Signs of Fate

Skip Bayless is to blame (thank?) for my fate. Well, perhaps not Skip, but his parents.

For my sports illiterate readers, Skip Bayless is Bill O'Reilly's sports counterpart. Controversial opinions come from Skip like so many slanderous tales originate with O'Reilly. A short sampling: LeBron James is overrated; Tim Tebow will make it in the NFL; Jay-Z is an overrated rapper (he said it, not me). And yet, he is beloved. ESPN has given him a daily pulpit in the four downs of First Take from which he reigns over his delusional opinion filled world. Despite Skip's ridiculous nature, I must grant him one accord: having one's views despised and yet continuing to state them in the face of such hate takes confidence. This rarified sort of self worth gave Skip the ability to continue ranting until the world loved him. And love him they do.

Where does one learn such confidence (arrogance)? Perhaps in a home that provides all the advantages. Skip was (is) a rich white male (so sayeth Wikipedia, so I believe(th)). Top flight school, elite sports programs, cultural experiences, and daily injections of "you are soooo special" must have been the four pillars of Skip's upbringing. (Side note: If you believe the developmental experience described above to be common/you identify with it, you could potentially develop into the next Skip Bayless. Beware.) Having such a supportive/developmentally aware/Norman Rockwell/whitebread/easy upbringing is alien to me, and so I wondered, "what other results could it have yielded?"

Wikipedia (Latin for "place with a zillion facts.") tells me Skip has a younger brother: Rick Bayless. Reared in the same environment, Rick became elite in his culinary ability. Where Skip dominated at sports, Rick easily dispatched dishes in Home-Ec classes. While Rick Honed his craft in unkowing preparation for the Iron Chef arena, Skip (a devout Cowboys fan) denied Montana's rightful status as the GOAT (Thank you, Jay-Z for teaching me about the Greatest Of All Time. Point, Hova. Jiggaman: 1, Skip: 0). Each sibling became the best at his trade; one through skill at his craft, the other by speaking without stopping to think. You decide which is which. (If you find youself compelled to "be controversial," and call Skip the first, you failed test #2 and have given more proof you might be the next Skip Bayless.)

Given that I have yet to talk about myself in these many words (please insert applause here as this is an accomplishment for me), you are wondering how this post could be about fate, right? Follow along, dear reader. You see, I spent this Saturday among my brother's people. My brother was at one point a top tier Magic the Gathering player (#6 in California). He lived for destroying his foes with wizards and elves (Yup. Wizards and elves). And because of my mild exposure and developed resistance to such awe-inspiring nerdiness, I went to WonderCon.

Held each year in San Francisco, WonderCon is a festival of celebration for the antisocial. People dress up in a superhero costume, transforming not only their appearance, but also their personality. Betty, the quiet "would be attractive if she tried" saleswoman goes through a metamorphosis. Diana, the very attractive queen of the Amazons, known to we mere mortals as "Wonderwoman," emerges with not only tranformed physically, but in personality as well. Being me (I don't need or want to transform into someone else) I was ready to leave after five minutes.

And so, I found myself wandering the streets of San Francisco.

Let me 'esplain something to you, city dwellers: we suburban folk get lost in your streets. Left and right lead to the same street, and performers cause us to shy away from our intended route. It is similar to Nemo's dad in "Finding Nemo." . . . Except we of the suburban variety are less threatening than your average clownfish, and more easily scared.

Being a city neophyte (vocabulary word, children), I got lost. Not lost per se, and not lost as in "We've been Going left for two hours... And we don't even have Nascar sponsors," but lost nonetheless. Where I was, what street I was on, what might appear before me next, and what the smell coming from the sewers? All mysteries. Until I saw Union Square. (Union Square is a San Francisco landmark and I got lost until it found me. Yes, it found me.)

At the same time I stumbled upon Union Square, I noticed I hadn't eaten in 24 hours. (I got excited at the prospect of WonderCon. I'm a geek. Fine, I admit it.) I had choices. I could re-lose myself in the city hoping to find a great eatery. (Not an option due to time constraints.) I could wait until the people I went with were done at the show. (Not an option since they wanted to eat bad sushi.)

And here the Bayless family had an impact on my life.

Rick Bayless' biggest commercial success, as a San Francisco resident, is a small cantica in the downstairs of Macy's of Union Square. Let me say this: If you ever get the chance to go, please do. The Mexican flatbread (Huerteca, I believe) is a corn meal based dish with carne asada, chipotle pepper sauce and other things I don't claim understand. Top that off with a rasberry prickly pear limeaid? You have a wonderful day.

So let's recap. I have a brother who allowed me to develop a vaccine/immunity to lame-itis. Over a year ago I read Skip and Rick Bayless' unofficial biographies on Wikipedia. There I learned Rick Bayless owned a restaurant with some serious culinary credibility in Union Square. A year later, while lost, hungry and in a city I love but can hardly navigate, I stumble upon that restaurant. Oh, and I had one of the most authentic (and delicious) Mexican meals of my life because of it.

Random events? Nay, dear reader. Fate stepped in and saved me from bad sushi. (We're talking Safeway quality, terrible sushi. Faux crab meat galore, smells like the ocean sushi. I had amazing Mexican.) Win for fate.