Bred for an interesting life

I agree with my brother Jordan, who told me this weekend that some people, like dogs, are bred for an interesting life.

In a not so rare moment of comic genius, Jordan compared himself to Shadow, our cancer ridden golden retriever. Shadow is sick, Jordan says, because he was bred to live an interesting life--to frolic in wooded forests and wide open grassy plains, to fetch recently shot birds, and safely return these prizes to his owner, a proud marksman. In contrast, Shadow lives trapped behind fences, in a relatively expansive, but still suburban, suburban backyard, with a family with no weapons to speak of; he has nothing to live for except two scoops of kibble every morning, and no opportunity to express his true nature, or develop his capacities--no chance to realize his retriever telos.

Jordan likened Shadow's domestic experience to a man bred for an interesting life (e.g., Jordan, a direct descendant of Jan Janszoon, a notorious 17th century Barbary pirate
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jan_Janszoon - to be explained later), who remains unable to reach his own potential because he is stuck behind a desk all day, staring at a computer screen, doing whatever semi interesting job he has, but, placated by a comfortable situation and a recurring paycheck, is able to afford enough distracting objects and experiences to keep him from doing something drastic to change his situation.

I agree, Jordan. If one works long enough, the likelihood of death from cancer is greatly increased.

This exchange was at Bistro Jeanty, near the end of a great weekend, which included a short trip to San Francisco--to a bar called Absinthe, and a German beer hall / restaurant called Suppenkuche, which had great spaetzle, and a dark wheat beer that was almost as good as Franziskaner Dunkelweiss. There was also a come from behind victory by the Giants at AT&T Park on Saturday, and some great conversations with my Grandpa, Dad, brother, Aunt and Uncle, during which I found out I was related to famous pirates, and that I was a distant relative of a bunch of Vanderbilts, Kennedys and Anderson Cooper. On Sunday, we took a day trip through wine country that led to a great discovery, Failla wines, where, after ensuring our recently purchased wines would not overheat by putting them carefully in a portable cooler in the back of the Suburban, I proceeded to lock the keys in the car.

After much shouting, blame gaming, and excuse making, we realized that although the keys were locked inside the car, they were actually in clear sight, on top of my sweatshirt, on top of my bag, and only inches away from corner of the back hatch window.

My Uncle Mark, the only calm one in the crowd, skillfully, (almost suspiciously so!) rigged up a gaff-like pole from one of those small, thin, metal wire flags planted in lawns that, I think, typically delineate sprinkler or underground pipe locations. He threaded our only hope carefully through the small opening between the hatch window and the car's metal frame. Fortunately, my Dad, who closed the hatch (not to name names here), did so without sufficient force to really shut it tight. There was just enough of an opening, enough play when we pulled at the hatch, for us to think this could work. Mark hooked the keys easily enough, and after the rest of us struggled to pry the window from the frame, my Aunt, pulling with determined fingers, yanked the keys, the automatic door opener, and my Mom's awkward spinning heart keychain, all intact, safely through the crack.

Certainly better than calling AAA....

After the group left Yountville I decided to stick around, grab some coffee and a pastry and read the paper. I bought the New York Times and took a seat on a bench between the bakery and the restaurant Bouchon, since at this late hour, the bakery's tables were being converted to outdoor seating for the restaurant.

While reading an interesting story about the Italian economy and high end textile manufacturing, I was interrupted, surprised and frankly a little annoyed, to have to respond to a woman who wanted to know if I still had the Style section, and if so, if she could read it? I told her she could borrow it (by this point I realized her and her friends were waiting for a table at Bouchon), but that I would appreciate it back as I intended to read it. At first, she clearly thought I was kidding, but my body language suggested I was not, and seeing this, and presumably thinking it a good idea to keep the property close to its owner, she sat down next to me on the bench. I gathered from the conversation with her friends, she was from New York. I inquired about this, and found that her and one of her friends had spent time there after school, but now lived, along with the other couple they were with, in San Francisco. We made casual conversation for a few minutes. They asked me for winery recommendations, which I provided. I also suggested they try the P2 wine with their meal at Bouchon. This was the Pinot Noir, Pinot Gris blend, produced by Copain that I had tried at my own Bouchon misadventure, and then tried again at Ad Hoc after meeting Copain's head of winery sales and hospitality (guy who founded Vestry Wines in Tribeca) there last week. The SundayStyles stealer had gone to Yale, worked in LA for a guy who wrote the book Never Eat Alone (funny, given my thoughts here), and was now an "energy healer" working in San Francisco. I nodded with feigned understanding when she told me this. 10 minutes or so later, after some conversation, and some quiet reading, their table was ready and I was again left alone with my paper and my coffee. However, a minute later, her friend came back, told me there was an extra seat at their table, and asked if I would like to join. Since I had no reason not to join them, and since they seemed like interesting people, I made sure I was not intruding, and accepted the invitation happily.

Like many other opportunities I have had here in Napa, this was one I was surprised I agreed to immediately after I said yes.

That being said, I met them at their table, exchanged more formal salutations with the group, and quickly slipped into a wide ranging conversation about food, wine, their stories, my story, San Fransisco, business, tech and software companies, and other nonsense.

The group, included the aforementioned energy healer, a vocation that I now, somewhat, understand, a software engineer working at Twitter, a lawyer, a woman who worked in the marketing department of Puma, and the CEO and co-founder of an internet startup called Storify. Everyone was probably younger than 28. They told me everyone in San Fransisco has an internet start up. While they were obviously exaggerating, the barriers to entry in software are certainly low, and the exalted status of the young entrepreneur is intriguing enough to convince many future ivy league graduates to either not stick around long enough to become graduates at all, or at least, upon graduation, to reject the traditional career paths on Wall Street, to try to become the next Mark Zuckerberg.

Having your startup acquired by Google is probably the best way to buy a winery and make an honest living....