left the water guns in their garage but he figured I might want to have a showdown with him on a hot, summer afternoon in Fremont.

I said hell yeah.

Before long, Rick stepped into the backyard through the living room’s sliding screen door holding both Super Soakers. He looked like a Mexican Terminator with those big guns in hand, small backpacks containing water slung around his shoulder. Rick belonged at a pool party in Tijuana with that beer gut and white sun cap of his. He handed me one of the water guns.

“You can make it shoot like a shotgun if you pull back on it like this,” Rick said, pumping the handle on the gun barrel, then pointing it at the patch of lawn beside us. He pulled the plastic lever at the top of the gun. It shot a gorgeous gob of water.

“Whoa, cool!” I said, pumping the gun’s handle. I pointed it at the side of the house, a few feet away. I pulled back the lever and chortled with mischievous glee when I saw the splatter of water on the wall. Then I yelped as I felt a cold wet sensation on my side. I peered down at my shirt, saw a wet spot, then looked at Rick. He was grinning boyishly. His water gun was pointed at me. He hit me with another stream of water.

“Aaaaaaaahhh!” I screamed, raising my gun to shoot him in the face.

It was on!

We stood our ground, frantically pumping the handle on our guns while we soaked each other, filling the backyard with our screams and laughter. I retreated back into the lawn, bobbing behind one of the wooden beams that supported the patio roof. Rick rushed over in my direction, ducking and scurrying around a small table while shooting in my direction. I quickly pumped the gun a few times and ran over at him, stepping into his line of H2O-fire in order to blast him, point blank, with a shotgun blast to his chest. He groaned dramatically.

Rick scampered off, disappearing in the side alley on his way toward the front lawn. I dropped my gun, slung off the backpack, and managed to wrench off my soaking-wet T-shirt.

“Your ass is mine, Hernandez!” I roared, running out into the front yard. He was nowhere in sight. I crept along the side of the house, pointing my gun toward the driveway.

“You can’t hide for long, you cock fag!” I shouted. (Back then, it was one of our favorite inappropriate insults; it was the only time I used that “f” word—sober that is. In Life Outside Rick-land, I immediately dislike anyone who utters that word.)

He stepped out and into my line of water-fire. We retreated back to Mariana’s car, parked in the driveway. We blasted it out, ducking, bobbing around the car, roaring insults that could be heard throughout the residential street (mostly me), shooting rainbows of water over the car until we ran out of ammo. Rick fled, giggling on his way to the backyard. I darted over to the hose by the front door to load my gun with water.

In the backyard, Rick cowered beside Mariana. He was hosed—soaked head to toe. I continued to shoot him without dousing my sister. Vanquished, he stepped back, covering his face. I walked up to him and delivered a shotgun blast. Rick staggered away, his back to me, while I aimed low, drenching his rear. He flopped on the lawn and rolled up into a protective ball. “Stop! Stop!” he said, laughing, holding out a hand while I soaked his crotch.
It had been some time since I had laughed with abandon.

Memoir Outtake: Beatling

Lafayette/Moraga Regional Trail

Here’s a transition I excised from a chapter titled “Made Me Nuclear.” This cut comes between a perilous nighttime bike ride I took on St. Mary’s Road without my front bike light and Charlie Lustman’s amazing musical, Made Me Nuclear, in San Pancho. This is the extended version with 302 words I later pared down to 180 words, which I ultimately cut (boohoohoo!):


Once I made it onto the flat part of the trail, whose fissures and bumps I was familiar with, I turned my iPod on. I rang my bicycle bell a couple of times and made a tooting sound while I scrolled through my songs. A righteous Beatles tune to sing along to was needed. I picked one of my all-time Lennon faves, “I Am the Walrus.” I had memorized the song since I was seventeen when I became enamored with John. (Lennon was one of my first heroes. For his songwriting genius; the fearlessness he demonstrated in playing from his heart no matter how vulnerable or dark his emotions were; his open-mindedness; his wit; his self-deprecating sarcasm; and his belief that celebrities should utilize their power for what he believed were righteous causes.) I sang aloud to the song. I went to these noise-making lengths because that part of the trail had deer. They hid amidst the thicket of bushes, behind the trees that lined the path. During the previous school year, I rode the trail one night and nearly hit a deer that darted in front of me. Since then, as a precautionary step that happened to be joyous for me (though assuredly abominable to hear if anyone were around), I often sung aloud while I cycled through those deer-populated areas. That way, they knew I was there and wouldn’t freak out and jump in front of me once they saw my shrouded figure and the curious white light on my steering handle as I hurtled down the path like a glowing phantasm. (This strategy seemed to work because I never had another deer-in-bicycle-headlight encounter.)

And so, I goo goo g’joobed and hello-goodbyed my way onto the residential streets of Lafayette, beatling away. I made it to the station on time.

These Are a Few of My Favorite Beings - My 25 Favorite Animals

Photo by rasputina2

From an early age I have always had deep affection and fascination for all the animals we share this world with. When I was in grade school my mom would take me and my sister to the Irvington Library to load up on books and video cassettes to nourish us. I used to gingerly walk out of the library with a stack of books and tapes tucked beneath my chin. Back then, I almost exclusively read books about dinosaurs, Ancient Egyptians, and animals—especially sharks and predatory animals like hawks and snakes. Over time—though my parents didn’t believe me—I read all the animal books from that tiny library that interested me. My earliest career aspirations included becoming a zoo veterinarian, marine biologist, or archaeologist.



Last week Maria and I were watching Kangaroo Dundee on PBS. I had never seen an episode before. Our television showed Chris Barnes (a.k.a. Kangaroo Dundee) caring for two adorable joeys whose mother was killed in a vehicular accident. As we sat on the couch I mimicked the nurturing sound he made to the joeys while he held them on his lap in their pillowcases (which mimics their mother’s pouch). They also showed footage of Kangaroo Dundee slowly driving around Alice Springs at night, searching for female kangaroos who had been struck down by a vehicle. At one point, Mari said she could see me being someone who did something like that. I was touched. I could imagine myself being content with a simpler life devoted to caring for animals. I think I have always had far more compassion for animals other than humans.

Speaking of Homo sapiens sapiens, before I dive into my list of favorite animals I thought it would be worthwhile—since it’s related—to note my least favorite species. Here’s my top five in order:

• Humans: Like my homeboy Justin put it: we invented genocide. We also invented racism, homophobia, religious persecution, and enough nuclear weaponry to destroy most life on this planet. Sure, I’m solely focusing on the negative, but fuck humans. It makes me happy to think that someday we’ll be wiped off the face of Planet Earth.

• Mosquitos: There are few animals I will gladly kill but mosquitos are at the top of that list. I know that in the grand scheme mosquitos are important pests that spread disease (i.e. death) but I hate them!

• Silverfish: I don’t like them! Seeing them move almost always makes me squirm.

• Leeches: Ugh, leeches creep me out like few animals do. Years ago, I took a “hike” by myself at Khao Yai National Park in Thailand. (It’s worthwhile to mention that the park is home to wild boars AND TIGERS! Their roadside signage warn about cobras crossing the road.) I slipped on a ridiculously muddy “trail” near a stream and got a couple of leeches stuck on the anti-leech socks I wore. Back in my cottage it was incredibly hard to kill those little suckers. Watching them wiggle about in search of skin to suckle on made me shiver. They’re. Fucking. Gross.

• Cockroaches: I’ve been fortunate to live in homes that never attracted cockroaches. I’ve seen a few in my life. I think they’re kind of cool. They’re basically mini-tanks on six legs, but they’re still yuckers.

Fun fact: cockroaches can’t walk backwards—which is why, long ago some clever and wonderful humanitarian decided to use cockroaches as a form of torture; they would threaten to insert cockroaches into a captive’s ear since, you know, they can’t walk back out of the ear canal.

Like I said before, humans are supremely fucked up, man.

But anywho, let’s step back to the light. Let us step away from the squalid, the foul, the wretched. Let us bask with awe and wonder at these twenty-five creatures we are fortunate to share this planet with. My list is teeming with beautiful animals. Some are ferocious. Some are brilliant. Some are majestic. Some are ridiculously brave. Many of these animals have made extraordinary physical adaptations to their environments. I found myself particularly drawn to animals with unusual physical characteristics. (Surprise?) In researching these animals I watched my share of videos that captured these species in their daily grind for survival. My jaw dropped a lot of times. My eyes probably popped out a bit. I laughed out loud a couple of times in sheer joy at what I was witnessing from my laptop screen. It makes me happy to know that, as long as I live, I will never lose the childlike joy and wonder I feel when I watch these amazing animals in action, or read about what they do in order to continue on. I will always be profoundly humbled by all the diversity of life this planet of ours has created. (Consider this my shout out to carbon.)

Enough soliloquies. Here’s my list of favorite animals in no particular order:

1. Crow: A while back I took a silly quiz on Facebook that purported to have the ability to identify my spirit animal. I got a wolverine, which made me grin. I shared the quiz result with my sweetheart, Maria, and she told me a crow would have been more apt. I agreed. They are the most intelligent birds on Earth; they’re the only non-primate species known to make tools. A recent study by the University of Auckland found that crows have a reasoning ability that matches that of children aged between five and seven. Crows can be mischievous. And playful, too. I think they’re beautiful—and there’s something to be said about a bird family species that is found on every continent except Antarctica. Crows are masterful at adapting to various environments.

I hope crows survive the age of humans to evolve into the dominant species on Planet Earth.

2. Hummingbird: In recent months I’ve been crushing hard on hummingbirds. You will too if you watch this outstanding documentary:



They’re extraordinary creatures. Teeny ounce for teeny ounce, I humbly believe hummingbirds are amongst the toughest animals. From a design standpoint they’re astounding creations. During the day they are incredibly active, driven by a high metabolism and a body temperature of 40oC (107o Fahrenheit) that requires them to consume an abundance of nectar. At night their body temperature drops to 18oC, which allows them to survive cold nights. Hummingbirds can live a surprisingly long time; their average lifespan is 3-5 years though a few have been reported to live up to 12 years. One of the ways many of their subspecies survive is by migrating an incredibly long distance, especially in comparison to their minute stature.

The Mayans revered hummingbirds. I love those little guys a lot, too.

Photo by QImage Photos

3. Orca: If you ask me, orcas are the mightiest creatures roaming the ocean. It’s weird to think about that thanks to Sea World and the shows orcas imprisoned in captivity put on with their trainers, but orcas are not to be fucked with out in the ocean. Unlike solitary hunters like great white sharks they live and hunt in packs. And they’re amongst the most intelligent animals on this planet. With their simple swirls of black and white they’re beautiful creatures to behold.

4. Dog: A list of my favorite animals would be incomplete without dogs. I love ‘em, and they seem to like me! In my adulthood I’ve come to love cats for the ways they are unlike dogs, but dogs are incredible. They’re incredibly loyal. (I’m thinking of Hachikō the akita who waited nine years at a train station in Shibuya, Tokyo to be reunited with his owner.) Affectionate. And adorable (well the majority of them are). Dogs rule. We’re fortunate to have such trusting companions.

5. Flying squirrel: Remember that moment in Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight when Batman glides through the dazzling skyline of Hong Kong? Everyone loved that movie, and everyone loved that breathtaking scene. That’s just a typical day at the office for a flying squirrel:

Photo by Paul Jones

6. Gray jay: Okay, I didn’t even know gray jays existed until a few weeks ago when Mari and I saw a PBS documentary about winter life in the forests of Ontario. Not only are they beautiful, but gray jays are bad asses. They’re one of the few bird species who do not migrate south when the harsh winter envelopes the land. That’s hardcore in my book. One of their methods for surviving the long winter is by living off thousands of pieces of food they hide throughout the summer “behind flakes of bark, under tree lichens, or in any other nook or cranny that won't be covered with snow later on” according to a webpage about Algonquin Park in Ontario. Before it hides each food item, the gray jay coats the food with sticky saliva secreted from its enlarged salivary glands. Many months later, probably through memory, they fly about their wintry forest surroundings to unearth all the chunks of food they hid. It’s pretty impressive.

7. Mongoose: Mongooses are wild! Sure, they have immunity to small dosages of snake venom but I still think it’s crazy that Indian gray mongooses will hunt highly-venomous snakes like cobras. They’re ninjas of the plain, man! Just check out this “Matrix-style” move at the 2:25 mark. ¡Que locura!

Photo by Vittorio Ricci

8. Wolverine: Wolverines, man! They’re fierce motherfuckers! Pound for pound I think they’re in the top 1% percentile of animals with major cajones. There have been reports of a lone wolverine taking on an entire pack of wolves, even taking on a black bear. The dictionary entry for “brave” could have a picture of a wolverine (or badger, too).

9. Anglerfish: Man, deep sea creatures are gnarly. The depths of our oceans are truly our unexplored frontiers on Planet Earth. How could I not dig the anglerfish?—those nasty fangs adept at capturing prey, their profoundly grisly appearance, and the fact that they adapted to their pitch dark environment by developing a luminescent organ called the esca to lure prey to them? Dude, nature is whack. The anglerfish is proof.

Photo by Janys

10. Donkey: Most people would probably pick a horse instead but that’s too obvious of a choice for me. I’ve always liked donkeys because they seem like undercover buddhas to me (along with tree frogs). And I think they’re cute.

And they’re incredibly loyal to humans. Since young adulthood I’ve joked about growing up to have one or two and I’d never use them to transport any goods on their sturdy backs. I’d just one want to kick it with me.


11. Three-toed sloth: So I admittedly admire unusual animals, and sloths are a good example. Sloths have evolved from humungous, slow-moving land animals to languid animals that live up in the trees. Just watching sloths move makes me smile. What other mammal is like them, perpetually caught in slow-mo? It’s like they were built to chill.

Couple of cool facts about sloths: they’re solitary animals. Males and females primarily get together to, you know, get together. And sloths take a crap once a week—which is probably a wise evolutionary adaptation since it is a hazard for them to descend and trudge along the jungle floor with jaguars, snakes and osprey lurking. I have respect that sloths will go to the ground to take a proper crap; it’s like they have manners, or hygiene standards to uphold instead of just taking dumps from up in the branches.

Photo by Marsel van Oosten

12. Namaqua chameleon: There is something to be said about a species that can survive extreme environments like deserts and rain forests. As you probably know, chameleons can shift their coloration and pattern for the purposes of camouflage and to communicate with other chameleons. (For example, they tend to show darker colors when angered or when attempting to intimidate others.) And those eyes, that exceptional vision, and those long tongues. Chameleons are wizard lizards!

13. Siberian tiger: What would a list of my favorite animals be without one from the cat family? Few animals were built to be such masterful predators. The muscular, flexible bodies. The exceptional reflexes. The sharp retractable claws. The powerful jaws. And their excellent vision in the dark. Cats are beautiful killers. In my humble opinion, the Siberian tiger is the most beautiful. Check out this fascinating documentary of ecologist Chris Morgan trying to capture video of Siberian tigers out in the wild. They are amongst the largest cats. Their striped orange and white fur is exquisite. With the exception of humans, tigers are the kings of their land.

14. Grizzly bear: Speaking of exceptional killing machines, few animals can top grizzlies. They’re massive! And powerful. They’re the George Foreman/Sonny Listons of the animal world: one well-placed swipe from a full-grown grizzly can be game over. Adults can weigh over 500 pounds and still be clocked at speeds of over 25 mph once they gain momentum (which is why The Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook advises running in a zigzag pattern if ever confronted with a bear).

With the exception of mothers and cubs, grizzlies are solitary animals. Few scenarios in life are as dangerous as encroaching upon a mother bear, which is why this video of ecologist Chris Morgan sitting within feet of grizzly cubs is absolutely intense to watch:



15. Beaver: Beavers are neat! They have incredible incisors and a natural tenacity to chop down trees that are significantly larger than them. And their tails are brilliant evolutionary mutations that allow them to be vigorous swimmers and alert their kin of danger. (Beavers will slap water with their tails to signal a predator, then subsequently dive into water for safety where they can hold their breath for up to fifteen minutes.) And their dams and lodges are strokes of simple genius, too.

I took this photo!

16. Llama!: This is where my Peruvian prejudice is apparent. Over a month ago Mari and I drove through Pescadero. I rolled down my window and yelled with glee the first time we drove past a farm with llamas chilling on the grass. Llamas are cool in my book because of their importance to Andean cultures. Their wool is exceptional. They’re hearty pack animals. And I really like that they can be surly, known for kicking and spitting when antagonized. I love you, llamas!

17. Mountain goat: Mountain goats are wild, man! They’re like a mammalian version of the flea, capable of leaping twelve feet in a single bound. Despite weighing between 100 to 300 pounds they willingly climb along absurdly steep, rocky slopes. With rough inner pads that provide exceptional grip and cloven hooves with two toes that spread wide for balance, they’re equipped to be the daredevil ninjas of the Rocky Mountains. Just check this shit out:



18. Jabiru: I saw one or two of these large storks stalking around a vast grassland while I camped out in Brasil’s Pantanal many years ago. With their large beaks they remind me of pelicans but they’re more elegant and beautiful.

And they’re huge, the tallest flying bird in Central and South America. And they have a cool name.





19. Aye Aye: ¡Ay caramba! What a peculiar creature! A nocturnal primate with one elongated finger used to tap along trees in search of hollow channels where yummy grub lie in wait. Coupled with batlike ears and an unseemly face, aye ayes are kind of creepy when they are hunting for prey, which is why I dig them:


(And isn’t it impressive how National Geographic put this footage together!)

20. Stargazer (not the epic Rainbow song): Stargazers are gnarly motherfuckers. The sucker punchers of the sea. If Gollum were an amphibian or sea creature he might call them “tricksy” creatures, burying themselves beneath sand to ambush unsuspecting fish who mosey past them. Their bites are venomous, and a few subspecies can deliver electrical currents.

Nasty motherfuckers, man.

21. Moray eel: Like stargazers, moray eels rely on surprise attacks to sustain themselves. Instead of attempting to appear like any typical patch of sandy sea floor these creatures hide within the nooks of a coral reef to strike at fish swimming by. The surprise attack is a common tactic in the animal world; several spiders and land snakes lurk in holes waiting for prey. It’s an excellent (but frowned upon) tactic in multiplayer shoot-em-up video games.

But giant moray eels—man. Reaching lengths of nearly 10 feet and weighing over 60 pounds, they are huge. Their jaws are powerful. In coral reefs, they’re the Boogeyman lurking in the shadows. Just see what nearly happened to this poor whitetip shark.

Gulp.

22. Whale shark: When I was a kid I loved sharks; makos, hammerheads, tiger sharks, and, of course, the great white were my favorites. Great white sharks are still the most captivating species but whale sharks are my favorite now.

They’re the largest fish in the world, capable of reaching a weight of 21.5 metric tons. With their spots and stripes and their languid swimming pace they seem so beautiful and majestic.

23. Black mamba: A snake had to crack my list since I’ve always liked them. (When I was a kid, I wanted a ball python for a pet but my parents said no.) With apologies to the Eastern diamondback rattlesnake, coral snake, spitting cobra (aah!) and the reticulated python, I chose the black mamba because: 1) they’re the fastest land snake, capable of reaching speeds over 12 mph, 2) can stand tall in a physically imposing manner, 3) can reach lengths of 14 feet (which is not shabby considering the king cobra, the longest poisonous land snake, is capable of reaching lengths that are not much longer), 4) their venom is crazy-potent (two drops can kill a human), and 5) I happen to think they’re beautiful creatures, especially with that vicious little smirk. This is all easy for me to write, far, far from Africa.

24. Kangaroo: With apologies to the koala and Tasmanian devil, kangaroos are my favorite marsupial. Most animal babies are probably cute but joeys are ridiculously cute with their disproportionately large feet. Although they derive from only one continent a mama kangaroo’s pouch is popularly known. Like llamas, I like how male kangaroos can be feisty bastards when full grown. Even when they’re “boxing,” I still think adult kangaroos are super cute.

25. Tarsier: “High bouncing gremlins of the jungle” is an apt description for these big-eyed primates, these bug hunters of the night, the only primates that are entirely carnivorous. Ninja Gaiden has nothing on these little guys!




What are your favorite animals? Please feel free to let me know in the comments section. I hope you enjoyed this gallery!