What's so incredible? Why is she so awesome? How does she do it?

I doubt I’ll ever grow tired of picking Atul Gawande’s brain. His writing style is smooth, his openness refreshing, and his point of view so beautifully human. It’s hard to write medical books for the lay and still come across as engaging, but Gawande’s second discussion of the Hippocratic world and how to improve it does just that. Providing more hard suggestions and more research to back up his claims, Better doesn’t just raise questions, as did his first book Complications, but aims to solve them by example.

You’ll learn not only what’s working and why in fields as varied as the Indian subcontinent’s fight against polio, American childbirth death rates, and soldier care on the front lines, but you also won’t be spared the somewhat inexplicable or undiscussed: why the best doctors aren’t always desirable and how the insurance system affects patient care. Gawande doesn’t claim to be an expert, but he does a fantastic job of translating complicated and long-standing medical problems into plain English for the rest of us. Once again, I’ll never look at medicine in the same way again.

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When the tech wealth so prevalent in Silicon Valley finally dries up, all that will be left of San Jose is a few used car lots and mom-and-pop taquerias. Some will call it a wasteland, but to those that live in 95110 and not 95014, nothing will have changed, because San Jose was always Chivas bars and lavanderias, never shiny convention centers and museums dedicated to either technology or innovation. Even to the monolingual it’s a city where you can get sourdough anywhere, even at a Denny’s in the barrio, where 56F will always be considered cold, and where the ladies that wait at the bus stop blare music from their mobiles without bothering to wear headphones. It’s a place where if walking around your neighbourhood makes you feel impoverished, walking around one kilometer north will certainly make you feel like a king.

This is the San Jose no one writes about. It could be dangerous, it could be volatile, but it couldn’t be any worse than my little corner of Los Angeles, and the Bay Area this may be, but Oakland it is not. Mostly it’s endless rows of white, windowless vans for rent and a mix of chop shops and auto suppliers. But sandwiched between the dilapidated petrol stations and the sleeping homeless lie the kind of culture I am all too familiat with. Stop in, kick back, and make sure to try some of that tomatillo salsa verde on your taco. Make sure you remind the little ones to wait for the light before crossing the street. Make sure to say your “gracias”es and “denada”s.

The 66 bus runs down South First street, and a quick inventory of the passangers may look homogenous, but now is the time to halt your first impressions quickly. San Jose is as much a massive tangle of freeways and throughways as Los Angeles, but it’s the intersections you want to keep an eye on. Here the gaps are leapt over, skipped across like a socio-economic rayuela, as a 3-series overtakes a pinto, but a Honda with a misaligned back wheel is the first to cross the light, allowing the Cadillac to slink around the back of the burger joint unnoticed. I pull the cord to signal a stop. Nothing happens; there is no friendly ding, no loudspeaker announcement, and I’m not entirely sure the driver has any clue I’m ready to get off until the local bus comes to a jittering halt, throwing the elderly and those with child out of their seats as if to make way for my exit. No sooner have I set foot on the cigarette butt-littered curbside then the bus rejects me once and for all in a puff of rancid exhaust and takes off like a roadrunner in the direction I am now trudging, dodging multicoloured pools of oil on the long trek to my motel.

I’ll admit I don’t know which San Jose to believe. I spent all day in a name tag-wearing, business card-swapping, boxed lunch-eating conference, a sort of insular academia filled with perpetual ice breakers and false eurekas, but now I have walked at least two kilometers in pinstriped pants and impractical dress shoes, a getup that impatiently reminds me this is the first time I’ve ever been to California without my trusty, and perhaps more appropriate at present, hoodie. If the day was a game of “whose title is bigger,” the night cares little of my job description as, a Dos Equis with lime and two flautas later, I’m having trouble feeling remotely cosmopolitan. Am I to fall for the shiny facade of “smart” devices with miniscule chipsets and unprecedented end-user capabilities or am I to go for the hollow sounds of conjuto and muffled insults coming from the kitchen? Am I to believe San Jose is a hotbed of startups, or just someone’s block, 100 times over? Is the valley miracle-gro for technological innovation or a land of forgotten ancestors?

I struggle because both views of San Jose feel inauthentic, incomplete. The polarity between tech silver and ghetto grey isn’t palpable, like it is in New York City, but the disparity cannot be ignored. Just fifteen miles away sleep droves of million dollar properties, fifty miles away they’re multimillion dollar properties, but here they’re just places. There’s space, and there’s culture, and there’s a visceral mise-en-scene, but to call it anything other than perplexing would be to ignore the obvious gaps in reporting almost every account of San Jose has left vacant. Perhaps I am off the beaten path, but isn’t that part of the gig? Part of the purpose of travel? To discover whose San Jose I have landed in: Dionne Warwick’s or Humberto Pineda’s? When I’m all shined up in my suit sipping endless cups of coffee, I feel like I’ve got it all figures out, but the moment the tie is loosed I start wondering why I’m here, whether it’s for business or pleasure, or whether I’m capable of either right now. I’ve barely any to drink but I’m positive San Jose will leave me with a pounding head and an alien taste in the back of my throat when it’s time to shoulder the briefcase again

On my plate: high tea at the Fairmont in San Jose, including: tuna carpaccio with spinach, parmesan, and balsamic-miso glaze, watercress and scallion cream cheese finger sandwich, fig and manchego crostini, and mini smoked salmon canape with caviar, dill, and creme fraiche along with (not pictured) cranberry-orange scones with lemon curd and devonshire cream, and an assortment of pastries

“I’d be safe and warm/if I was in LA/California dreaming/on a winter’s day.” Look at that clear blue sky! At that sunshine! At your calendar!

Things I did (and enjoyed immensely) while I was in Irvine:

I discovered not only what exactly “Jar Cheese” was, but where one can consistently find it.

I languished in the sunshine and stopped to smell all the flowers.

I watched the sunset in an extraordinarily wide open stretch of land.

RIYL: Common, Fat Jon, Jazz Liberatorz, The Sound Providers, Lupe Fiasco, Mark Ronson

Kero One blew me away with his first stab, Windmills of the Soul but his sophomore album Early Believers is, well, not to be believed. It’s a huge step forward, and as Kero varies the beats, tempo, and samples, it becomes abundantly clear that he’s refined his style and taken one great step forward into become an unbelievable west coast heavyweight.

His sense of rhythm and timing has improved, in fact tracks like “Keep Pushin’” are heavily swung, and Kero even dips his turntables into dance for a moment or two. “Bossa Soundcheck” has a distinctly Brazilian vibe yet also has a jazz horn or two thrown in for effect. Who knew a Ukulele could be so smooth? My biggest complaint with Kero’s first album was his lack of original content. Windmills of the Soul had a tendency to rehash the same life story over and over again, making departures stand out. Not so in Early Believers, where every track is as refreshing as “Keep It Alive!” was that first time I heard it. And how can he not have something knew to throw at us? Kero’s an interesting cat: Korean-American web designer SLASH hip hop producer who is able to stay calm, collected, and eternally optimistic from album to album.

After his discovery in Japan it’s also nice to hear some nice collaborations, namely the Portland king Ohmega Watts and the unexpectedly delightful Tuomo. The light synth touches are welcome and the R&B hooks a nice departure from Kero’s steady voice. Essentially Early Believers is a huge step forward in maturity that solidify Kero One as one of my favourite Bay Area artists of all time. It does not disappoint.

Of course, being the producer that he is, Kero One’s newest album can also be found in an instrumental version, both of which are widely available (a testament to Kero One’s innate talent) but nicely priced (proof he’s still relatively unknown). If you dig him, you should buy the album and support his record company, Plug Label, because if any artist out there deserves to be supported directly, it’s Kero One.

Recommended Tracks:

“When the Sunshine Comes,” “Love and Happiness,” and “This Life Ain’t Mine”

Today I begin what is intended to be a long march in the pursuit of progress, centered around what is inarguably one of man’s greatest and most beloved achievements. I am nowhere near the first to embark upon such a noble quest (in fact, I take great inspiration from such pioneers before me) and I will certainly not be the last to partake of an epic journey the likes of which ordinary enthusiasts balk at (in fact, my enthusiasm borders on obsession, nay, addiction at this point), but the task before me holds all the markings of a true march: swollen with great personal meaning and weighed down by much intrinsic value with which only a few many understand but many will benefit from. My resolve is stout and my stomach for “eating bitter” strong, so with a head full of dreams and a heart full of broth I set out today to explore the wonder of noodles in their entirety.

That’s right, I said noodles. I am of course waxing poetic about those wheaty, squiggly things embraced by the young and old, the Italian and Chinese and American alike. Just as I’ll certainly ne’er tire of bread, so too my feelings on noodles are equally, if not overwhelmingly, warm. And how can they not be? With so many varieties and concoctions just waiting to be slurped up in one way or another, it’s damn near impossible not to dedicate at least some time, effort, and space on this website to the task of enjoying the bounty the noodle kingdom has to offer.

I’m not just talking about the beautiful bowls of momofuku or daikokuya, nor am I limiting myself to sumptuous mac’n'cheese or pasta napolitana, I’m head over heels for instant cup’o'noodles, for street-stall yakisoba, for grandma’s tsukumen, for that quickie lunch-counter bowl of pho, for tiny packets of frozen udon and soup that comes in a can, too. I have never met a noodle I didn’t enjoy, and I’m out prove that truer and truer with every bowl of ramen or plate of spaghetti I conjure up. It is from this undying adoration for noodles thick and thin, rice and wheat, in all manner of flavours, shapes, and sizes, that the idea of the noodle march first came to me.

Essentially the aim of my forthright noodle march is to leave no pot unturned and try every noodle variety I can get my hands on. I’ll be reviewing packaged noodles available in any grocery store, I’ll be sharing new noodle recipes from my own kitchen, I’ll be researching the history of uncommon noodle varieties, I’ll be sharing the noodle fascinations of others, and I’ll be trying out new noodle hot spots in the DC area and around the world, documenting my progress here, all in hopes that I’ll find that one, magical noodle, the bowl of ramen to rule them all or the pot of pasta to incite the second coming, because a life in search of noodle is a life well spent.

Things I like to photograph

1. markets (especially farmer’s markets)

2. baked goods (especially on display)

3. public transportation (especially subway stations)

4. urban cities by night (especially signs)

5. modern architecture (especially glass office buildings)

Awesome instrumental hip hop artists

1. nujabes

2. shin-ski

3. fat jon (the ample soul physician)

4. pete rock

5. jazzy jeff

Favourite fruits

1. raspberries

2. nectarines

3. passionfruit

4. blackberries

5. pineapple

6. mango

7. kiwi

8. lychee

9. pomegranate

10. guava

Delicious cocktails

1. The Hemmingway (champagne and absynthe)

2. Asian Mojito (citrus rum, pear, mint, club soda)

3. The Edison (bourbon, pear cognac, lemon, honey)

4. The Bellagio (prosecco, alize, and passionfruit puree)

5. Añejo Old Fashioned (casa noble añejo tequila, agave nectar, bitters)

Best specialty brews

1. Victory Golden Monkey

2. Ayinger Brau-Weisse

3. Achel Brune Extra

4. Deus Belgian

5. Karl Strauss Amber Lager

Producers I dig

1. Kraak & Smaak

2. Nicolay

3. DJ Mitsu the Beats

4. Perquisite

5. JDilla

Killer record labels

1. ninja tune

2. hydeout productions

3. sub pop

4. matador

5. azuli

5. astralwerks

Famous nightclubs I’d like to visit

1. 18th Street Lounge (Washington DC)

2. Spacelab Yellow (Tokyo)

3. Cherry Jam (London)

4. Skye (Sao Paulo)

5. Buddha Bar (New York)

6. Ministry of Sound (London)

7. Le Batofar (Paris)

8. Womb (Tokyo)

9. La Fira (Barcelona)

10. Fabric (London)

Artists obsessed with air-travel

1. Dela

2. Jamiroquai

3. Mark Farina

4. Craig Franklin

5. Q-Burns Abstract Message

Things I’m unexpectedly bad at

1. cooking chinese food

2. remembering dreams

3. asking for help/cutting myself slack

4. getting up when my alarm goes off

5. dancing, karaoke, and dancing karaoke

Bad habits

1. singing along with whatever music’s playing

2. procrastinating folding my laundry

3. interrupting people

4. never cutting my toenails

5. destroying pants

Artists I’d like to see play before I (or they) die

1. Jamiroquai

2. Daft Punk

3. Mylo

4. Thievery Corporation

5. Cut Copy

6. Ben Folds

7. Coldplay

8. Röyksopp

9. CSS

10. Common

Albums I thought I’d hate but actually loved

1. Rilo Kiley “Under the Blacklight”

2. Junior Boys “So This Is Goodbye”

3. Apples in Stereo “The Discovery of a World Inside The Moone”

4. Soul Coughing “El Oso”

5. Frou Frou “Details”

Favourite documentaries

1. The Heat Is On

2. Born Into Brothels

3. Supersize Me

4. The Great Happiness Space

5. Planet B-Boy

Most upsetting movies I’ve ever seen

1. The Boys

2. The Manchurian Candidate

3. The Orphanage

4. Natural Born Killers

5. Boogie Nights

Pet peeves in life

1. surprise meat

2. people who’ll send $200 on blow but won’t pay for a $7 sandwich

3. parents who ignore their upset children in public places

4. opt-in that won’t let you opt-out

5. animals dressed as humans

6. when you can’t order a kid’s size ice cream

7. no special characters passwords

8. men with unwashed long hair

9. people who suddenly stop in front of you in crowds

10. actors who give it away too soon

11. truncated rss feeds

12. robots with creepy child voices

13. parking garages with no stairwells

14. bending back a fingernail

15. unopenable food packages

I was actually very impressed with this book. Firstly, the subject matter, structure, satire, and literary allusions are all refreshingly adult for a novel billed in the YA genre. Secondly, author Libba Bray denies you all the tired trappings of an issue book and instead plays by her own rules and manages to get her point across all the same, a feat worthy of attention. In short, Going Bovine is hardly your average read, and I found myself confused and unsure of my opinion, but more than willing to plow on to the end.

Aside from the plot, and away from Bray’s voice, the writing itself is brilliant. Bray uses protagonist Cameron Smith’s demise into BSE/nvCJD madness to comment on modern-day society, and she uses Cameron’s unwavering personality to shed light on what really matters in life, revealing the truth about him and his family without telling you outright through a series of seemingly incidental anecdotes and coincidences. Cameron, denied the luxury of adulthood, does not simply roll over and give up, but puts on a sardonic face and goes on a road trip through loopy land, making stops in Eubie’s version of New Orleans, the tabloid version of Mississippi, his sister Jenna’s frat-tastic spring break in Daytona, and the unravelled Disneyworld of his own childhood before making an Ingrid Bergman-esque revelation. Don’t be mistaken: the line between reality and insanity is fairly clear to the reader, if not the characters. Yet in true Quixotic fashion, Cameron’s skewed visions and loose grasp on the present moment allows him to hallucinate windmills as monsters yes (or, as the case may be, angels as sugar-addicted punk rockers), but also to see a bigger, truer picture revealing the blemishes of American society, proving that being put out to pasture does not mean you have to go a dull and senile virgin.

Arguably the ending is the best part for how lightly it treaded. The bit directly preceding it, set in Disneyland, cut a few too many strings. But, love the style or hate it, not once did Bray give us more than a fleeting glimpse into reality. We never find out if any of it was real (not that it matters), nor do we see what happens to the Smiths or their versions of the story, and in doing so Cameron’s fate goes unemphasised, making it all the more heartbreaking and all the more meaningful. Tiny little touches give you huge insight into his progress, while the dialogue and Cameron’s inner monologue is genuine enough to keep you going through the dreariest of chapters and the most overplayed of devices, Star Fighter and snow globes alike. The biggest criticism Going Bovine faces revolves around suspension of disbelief. But Bray puts it all on the line early on, and if readers have trouble swallowing any part of the book, it’s a sign that neither the course of Creutzfeldst-Jakob’s disease nor the escapades of Cameron and his faithful knight’s attendant Gonzo are fully appreciated. The question stops being will Cameron recover and instead becomes will he die as Alfonso Quixote did, depressed but clear-headed, or will he find a different fate, and will it be redeeming?

Read Going Bovine. Read it for the witty allusions, or for the zany journey’s tangents, or even for the deeper message. Read it to have your heartstrings pulled and your funnybone tickled. Read it to see what dementia is like or what high school can be. Read it, because not too many books say this much so effortlessly and in such a unique and, well, maddening way.

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