Film as fallen worship

I was listening to David Milch's lecture to a religion and media class at MIT, on the way down to work after dropping Heather off. I'd been avoiding it, partially because I'd listened to a lot of him recently, but more so because I'd accidentally ejected the cd last week, and dreaded holding the fast forward button for several minutes. Anyway, I went back to it.

One thing he said that quite struck me was his comment about the film "National Treasure," which was released several years ago. He didn't exactly see it as a milestone in film making, but he did see it as an expression of humans' practice in submitting themselves to God as an act of worship. THAT I'd never thought of, but it kind of makes sense. As Milch says, as a "fallen" act of worship, but nonetheless something that keeps people in the practice of opening themselves to something larger.

This morning, I had thought I'd slip in some surfing before starting the work week, but after doing my morning sitting, just didn't really want to. What I wanted was to drift around in the half-dream state, and then when that tapered off, to watch NYPD Blue, Milch's cop show from the 90's. I wasn't at all sure why, but various bits of theory from recent readings spoke up to say that this submission to the dream states, in real dreaming, and in the surrogate form of film/television, was an act of reclaiming something that had long ago been displaced or projected.

Heather and I have talked about this, our particular version of a generic topic applicable to all couples: what lessons do we secretly desire our partner to teach us. You can spot them, because they are the parts of our partner that we generally fight and denigrate. For me, its Heather's ability to go into dream or dream-like states and not fight them at all. For me, they are like slipping down a gravel slope into an oily goo. And yet, whose are these states except mine? What are they except another expression of consciousness? And so pushing them away, emphasizing the intellect and rational, what is that if not a dissociation of a genuine, legitimate aspect of myself?

Advanced meditators and spiritual practitioners are reportedly able to remain in witness-mind through their immersion in dream and unformed sleeping states. There is not a loss of conscious as the person remembers what it is that is always awake through all states of mind. It would seem that somewhere along the way, I learned to see consciousness as antithetical to dream states, that it's either/or.

But this morning seems to be a shifting or softening of that dis-association--there was a willingness to stay put and legitimize what was actually happening. And then with the TV show, there was an attempt to remain conscious and aware as I descended into the story.

Milch's point seems to be that film/TV, even the worst of it, is an act of submission to a different state of mind, and that that submission is resonant with and a practice in worshiping God. Maybe a more or less bastard version, or perhaps the object of worship is (extremely) fallen, but he seems to be saying that nonetheless, it's a reaching for God.

Hearing that, something clicked, or perhaps rang. My family has been watching film since my earliest, earliest days. In high school, my career aspiration was film director, and I attended UCLA as an English major, but within rock's throw of the film department, and often spending evenings and weekends watching movies and listening to film makers talk. My longing was to be in there, making films, but I never had the courage to follow through. Maybe I never wanted to challenge my experience of worship by getting to know the priests?

As a family, we didn't have a religion, and certainly nothing like worship in any traditional sense. We were called "happy heathens," by my mother, neither term being very accurate. I think that film was a stand-in church, where religious longings were squirreled in the face of discredited institutions and teachings. Our ad-hoc solution to what Wilber describes as the disaster of modernity: that religion is identified as pre-modern, and science is defined as modern, rather than understanding that there is a pre-modern, a modern, and a post-modern expression of religion. Being a modern family, we were cut off from religion, rather than given a modern version. So not being even aware of this split, and not being able to kill off our religious longings (I recently found myself pining as I passed a van full of kids from a Baptist church), we seemed to find ourselves to the altered state of worship, in front of movie and TV screens.

Nothing is cast off by God, by Spirit. Not even "National Treasure," which Milch seems to see as proof of God's grace. Isn't it something of a redemptive move to see film/TV in this way? Isn't there something deeply gracious, generous, and true in seeing man's longing for redemption and communion in something so modern and so often corrupt. It's not that the products are clear voicings of Spirit, it's that the repeated act of submission to them is a thoroughly respectable stumble towards God.

The Weekend Doings

So, this was a pretty full weekend. Friday morning, I saw a new client who has come in as an EMDR client, to work on a grief situation. There's some trickiness around money, but hopefully they'll stick.

Then, Heather going off to the chiropractor, I decided to get some surfing in. The surf report from Wise, the shop at the end of Fulton, said that it was marginally surfable, which pretty much proved true. I decided to not drive down to Sloat (the beaches are labeled by what street intersects them from the East--all are strung out along the Great Highway) and to try what I think is called Sunset Beach. The waves looked a bit choppy from the parking lot, and no one else was on them, but I figured to brave it anyway.

Suiting up, I tore my boot but since it's both relatively warm in the water now, and seemingly I'm acclimatizing to the fridgity, I went with it and it didn't prove to be a problem. It's a trek from the lot to the water (which makes for a lot of mud on the way back), but I'm getting used to the ritual. Suit up in the lot, trying not to let one's birthday suit show as the wind pulls at one's modesty towel, then schlep the board down across the sand and finally strap on the leash to your right leg before walking into the surf.

Now, the current can be a bitch out on Ocean Beach, pulling north or south depending on where the wind is blowing from, and therefore from where the waves are coming. You can be standing in the water and have to fight not to be pulled over by the force of the waves pushing along the beach. Rip tides haven't been a problem, but once in the water, the current can have you up or down the beach in no time.

But that day, it was fairly mellow, and I could get out past the breaking waves to the line where most were breaking. The problem was that the waves were big--maybe five feet, which is pretty damn big when you're laying on your stomach at the bottom of them--and were breaking quickly. So if you didn't position right, they'd either land right on you or break in front of you and knock you about with the stack of white water.

I persevered and caught a couple waves, and a chunk of whitewater, that allowed me a short ride and a quick dunk. Slowly, slowly, my body and mind are building a surfer, but the growth curve is slow because you only get a short amount of time to build said surfer each time you're out. You get to practice a lot of swimming and getting through the surf to the line, but the actual surfing part, not so much. Still, it's addictive, and being out alone in the waves is a welcome break to the sociality of my life.

One thing you learn is a real respect for the ocean and waves. That day, they were waves to make you pay attention, medium-serious waves that needed to be treated with respect. Extrapolating to larger waves, that's a long ways down the line for me (though I wouldn't mind finding some more classic waves to practice on). I ended up rather pooped from the swimming, and finding my biceps strained, just floated on the surf and let it gradually push me back to shore, doing a little prone surfing, getting a further hang of how to press into the board in order to catch more of the wave's energy. Eventually, I made it into shore in one piece and forgot to pick up a rock to mark the day's surfing (I've begun collecting a stone for each outing).

Usually, I've been surfing on Saturday morning, but having gone out three times this week, I was too sore, so just got up late and rousted Heather for our band workshop. We drove over to Fort Mason and worked on a couple songs off our setlist, with our funky group of rockers. There's Heather as the female voice (and I'm working on her to take up the maraccas), Rex on guitar and voice, Brian on guitar, Bill on bass, me on drums, and Bill2, our teacher and backup guitarist. In aggregate, the band is probably 30 years older than Cattleprod, the band from two years ago. We quickly threw out some names at the end of the session, and it seems like my idea from the morning's shower, the Estrogenics, is going to stick. Five guys and a chick: The Estrogenics. Yeah? I actually liked "The Enhancements" better, but there ya go, life in a democracy.

After that, we hit Guitar Center for a cord and maracas, then did a relatively rare Big Shopping at Rainbow, and headed home for a mellow-ish rest of the day. We spent an hour and a half working on Widgethouse--the name of our project to create a multi-purpose retreat center up near Petaluma--something we've agreed to do weekly. We skipped it last week, so it felt good to follow through with it. Then some work on finances, juggling the zero percent credit cards and shifting money around, like dodging sharks, and I read some more of Wilbur's book (again, jaw-droppingly profound) and then finished off David Caruso's tenure on NYPD Blue (yeah, the guy from CSI-Miami).

The Morning Story

So, I'm at work doing my usuals, dealing with cranky clients, and nicer clients, but lots of peccadilloes and idiosyncrasies. More so, what our work is at a psych unit like this, is holding the space for people who can't do so themselves, the psychic equivalent of what it would be like to be the skin on someone else's body. It takes a lot of effort sometime, and if you're feeling raw yourself, it can be a LOT of work.

Today, I woke from a series of dreams about misery without relief. Seems like they were stories of both other's suffering (an Indian peasant?) and of a birds eye view of suffering per se. I'd watched a string of cop shows last night (NYPD Blue, Milch's early drama), where the detectives are constantly having to negotiate with profound suffering, usually by hardening to it, or shuffling it off in dark humor. So the pump was primed for my dreams.

I've been reading Wilber's "Integral Spirituality," an astounding book that essentially lays out a system of seeing reality as a prism of perspectives, without any primary perspective, that reality is actually the simultaneous coordination of 8 primordial perspectives that cannot be reduced to each other. Reality, in his model, is the arising of all these perspectives at the same time.

So, then waking, I did my usually morning meditation, and saw into how this "suffering without relief" is a particular perspective, one way of framing or narrating the world, a particular story which is true as far as it goes, but not the primary story.

But when I came up from sitting, what was left was this story which was struggling for primacy, not wanting to be held by anything larger, insistent that it was the base story that all others led to. Curious. It seems to be something that has been emerging for perhaps the last year or two, like undigested gristle. And I've been noticing how the tenor of my time at the half-way house has also changed during this time, where the suffering of people here has become harder to hold. Perhaps as I've gotten more sensitive, or more embodied, it pushes me towards this early perspective/story which inherently denies other perspective/stories.

It's trick, holding stories that then bite you because being held itself is an insult. Being held, the story then converts into it's basic experience, being pain and contraction, which the story is there to suppress or avoid. So it doesn't want to be seen for what it is, while at the same time, secretly, every contraction yearns for release.

Milch, Fancy, and Imagination

I am on a BIG David Milch jag. I've downloaded hours and hours from a new blog I stumbled on (here), the bulk of which is Milch talking to a Writers Guild of America crowd right after the strike started at the end of last year. It's like listening to the English professor I never found in college, an erudite man with a deep life history who can find the humanity and numinous in the worst piles of crap.

Milch started as a literature professor at Yale, and a very active junkie, until getting hired to write for Hill Street Blues. He then co-created NYPD Blue, and then a couple short lived projects until he did Deadwood for 3 seasons, and then John From Cincinnati for 1 season, both with HBO. (I've written about both shows, below.)

In the WGA lectures, a central theme--and remember that he's talking with fellow writers--is the difference between fancy and imagination. He defines "fancy" as arbitrary and idiosyncratic connections of two events or objects, his example being, "When I think of the Del Shannon song 'Runaway,' I think of the first time I got a blow job from a white girl." His fanciful connection is not going to be shared by anyone but him, or a precious few anyway. Whereas imagination is the deep structure of meaning, the "natural" associations that will be shared by most people (whether in a cultural unit or more broadly would be a whole different lecture).

He say that authentic writing is the act of keeping company with the fanciful long enough that it yields up its imaginal meaning, and that the act of writing is the mind resting transparent in the ground that gave it rise, from which imagination can occur.

All his raw and beautiful stories in these lectures are about these two points: fancy vs. imagination, and the method of purifying the former into the latter. He makes huge digressions in this discourse, with rank profanity and lurid stories, but manages to bring it all together in exquisite summations and proofs, as it were, of St. Paul's revelation on the road to Damascus, that God's love is available to all people. That, Milch says, is what writers write about: the availability of God's love, with very very good examples.

Milch really points me to the fundaments of writing which were never explained or demonstrated in my romantic gropings through my undergraduate English degree, that is, what makes writing authentic, an act of service rather than a self-serving act.

I think James and I both floundered on this point, in our longings to be writers, in that neither of us knew how to surrender and serve, though both of us longed to find out how. We could feel it in other's writing, but could not figure out how to get into their company. So our attempts were contracted, limited, and thin--and therefore frustrating of the basic want of communion. If we'd been content with our own egos, or the slavish gratifications of others desires, then maybe we could have moved ahead. But I think both of us maddened from the inability to surrender, and both went in other directions in our lives. I still rarely read a novel, and the last one I started, "Divisidero" by Ondatje is so small and careful that I couldn't bear to continue it.

What has gripped my literary heart has been Milch's dramas. I'm watching the 3rd season of Deadwood again, and each episode leaves me...emptied. As my friend Michael said of John From Cincinnati (Milch's last show, last year), about the central character John's efforts towards all the other characters, "He's going to redeem every fucking one of them, isn't he?" Same for Milch, as he keeps giving very very good examples of what St. Paul got converted by, on some dusty road: God's love is for all the creatures, available always and freely.

Zohan!

After our swing dance class last night, with our perky Swedish instructor Cat ("tree-pull step!"), we went to see You Don't Mess with the Zohan. I wasn't expecting much. Adam Sandler has had about one good movie and one half-funny movie (Punch Drunk Love, and Anger Managment), and a lot of dumb-ass productions, like drawn out SNL skits.

But this was not only funny in an outrageous but not heavy-handed or contrived way, it was actually very sweet. Sandler's clueless superhero Zohan, an Israeli counter terrorist agent who apparently usually works on his own because he doesn't really need anyone else (he catches bullets in his teeth and up his nose, and sticks a piranha down his pants without flinching), comes to realize that he's tired of all the fighting, and longs to go to New York to be a hair stylist. OK, funny setup which could play the macho Israeli male stereotype against the male stylist stereotype--which does get some play, but Zohan is so sincere and unaware of the stereotypes, without irony, that he comes across as rather clean and pure. When he talks with the young man whose mother takes him in, and whose mother Zohan quickly starts screwing, he's sincerely tells the son how happy his mother is and how could he want anything different (apparently in Israel there's no such thing as the primal scene, i.e., walking in on your parents having sex). And he really means it, and you believe it totally. There's really not a wink-wink nod-nod in relation to Zohan. You are expected to take him at his word.

Thus what we get is something of a checking of the American ironic stance via this foreign transplant, who doesn't even understand irony and is fearless about his own sincerity. When he starts seeing hair clients, little old women from the neighborhood, and adds a little shagging at the end of his hair care, you get the sense that he really and truly appreciates these women who American culture (and American film culture) view as hags or sexless wisdom figures. Zohan sees an inner quality of beauty and lustiness that is so obvious to him, that you start actually seeing the obviousness yourself. It's in this way that the film really tweaks some of the dehumanizing that goes on in American culture.

Not to mention what Zohan is doing with the Middle Eastern conflicts. It's essentially a pacifist and humanistic film. All of the characters (except the evil-doing mall developer and his hick-terrorist hireling) have dreams of a better life, free from conflict and inherited hatreds and divisions. The super-terrorist The Phantom (played wonderfully by John Turturo) secretly wants to sell shoes. His hatred of Israel is something giving to him, and forced on him by circumstance; essentially, he wants to live a useful, joyful life doing something he loves.

Same with Zohan, the master soldier, who is tired of the constant fighting and wants to make the world "silky smooth." He also wants to serve others, not support division and dis-integration. He also wants to find his own internal integration, where he does not have to choose only one incarnation of himself, the soldier, over the lover or the servant or the artist. He is tired of only choosing a part of himself, and having his culture insist on only that part.

So in a sense, the film is upholding a cherished, and older, value of America, that you can come here and shed the Old World--the cultures of rigid relationships and inherited animosity--in favor of a life of opportunity. However, here's where the film updates this story to one of not Horatio Alger-like rising to the top, not a narcissistic climb over the bodies of your fellows, but of self-integration, the expansion of the human community to include all struggling, yearning beings. Even the hick hireling--played by Dave Mathews, in a weird and wonderful casting decision--is not killed in the end, but rather catapulted by the combined, uh, singing of The Phantom and Zohan--never done in 2000 years!--into the gay party helmed by George Takai (nee, Sulu from Star Trek). Even he is given an opportunity to face his fears through exposure to the feared community, which presents itself as both wonderfully idiosyncratic and totally human.

I am such a sucker for such films, because I so believe in and yearn for this deep healing and recognition of connectedness. And I love the archetypal nature of pop culture, how it can express in simple terms deep longing and hope. And I really love genre literature and art, in it's both honoring the structure/tradition/community of life, as well as the joyous reinterpretation of that life by the artist, a conscious expression of what we all do all the time.

So, the reason why "you don't mess with the Zohan" is not actually that he's so tough and macho, it's because his essential nature is loving, and there's no way to fight that.

The End of an Era

I never had a name for this truck, other than, The Truck. As in, Heather, where did you park The Truck? Or recently, Where the hell did I park The Truck?

If Friday was the welcoming of a bouncing baby boy to our little SF family, Saturday was putting grandpa onto the ice flow. Yes, the 23 year old Nissan King Cab, my longtime companion since when it was sold/given to me by my parents when I moved to SF in '98, was delivered up to Pick and Pull Auto Wreckers in Hayward for--I won't say dismemberment so much as, parts reassignment.

The morning was spent with my friend Robert, out at our regular haunt at the funky Seal Rock Inn (whose claim to fame is having been one location for Hitchcock's The Birds, or maybe it was Vertigo), having mediocre slightly washed greasy spoon cafe food, but fun conversation. Especially when Robert said, "You have a way of suppressing the divine ambiance." This was following our previously favorite adage, "You are making me feel less than spirit." Yeah, goofy spiritualist rap.

Then home where I cleaned out the truck of various items acquired over the years (perhaps this would be stripping the watch and gold teeth from Grandpa's too-feeble to resist self) and Heather worked at getting us a non-outrageously priced insurance policy. Those tasks finished, we headed off to the East Bay, Heather driving The Truck in order to say her goodbyes.

We found our ways into the backwaters of Hayward, being the area between the Bay shore and Highway 880, one of those odd industrial areas that are necessary to any city, but always feel a bit odd in a region where the land is worth more in troy ounces than gold. It is one of those areas where the regular city conventions loosen a bit, and the developmental level seems to drift down into, as if space somehow warped and you've driven into a little displaced chunk of a red state.

Pick Your Part is one of those places. The parking lot was rough dirt n' gravel, and there were one of those barely-edible-food vans. Many rough looking persons dragging parts, going in to find parts to drag out, and lots of hard hats. We were directed back out to another facility down the street, to have Grandpa processed for removal. I drove into the new place, and was waved back out by a guy who said, "You can't come barreling in!" "Oh, sorry." The guy mellowed right away, and we chatted while he took all the details about the car, which sat there quietly, not protesting its fate.

Poor Heather lost it a bit when she saw another, presumably much loved, car being picked up unceremoniously by a huge fork list, and began crying when we got into Zippy. Poor girl. For me, was only a little twinge today looking at the photos. I meant what I said to my mother-in-law when I said that, for me, there is one car with many locations--my attachments don't lean much to cars, for whatever reason. But Heather, apparently she's cried whenever leaving a car.

We went back to the Pick Your Part corporate offices, which was a dingy office next to the entry chute of the yard, where a woman took my info, disappeared for some time, and returned with a cheery orange check for $300. Yes, Grandpa, nee The Truck, had been converted into three c-notes, after thousands of miles and thousands of hours. We drove home together in Maybe Zippy, nee Zippy, nee Zippy Sanguinity, and began our new life together.

May our faithful The Truck find satisfaction in knowing its parts will give new life in many older vehicles who are struggling to remain on this earth. Grandpa lives, as an organ doner. Thank you, Grandpa. Your service is honored.

Maybe Zippy

I would like to introduce to you our new used car, provisionally nicknamed "Zippy." I wanted to name it "Sanguine," but Heather shot that down (I'm going to secretly call it Zippy Sanguinity). Zippy is the name of a Nanday conjure (seen here with his nominal owner, and actual servant in the cause of the nebulous grand forces), from our beloved David Milch HBO show of last year, John From Cincinnati. Presumably we'll come up with another name...yeah, right. Like we were going to do that with Phoenix our hawkhead parrot, and he's still called Phoenix. We can check in again next year.

But Zippy For Now, or perhaps "Maybe Zippy" (a la our friend who had a bird called Jake, before Jake was DNA sexed and found to be a female, thus making the bird "Maybe Jake"), is our 10 year old Subaru Forester, bought from a used car dealership in Fremont. We found the place through Craigslist, of course, and spent most of Friday testing different cars, debating among ourselves, selecting Zippy out of his sad-pound-puppy lot friends, getting Zippy checked out by a randomly selected auto shop a few doors down (Puurfect Auto, natch, who were very nice folk), and then doing the paperwork, and finally driving what seemed like an inordinately long path back from the Fremont hinterlands to our little burg. Really, that was 8 solid hours.

Chris, he was our nice young entrepreneur at Auto World Fremont, having carved his little piece of business heaven from the space behind a house converted into a palm reading establishment, and some other house advertising itself as Aljf Enterprises, or some series of letters that was either a foreigner's name (SCARE-eeeee!), or an acronym (BOOR-ingggg!). There were about 30 cars, none younger than perhaps 2002, and a fair amount of dust. Christ pulled out another Forester that we did not choose to go with, and gave it a substantial washing which he announced as only going to take a few minutes, which stretched out under the pressure of his washing diligence to about 10 minutes...the first clue of Chris' genial but distorted time sense.

He was his only employee, we found out later, accounting for some of the, um, multitasking that he was doing. He wore a blue-tooth ear piece for the entire time we were with him, and took maybe 20 calls over the course of the day, while talking with us or other customers. We took that car out and then Soon To Be Zippy, which I liked more for some reason I can't remember. When we went to take the first car, I asked if Chris needed a driver's license, and he motioned to the foreigner's house and said, "Smile for the camera." I took that at face value, but we looked later and I don't think there were any cameras. So we thought it was pretty strange and loose that he'd just prep a car and off we go.

And then third, we drove an Outback, probably the more commonly seen Subaru, which Heather's mother has owned for a long time. I wanted to like it, really. But I didn't. Partially because it felt too heavy, with a slow acceleration from a stop, but mostly because of the smell of oil that, after a 10 minute test drive, had worked its way into my system and showing up as a taste/smell on my tongue. (Cigarettes and pot smoke do this too, very noxious, bleagh.) Plus it was $1500 more than the other cars, way beyond what we'd planned. Heather was trying hard to like it, too, but we came to agreement that Zippy was the likely candidate. (We told Chris about the oil smell, and he said, "Yeah, I'm waiting for someone without a sense of smell to come along," and then told the sad story of a brother-in-law who had some gear box thingy full of oil, putting it in the back of the car, and then spilling it while driving the car somewhere. Apparently, it's nearly impossible to get that smell out of the carpet. That said, why he then pulled the sullied part and trying to wash it with soap and a brush while Heather and I parlayed.)

So next step, take the car to Puurfect Automotive to do a safety check (a shop we found through the magic of Google's mapping system, that can show businesses by proximity). We left it with them and walked (I limped, as I banged the hell out of my foot last week, through a combination of dancing and surfing...not at the same time, wise ass) down to the corner strip malls and found an Indian cafe near the Barnes and Nobles.

Now, Fremont. What an odd town. First of all, it's no further from the water than we are in the Inner Richmond of San Francisco, and yet it was humid! Not South Carolina humid, not rivulets of sweat down your back humid, but nonetheless, humid. And then, even though in the middle of the East Bay, between Oakland and San Jose, it's got all the trappings of a typical American suburb--the sorta-grid wide streets, the miles of small houses, the strip malls--but there are Indian establishments everywhere. I suppose the proximity of Silicon Valley, who has hired many Indian computer folk over the years, explains this (?), but there ya go.

And the very personal effect? We had about the best Indian food I've had in years, at the Chaat Cafe. The malai kofta was really amazing, compared with the usual Tasty Curry or Naan and Curry of the city. And so we chatted it up there for an hour and a half, continuing an as-yet-to-be concluded discussion of identity and the solidity or abstractness of boundaries (the central question is, "When does an ingested carrot stop being a carrot and start being a person." I think it points to the basic constructed quality of boundaries; Heather thinks it points to a basic silliness.)

We hobbled back to Puurfect and they gave a clean bill of health--even the head gasket!--and then back to Chris' shop au naturale. We told him it looked good, and if he could get us out of there for under $5000 (the amount available on our new credit card), then boom, it's a deal. So we got it for about $4500, plus the various taxes (he handles all the DMV paperwork). But he had to deal with a client who just purchased an older outback: "I need to give him a ride a few blocks to his house. I'll only be 5-7 minutes.") About thirty minutes later he came back with a different car, a new purchase presumably, and brought us a little sheepishly into the office for the paperwork, I guess justifying his time-warping by saying that he can keep his prices low because he is the only worker. Sigh, OK.

He balked a bit when I pulled out the credit card, and we did agree to pay the other $50 (he had been pricing out at $4950), if he would pull the damn stereo out of the truck. We did the paperwork, lots of signatures and dating, and then sat in the car while he worked on the stereo, exhausted and about ready to chew our own legs off to get out of there. But all things come to an end, and with a little mechanical advice about not needing to do the timing chain service, we got the stereo with its sliced, dangling wires, mounted up, shook hands with our diligent young entrepreneur, and took off for the hour long (objectively, because subjectively it felt twice as long, perhaps some chemical change from breathing car fumes and jasmine scent all day, apparently the patron smells of Fremont) drive back to SF.

Success!