I just saw an oversized plastic bag, upright and drifting along the shoulder with the entrained wind from the traffic, decide that now is the time. It changed direction, floated right up and over the jersey barrier, and did a jumper off the Almaden Expressway overpass. Did it right in front of me, happened pretty fast too. It was just gone. I didn’t have time to do anything about it, and I was driving, traffic was flowing pretty good in that moment on 85, but not for much longer. Now, why would it do that? I was thinking more about the air currents around an overpass, but at the end of the bridge deck I had another entirely different answer. A raccoon, roadkill 100%, right after the end of the barriers. The bag was inconsolable, shredded with grief, after the loss of its partner and just gave up. This is the story that immediately popped into my head as I sped past. I admit that I was having a hard time envisioning the relationship; mostly the raccoon just carried the bag, perhaps it was his favorite. And that was enough. I could try to take it further, try to make more sense out of it, but traffic is starting to stack up and I have to pay attention.

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I am taking a break from work in the afternoon, and just intentionally sitting down, outside, enjoying the view and resisting the urge to look back at the small screen that I keep in my pocket. I win the battle about half the time and admire the scattered low clouds against a perfect blue sky. The trees in the foreground are vibrant. I wonder if anyone on the highway at the far end of the parking lot happens to glance over and see me, a generic person on a 4th floor tech office balcony. I don’t see the people in the cars, just the cars.

My phone wins for a couple of minutes and I check email, open YouTube and close it, scroll a little of the Bluesky infinity on the AI list until it annoys me and I wrestle control of my attention back to taking a break. The foreground trees are so vibrantly green. There are young trees in the parking lot far below, and some members of an older generation of tall pine trees, reaching higher than the balcony, and they are part of an urban forest that fills a visible plain extending into the background. I see my manager’s manager having a walk and talk 1:1 with another colleague down in the parking lot. They went down one aisle of cars, in the lane, and then back up another, doing circuits.

These emails I bothered to read are nothing, effectively junk mail that I signed up for at some point and I should cancel. I delete them. Another minute of my break spent looking at the screen. Time is almost over, so I put it away and sit back in the deck chair. A paper cup is rolling in the breeze on the ground, someone’s trash, I collect it and put it in my own now empty cup, and add the wrapper to my bar, folded and knotted so it won’t blow away. I’ve got another minute before the timer I set runs out. Without that I might break my break early, I might lose track of time and be out more than I intend, I might give up and start working, checking work emails or IMs while nominally breaking. When the timer does end I linger a bit longer looking out over the valley, enjoying the perfect temperature for a minute more.

In the end, I stop work about ten after 6.

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The courtyard on the outskirts, between Nordstrom’s EPUB coffee bar and the blank side of the Crate & Barrel, wasn’t the first place I noticed, but it is where I spent the most time observing. I was having a water break, and sat in the shade under the lilac tree on the tiled rim of its giant pot. It wasn’t a hot day, but it was hot enough and all the shaded patio tables in the half-fenced area were taken. A well-dressed guy in a tan blazer and blue oxford shirt, maybe a doctor or some other researcher from the adjacent Stanford medical center or even the university, slouched over the table, head down and evidently having a rest. Maybe he was even napping under his dark sunglasses. Another young man, also in business attire but this time a navy sport coat and a light blue shirt, sat with several plastic takeaway salad bins from the EPUB counter. The evidence suggested that he was on an extended lunch break; he had been at the same station an hour earlier when I started my inaugural tour of the shopping center. These two guys didn’t appear to me to be shoppers at these outpost shops, nor to be employees on break from their duties in the shops. Members of both of those cohorts were evident and obvious in the patio as well, scattered about and the former mostly solo, the latter in small groups around a table or making an order.

The space surrounding the patio seating puts either building some noticeable distance away. And the rectangular fenced area itself, occupying the closer-to-Nordstrom’s half of a square that surrounds the central tree is even larger still. All this space wasn’t so obvious in the moment. The few people walking through, except if they came into the lunch pen, they had no reason to approach one another at all out there. An elegant and reserved older shopper carefully carried her salad kit from the counter window to the small table next to my seat, and the clutch of young employees exiting the Nordstrom’s brass and glass doors for a break took another table closer to the store. A large circle of the floor is paved with a grid of plain terracotta and sculpted, colorfully hand painted, tiles. Occasionally a small group of construction workers passed through the gap between the buildings on the right, outside the fence, still wearing hard hats and electric green safety vests, on their way to or from some project. Crate & Barrel’s facade on the far side is a tall brick wall with a metal sash covering the bottom half rather like an armored reinforcement. It’s a high wall, far away.

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The Tahoe Symphony wasn’t perfect, though they were all musical “all stars” as the long-winded introductory speaker said. A program coordinator muttered something that sounded like “too long” under their breath while we waited in the wings for our ticketing situation to get sorted. It was fun watching these intros from stage left, still under the trees; not the usual spot to see it. Then we walked across the front of the stage to our seats like we meant to do it that way all along. The errors really kicked off once the program began. There was the moment that the cellist’s sheet music fell after she turned it, because of a puff of wind from the side. Then the double-bass soloist had to get down off the barstool, lay the instrument on its side, and bend down in her evening gown to adjust the length of the endpin during a lull of the Nino Rota piece, right in the front and middle of the whole orchestra. We remained in our seats during the intermission, not wanting to risk any more improperly timed tours of the front of the stage. The violinist adjusted her music stand up about a half inch during the first movement of Beethoven’s 7th. And there was the first chair dog barker, running late, still somewhere off stage and outside the tent, who performed their one note off time during the second movement. Even here, on Lake Tahoe, there were still things that could be found to be imperfect, if you got out your microscope. The sunset was a nice touch, though. My hat’s off to whomever put in the order for that one.

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There were a few small straggly bits, not much magnetic tape was missed. I looked for any other remains of the huge mess from last week along the center median of 85. Some few pieces of it fluttered and glinted in the breeze, but most had been cleaned up by someone, a highway worker or a good samaritan, or some unknowable party doing the good work to keep our city’s infrastructure at or below a threshold level of dirtiness. There was still plenty of other trash along the sides of the road: a five gallon bucket lid, pieces of blown apart tire, a flattened In-n-Out Burger paper cup, a pair of shoes¹. All the usual things and just enough of them to look regular, look just as it usually does. I kept looking for the tape, and I really didn’t see much.

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I had just finished my workout, stair machine and treadmill, and was about to climb the four floors of stairs back to my desk. The door to the stairs has a card reader, you have to get in close to scan your badge, which I had just done when the door absolutely burst open, into my shoulder, and a young man came flying out. I shouted “oh my goodness!” over my headphones, completely startled and a little pushed back from the impact force. He and I were checking ourselves over to see if we were okay, asking each other. He reached out, I think wanting some reassurance that I hadn’t been hurt; I reached back and for a second touched his hand and said I was okay. While we were sorting out if we had caused each other any damage a second young man caught up and also came to the still open door in a hurry. I was okay and he was okay, and so we went on our own ways, mine up the stairs and theirs down the hall. The back side of the door has a warning sign about opening the door with caution.

Ali was in a hurry, getting her things together and loading her bags and measuring water for her morning protein shake, when she bumped the glass and it toppled from the counter to the floor and loudly shattered to pieces. It’s always kind of amazing how glass does that, all the poised tension and potential just frozen into some unnatural shape and released with a pop, the bits scattering across the floor. Ali said “oh. I’m sorry.” and I said “Which one was it, and are you ok?” I didn’t think the Duralex glasses were that fragile, and suspected it was that old beer glass I had set out. We could do with fewer glasses and cups in the cupboard, and breaking them is one way to make that happen. I wasn’t wearing shoes yet, or socks, so I stayed where I was until Ali got me a pair of Crocs. She swept, I vacuumed, and she left on time.

I was making dinner and had a bag of sous vide beef in its juices, from Costco, that I needed to get to the pan. For some reason, I cut it open over the sink, I guess to catch any spilling. But I needed all the juices and the pan is where they were supposed to go. So I had cut that bag all quite open to get out the precut beef, and was rotating about to get over the pan. A bunch of dribbles fell out onto the floor. Another spill. The same floor we had just swept and mopped in the morning. I needed to eat soon so I could have a bit of time before going to the gym. The physical objects, they just aren’t cooperating right now. Ali helped clean it up while I continued to hurry dinner preparation.

Later that night I found one more tiny shard of glass, a sliver, with my bare foot.

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I saw recently that a company is now projecting the indicator on the ground. My objection: the blinking will draw our eye down to the ground, and that’s away from where the 2-ton killing machines are. The flashier ones that move, extend, or are strange shapes doing strange things, some think those are fun, but I don’t. All the turn signals with “extras” really grind my gears; I am very much against these “more fun” versions. They are just harder to interpret in critical situations and that makes them unsafe. Give me the plain, single, simple, on-off lights of the past. The easy to reflexively understand ones. A complex intersection or an abrupt traffic stack up on the highway aren’t situations that wants more complex signals. If it makes me a wet blanket, I don’t care. I want to get home safely and I don’t want to have to read those blinkers to do it.

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The parking lot is full, like completely full. There are cars prowling. This is an ordinary grocery store on an ordinary Thursday night. There is no reason for this parking lot to be completely used up. The only other time I have ever seen Nob Hill’s parking lot begin to get full is during the after school pick up time when parents abuse the proximity of this parking lot to the high school kitty corner across the intersection. So. It is nearly the end of the school year, summer is upon us, just this morning the middle school kids we see almost every morning were celebrating that there is only a week left. For us it means an end to the morning rush of dropping off kids at the school only a block from our house, a reason for us to celebrate too. Evidently not yet in this parking lot. Some school event is going on. I give up my search for a parking spot, it’s not happening, and I am out of time for this. I will not be getting my groceries tonight, and I am actually kinda mad about it.

This madness, about being thwarted, it also surprises me. Normally I take almost everything in stride. This is one of those events on the other side of that “almost everything”. I had a schedule laid out, and on any other Thursday night, it would have worked just fine. So there is some time pressure, an expectation of the world’s behavior, and an unsatisfied need. Well, the world had other plans. That school had some event and all these parking spots were required, first come first served, buddy.

I floored it as I turned onto Santa Teresa and headed for home. A pointless gesture, maybe some steam was let off, but not a lot and not anything of any meaning. I was still tense and frustrated and itchy while I waited in the left turn lane. It’s not a sports car, my Subaru Outback station wagon, not one of the WRX models that pretends to be a racer. But that doesn’t mean it’s completely devoid of the juice, so when the light turned green, I gave it some extra as I turned onto Blossom, and then the steam let out and well, whatever. I’ll do something else for my nightcap meal tonight and it will be just fine.

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The black Tesla is speeding and braking and lane changing and routing around the slower cars. It’s leap-frogging through the light traffic to get ahead and go even faster. At times I’m driving nearly 85; it’s after 7 and we’re all flying down the 85. Just going with the flow. The other side is practically empty, at its natural and quiescent state for this time of the evening. There are a couple of lonesome cars heading toward Mountain View, they have a free hand to choose their own speed in the golden hour glow. On our side there has been only one stretch where we all collectively slow to about 60, and that’s for no apparent reason. Soon we’re back into the high 70s, which is evidently not fast enough for this Tesla. I notice a bright blue Lambo, a fun toy color, heading north on the other side of the cement barrier, just cruising north unhurriedly. On our side the Tesla accelerates and lane changes into a slot between two cars, barely big enough, to edge past a slower Honda (only going 73 mph) in the right most lane. As soon as they are clear of it they lane change back and zoom off to the next car and pass it too.

They had come from behind, before the Bascom onramp, and I lose them around Camden. They either exited or got far enough ahead that I can’t see anymore. What I do see is the North-going lanes of 85 have expanded to five, and they’re all empty. There, a vast ocean of bare and grooved pavement; on our side we are still going fast but there is the jostle of us all together rushing.

They’ve gone on, somewhere, and I wonder when the next ‘black Tesla’ will appear and perform again. Will the next be better at it, or worse? I keep going to my own exit, to become lost to these others jostling with me down the highway.

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The uniformed man walked past, straight down the middle of the two rows of chairs, perfectly ordinary. He’s young-ish, he’s wearing a hat, a baseball cap, but I didn’t catch the logo. When he got to the back of the shop, I lost interest in his activities, but on recollection I see that he entered the scene empty handed, which is odd for a delivery person or service man. When I glance at him again something slightly odd is happening. He’s got the carboy out of the water dispenser and is looking at the main body of the dispenser itself. Maybe a repair? The carboy is empty. Everything seems normal. But then I see that the dispenser is unplugged and he’s holding the cord. He picks it up and hoists the whole thing onto his shoulder. My eyes track him, head held still, as Maria continues cutting my hair. The empty carboy is in his other hand and he walks back out right down the dead middle of the chairs with all of it. He doesn’t look left or right, and says nothing to anyone.

They’ve started taking the place apart. Maria says it’s been like this all week. There were some workers out measuring at the front of the shop a day or two ago. “Bro, we’re still here,” she says, gesturing toward the emptying room, the barbers beginning to pack combs and trimmers, the decorations barely still hanging on the wall. One of the other clients leaves a bottle of tequila for them, after his last haircut. I send a larger than my usual tip along with the payment. Maybe I’ll see her again at the next barbershop.

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The neighbors are having work done. Their driveway is gone and so is most of their front yard. I’m pleasantly surprised at how relatively quiet the machines have been. But there is only so much that can be done about busting up cement thirty feet away. So, there was some shaking and rattling and banging of the blocks as they fell into the back of a dump truck parked and idling in front of, well, almost my house. So, mostly quiet.

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I was out for a run when I spotted this one at the end of the trail where I turn around to double back and where the water goes underground and out to who-knows-where¹ so I made a quick audio note to myself to commit to coming back out here with a tripod and my real camera and taking a picture of it before it gets painted over by the city infra folks. This is that picture. The thing about this graffito is that it’s possibly the most intricate one I’ve seen in my neighborhood. There are some up the way, by the 87/85 interchange that change a lot, are a lot bigger, and are possibly more “art.” But along this canal, I’ve not seen anything this ambitious before. It was a little harder to get to than I expected; the gate I had slipped through last time has been tightened up a bit, so I had to climb over it this time. Just thought I’d share something I noticed this weekend.

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The trends today that feel forced and presented and manipulative and really only there for some reason other than because people want them, the selected shouting and distilled intensity, it’s all exhausting. Can people just be normal for a minute? The algorithm that concentrates anything it comes near has leaked out and it is unsustainable that everything everywhere is infected. It’s gone meta, the optimization of itself has become so much that it is becoming visible and annoying too. Not only has the subject been optimized for attention, the Jackass antics of stupid stunts like pushing a shopping cart into the curb for a dumb crash video¹ have been completely amped up to crashing a train into a giant hole,² but every other aspect of the production around the idiotic stunt has been iterated, focus grouped, a/b’ed, and maximized to the nth degree. And this is old news.

In a way it is a kind of democratization. These tools and techniques used to be limited to professional commercial firms that had the money, the knowhow, the motivation, and the interest to bother. It was annoying then. Now everyone can use them, everyone is a brand. All the tutorials are on the internet there for anyone to try. Platforms added the ability to apply the methods and now this crap is everywhere. And that enabling of more people to try is great. What’s not great is that the rest of us have to suffer through an endless feast of slop. Even top tier content is polluted with this accelerationist intensity.

This culture, the culture of intensity, is overdone. And it is all a scam, a way to get something out of the people that they wouldn’t otherwise bother about. Attention scams, financial scams, movement scams. And it’s the easiest one in the world to escape from because all you have to do is engage less with the intensity, and with less intensity. Choose to do something else. Look away from the feed, look outside, look at a picture, anything. I choose something else.

This one pathway to attention, the make it as much of itself³ as possible way, as much anger or awful, it is not the only way. Much of the best art and craft things are dialed back a little. They can be subtle and inspire, or edited to relax and bring peace. Well crafted things can be developed to be something else, something original and genuine and intensely personal, and so universal. Just change the channel.

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