Beauty Through Fog Shines

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My neighbor has a holiday party every year -- in the three years I've lived on Fulton Street, this is the first time I was able to attend. I'm glad I did.

Here's what it's all about...a group of good people talking and chatting over wine and soup and deserts. After an hour or so of sharing, we pack up and leave. For the Haight. Packed down with jackets and blankets and gloves and clean, new socks.

The socks are the most popular item among the homeless, followed by the blankets.

Handing them out to VERY thankful homeless people puts a whole new perspective on their plight. The most common thing I heard? "I don't need another (insert item here), give it to someone who needs it more than I do. But I'll take a (insert item here)". And then there was the guy who put on an old suede coat and began jumping around saying things like, "Oh man, this is phat. This is so bad".

How can you not enjoy that?

I'm sitting in a cafe right now, and a homeless woman I know walked by, waved, then turned and came in to tell me her good news. It went something like this:

"I'm getting a place next week."

My eyebrows raise. "Really?"

"Yeah. The police have been really good to me. This is my year. I don't need aid, I just need a place for a couple months so I can get back on my feet. I need a job. I'm a year away from retirement."

"Where are you moving?"

"The Coronado. I was worried about it, but they put a million dollars into fixing it up."

"So, when do you move in?"

"Wednesday. It's my Christmas present!"

Let me tell you about this lady. What I know. She sits on Geary Street, near the Walgreen's on the sidewalk. Reading. She has a paper cup, for donations, but she doesn't ask for them. She reads. Koontz (who she's tired of -- to much of the same stuff), Anne Rice (her favorite author -- but she doesn't like the vampire stuff), Amy Tan, etc.

That's how I got to know her. Unlike the other homeless, who, out of survival, I've learned to pass by (if you let your heart out, you'll end up on the street among them -- there are that many in the city), she never fails to grab my attention. I have yet to ask her her story, but we trade pleasantries, and I've talked with her on the bus a couple of times.

But I've never given her money.

Don't ask me why. I've given to lots of people. But something has stayed my hand with her. I have no idea what it is. Maybe it's the fact that she's not begging, not making you feel guilty, not bemoaning her fate. And maybe, a part of me feels that giving her money, dropping coins in her cup, will cheapen our relationship. That in a way, it would insult her. Strange, no?

I've got forty dollars in my pocket right now. I'm going to track her down and give her twenty.

Happy holidays...

Learning to crawl...

I'm learning to program. Okay, for the third time. Each time I've delved into this arcane science I've gotten my fill after a couple short but intense weeks. It's not something you can learn in a week I've found, it really isn't, and that sucks. I wanna. I wanna be scarfing down Twinkies and Jolt colas late into the night as my fingers fly over the keyboard, as I create variables and pointers and avoid recursive calamaties. I wanna make one and one add up to two. I wanna flip through APIs and know what I'm reading. I wanna be talking Alpa releases, Beta releases, and the inevitable version two with my cats.

I wanna do it all.

Now.

But I can't. I'm only 5 hours into a 24 -hour primer. I'm only scratching the surface of coding and simply flirting with object-oriented design concepts. I've only just begun. I'm a neophyte. A wanna-be. A poser.

Why oh why am I subjecting myself to this I hear you ask? And it's a good question. A question I've asked myself. I've got two reasons that make sense to me. One, I've been waiting for someone to code a version of my favorite word game, and you know what they say about "if you want it done right"? And second, it will look GREAT on my resume. Trust me -- guys and gals who know how to program have it pretty sweet in the field. Really. If I can say, "See this here game? This one, right here. I programmed it in my spare time. Just for kicks and to keep the wheels greased." Just typing that makes me smile.

So that's what I'm up to. One of the things. And it's getting hard. But I must persevere this time. I must trade my layabout tendencies for the dedication of the delusional. I must spit in the wind. I must forge ahead. I must do it this time. Just do it.

Hmm...okay, I'll keep you posted. Really. This time. For reals.

The Death Knell has Sounded...

I've been hearing a lot of advertisements on radio recently where the consumer is guaranteed a possibility.

You could make money in your first 30 days -- guaranteed!

We guarantee that our product may extend the life of your motor!

These advertisements drive me crazy. Do the copywriters think we're that stupid? Are we?

Diner Chatter #1

Location: Jim’s Restaurant, The Mission, SF

Elderly Man #1: I was in line at the bank and this woman behind me said, “My, you’re hairy.” I told her that that’s what happens when you get old. Then she said, “Does your wife make you cut it.” I said, “I’m not married.” Then she said, “Can I see it?” I told her no. Nobody sees it but me.

Elderly Man #2: That must have ruined your day.

Waitress comes with food.

Elderly Man #2: That’s very messy…that’s not how they do it in French restaurants.

A few minutes elapses…diner noise makes it impossible for me to make out what they’re talking about, but it has something to do with computers and Yahoo. Then the waitress returns with more food. There is no gravy on the mashed potatoes…she laughs (I sense they’re regulars) and heads back to the cook.

Elderly Man #1: You’d better watch out…the Republicans might arrest you for indecency with those naked potatoes.

Snippets heard as I packed up to leave:

Elderly Man #2: … warts on your vocal cords. You wonder how they got there.
Elderly Man #1: He says in his gravelly voice (laughter).
Elderly Man #1: (referring to children and mom outside the window) They’re such nicely proportioned little people – they’re going to grow up like her.

Diner rating (out of 5 stars) 1.5

Food was sub par. Environment was dineriffic though.

Back for Now

Okay, it's been a while, hasn't it? Personal life got out of control. Still trying to reign it in. Since that doesn't look like it's going to happen any time soon, I'm going to have to force myself to make time and post more regularly. Yeah, it's like that.

So what have I been up to creatively? Tablet PCey?

Creative stuff

Unfortunately, not much. Began a short story. It was going well, but I set it down before I figured out what I was really writing about. I will pick it back up this week and see if I can fall back into the story and complete the first draft. It's horror, and a bit more personal than I'm comfortable with, but I will return. Whether it's a "success" or not is still way up in the air.

I'm also reading/proofing a novel that a friend wrote. I hate to say that I'm really behind on the edit, and even more important, I'm embarrassed to say that I didn't offer to read it before this, the final stage. That said, it's a clean read, and he uses this way cool shifting POV thing that's really a lot of fun to read. But the writer in me wants to suggest ways to make it creepier. And that's not fair at this stage of the game. Not at all. My loss. Hopefully, I'll complete it before the weekend.

And then there's the writer's groups. Both of them. One is flowing pretty smoothly, the other one is stalled. I need to solicit more writers. Quick.

On deck: 3 stories to critique for writers group 2, and a horror screenplay by another friend. Oh yeah, and the novel trilogy!

Tablet stuff

Hmm… watching Vista progress very closely and very close to throwing up my hands, giving in and installing it on Eleanor 2. I have no right to do so. At least not until Vista is released, in late January, and I can benefit from all the last minute tweaks and finishing touches. Hopefully, Vista Ultimate will include an extra tablet feature or two to sweeten the pot.

As it stands, the tablet-specific features in Vista should make the OS even sweeter to use.

Why I'm such a dull boy

Still working the same contract. The team is VERY cool, but the online editing task is pretty evil. The people make up for it though. In fact, they sent me one of the new 2^nd generation iPod Shuffles as a Thank You for the work done during phase one of the project. Hmm… Is that too nice or what? Of course. I'm sold on Microsoft's All You Can Eat Plan, and have a Yahoo account, so this is out. There's no way I'd convert all my music, boy the stuff I've rented, etc. to use the Shuffle. Too bad, as it's a sweet little device land, well, it was free. In truth, the limitations (no display, etc.) would drive me up the freakier wall in no time at all. Of course, iRiver has some sweet devices…

Okay, I'm back. And I promise one more posting before the week's out.

My Beautiful Cell Phone Rant

I'm not a technophobe. Far from it actually. And my problem is something that may be peculiar to me, caused by the fact that I'm both single (most of my friends aren't) and the fact that I work from home. Oh yeah, and the ever-present nature of the cell phone.

In a nutshell, most of my friends call me during their commute.

I have a great deal of flexibility in my schedule, and they know it, so chatting with them on their commute was okay at one time. Now, on a bad day, someone will call me during the 7-8 hour, someone else during the 8-9 hour and even someone during the 10-11 block. These are not "Hey, let's do lunch on Saturday " quickies, but full-blown get-me-to-my-destination rambles. Sorta kills my morning…

To make matters worse, some of my friends ONLY call during their commute, and break it off once they reach their destination, even when that destination is home. So I'm starting to feel a bit used. Like a call-in radio dj with only one caller for the hour. Something to dull the monotony of freeway traffic.

Don't get me wrong: I LOVE these people and want to hear from them. And as a former commuter, I totally understand the practicality of commuter conversations, but maybe breaking the conversation off, no matter how beautiful my current rant, just because you've arrived home, is rude. Maybe I'm right to feel a bit put upon. Maybe a little sensitivity goes a long way.

Rather than making my feelings known, I've taken the easy way out and answer very few calls between 7-10 am and 4:30 - 6:30 pm. Unless I really need to talk to the person or they're returning my call, I generally let it ring. Maybe I should change my voice message:

"Hey, this is me. Sorry I missed your call. If you're calling between 7-10 am or 4:30-6:30 pm, leave a message. If you just want to chat, cool, but please call back outside these hours."

Man, I could rack up some serious rollover minutes!

Slave to the Rhythm

I'm going to see Ani DiFranco tonight.

I'm excited. Her music speaks to me on so many levels. Her lyrics, second to none, often trump her musical acumen. And in a way, I think that's why she's so fascinating. Why she's such a powerful musician. Because her words matter. Not only do they matter, but part of her magic, her undeniable charm, Is that the words matter so much that they don't become slaves to the rhythm. Her lyrics, often very personal, make you think, as your parse the meaning from her creative arrangements. She's never lazy. She comes up with new, fresh ways to say common, yet complex things. As an example, here's one of my current favorite passages from her album/song Knuckledown:

There's a dusty old dust storm on Mars they say,
So tonight you can't see it real clear,
I stood in their line anyway,
To look through their telescope,
Looked like a distant ship light,
As seen from a foggy pier,
And I know that I was warned,
Still it was not what I hoped,
Yes I know that I was warned,
Still it was not what I hoped.

Think I'm done gunning
For some imagined bliss,
Gotta knuckledown,
Just be okay with this
Gotta knuckledown,
Be okay with this.

Still that starstruck girl is already someone I miss.

Brilliant, no? The message here is clear after a couple listens…the poetry of her words makes me shake my head in admiration. She is definitely a writer's musician.

Slave to the lyrics? That's her secret, I think. Rather than making the lyrics slave to the rhythm, she enslaves the rhythm. More times than not, there are passages in her songs where her voice slows down, speeds up, and forces her lyrics into the song so that her powerful ideas take center stage. And for that reason, it usually takes three or four listens before the melody and the lyrics play nice in my head. But they do, almost always, because she is a master musician in addition to being a master lyricist. And her phraseology, while sometimes initially appearing to fight with the music, becomes an integral counterpoint.

Yeah, I'm really eager to see this show tonight.

Cafe Writer

I do a lot of writing in cafes and public places. The problem is, in the internet era, you always need access to the net. So it kind of limits my options -- I generally choose cafes that provide free wireless internet or the public library.

Yesterday, while visiting my mom in Sunnyvale, I called a friend who is another cafe writer, and arranged to meet up with him for coffee and writing.

He lives in Mountain View, and recently, Google wired the entire city. Or, at least it appeared so. He gets a great signal in his apartment, and assumed it was everywhere. So we met at a bakery/restaurant/coffee place on Castro Street, right off of El camino Real. El Camino Real is the town's artery, Castro is its soul. Castro is filled with little shops and businesses -- it's where you go to stoll, do a bit of window shopping, and find a great little place to eat.

The cafe is about 3 blocks from this friend's place, where free Google wireless rules, but strangely enough, there was no Google free wireless at this cafe, which was about two blocks off of El Camino Real (the artery) and right smack dab in the midst of the the cool shops and restaurants of Castro Street (the soul). We were saved by the fact that the bakery had its own free wireless offering, but it was REALLY odd that this part of Mountain View was not wired for free internet access.

That said, next on Google's plate is to wire San Francisco. Unlike Mountain View (their home), they're going to offer us a relatively slow connection for free (300 mbs), and partner with Earthlink to offer a fast connection (1000 mbs) for $20 a month. The free connection will be advertising supported (natch), but the Earthlink offering will be advertising free.

I hope, when it finally reaches San Francisco, citywide wireless (free or not), is really citywide. I don't think I could afford another monthly bill right now, but if the Earthlink offering is stable and fast, I may have to spring for it. You see, I live right across the street from Golden Gate Park...and about a mile from Ocean Beach...and my dream has always been to walk through the park at lunch, then pick a spot under a tree to get some work done. With "citywide" free wireless, that should become a reality. At least, I thought so. My expereince yesterday has me a little leery though.

A Very Hard Read

I'm reading Candles Burning, a recent novel written by Michael McDowell and Tabitha King. And it's difficult.

You see, I've been a huge fan of Mr. McDowell's work since I came across his Blackwater series in the local (then) Kroger grocery store. On the back of the book, he promised 6 months of bloodcurdling horror...

And he delivered.

If you're familiar with Stephen King's The Green Mile, which was released in 6 monthly installments, you'll understand. King copied McDowell's formuala exactly.

But he didn't copy the content.

As good as The Green Mile was -- which was very good -- it didn't have quite the same energy as the Blackwater series. After I completed each volume (a 2-3 day read), I literally counted the days for the next one to be released. I even got my friends hooked, and we were all on the lookout for the next volume to drop.

After Blackwater, I sought out his older stuff. And I liked it all. Loved most of it. And he quickly became one of my all-time favorite authors. His writing was fresh and original and oft-times creepy. He never failed to take me someplace else.

And when we, as readers, fall in love with an author's work, a relationship is formed. A relationship as strong and as durable as one with a person.

In 1999, I was searching the Web for information on what McDowell was up to, and sadly, found out he'd died of AIDS. It was like a punch to the gut, and I sat there, reading and rereading the info, unable to make it real.

In January of this year, my father passed away after a long and difficult battle with cancer. During that time, my mother, suffering from dementia, was slowly being engulphed by the disease. She lives now in a world inhabited by spirits of the past. Her level of comprehension is almost zero, but I can still make her smile. And laugh. And on good days, her sense of humor and sass return full bore and her skin glows with vitality. On the surface, she does not know my father has passed away, but underneath the ravages of the disease, I'm sure she does. Because the kissess and caresses and kindness I lavish on her are not his. And though they work their way in and warm her, they are not enough.

It is impossible to describe the loss of a parent. It's not something you can pin down, because it's not a single emotion but rather an every changing emotional landscape. It can't be defined, only experienced.

So when I found out that there was a new McDowell novel, I was elated and saddened at the same time. Elated because I was going to get one more McDowell novel, but saddend because it was the last. But the most difficult part of all is that the novel was unfinished. Tabitha King, a friend of McDowell's, was asked to complete it for him, and she did. In the preface King says that a lot of the novel was done, but there was no ending and no notes could be found. She states that this is not the novel that McDowell would have written. She took what was there and finished it as she would finish it.

I respect King and believe she was a very good choice. But as I read through it, and I'm loving it, I dread reaching that point where I think McDowell ends and King begins. Cause it will be like reading that he'd died all over again...and a reminder that this isn't his book. It's their book. And that's something altogether different.

My emotions here are more extreme than they should be. I never met McDowell, but I did do an interview with him for a horror fiction newsletter I was doing. He was my very first interview. I was scared and nervous and he was kind and friendly. I kept the interview short, because I didn't want to waste his time. The newletter had a circulation of about 30.

So I dread this. And I read on. And I think -- no, I know -- that my feelings are tied to the loss of my father, a loss I've yet to really be able to come to grips with. They were both important to me, in different ways and for different reasons, and I miss them both. That much I know. And understand.

If anyone is reading this, my God, you must be thinking that you're reading the ramblings of a madman. Maybe you are. This evening on the bus, I read a few pages, and the feeling, that shifting emotional landscape got to me. I thought I was gonna cry. Instead, I write this.

Why I Love the Library

I’m sitting outside the library, on the ground, the wall behind my back as I wait for it to open. The library has free wireless, so I’m jacked in out here. I am not alone--there is a small group of like-minded folk keeping me company. The two guys beside me are from a shelter and they’re talking shit about who it’s okay to steal from and how they would stab people in the shelter randomly if their iPod was stolen, until the perp fessed up, hoping not to get stabbed too. One of them is on heavy meds – he uncaps a bottle and downs a mouthful. His buddy says “that’s gross’’, and he says they’re for his AIDS, then tells his buddy to go fuck himself and write an article about it. It is friendly advice.

Another guy says: “The FBI is trying to set me up. Has anybody seen my constitutional rights?” I mistake him for normal. Or near normal. He continues his friendly banter, his madness laced with good buddy humor. “The FBI can kiss the crack of my ass.” Cigarettes are bogarted, the air fills with the smell of burnt lungs

It is 10:00 a.m. The doors open. There are about 20-25 of us who funnel in. Most go to the elevators, I head downstairs to the café. I use the restroom, and though I’m the first one in, both toilets are, um, unflushed. I choose the lesser of two evils and close the door. A few moments later an Asian guy comes in. He is babbling, “I’m the only one here <Giggle> Gonna get some hot coffee. No, gonna get some hot tea <Giggle> Yeah, hot tea. Gonna get some hot tea <Giggle> hot tea. Yeah. Hot tea. Gonna get some hot tea.” The hot tea mantra goes on until he leaves. I leave after him, washing my hands longer than necessary in the not-yet-hot water. Two of the three hand dryers are not working.

I leave the restroom, take the elevator to the 4^th floor and grab a window seat. From the window I can look down into the Civic Center courtyard. There are two tourist busses. Homeless people. Somebody yells something that should be inaudible to me. But it isn’t. The yells continue, inarticulate howls of anger and injustice, but are now coming from inside the library. Someone is not happy.

And I realize that I love the smell of madness in the morning…

I’m here to work though, to focus. As I write this, things have settled down. Security has done its job (and a considerable job It is) and have ushered out the most extreme cases. The hushed whispers of librarians instructing patrons and the random sounds of fidgeting and pages turning replace the howls. Time for me to settle in too.

My day has finally begun…

The Why For

I write nonfiction for a living and fiction to live. A few years ago I purchased my first tablet pc, an HP TC1100, and I fell pretty hard. I can’t imagine buying another computer without a pen. I really can’t.

In December 2005, I dropped my HP and broke it. Not having much to spend on a new tablet pc, and not wanting to invest much in a pre-Vista machine, I bought a Toshiba Satellite R15. The unit weighs more than twice as much as the HP, but I love the 14.1-inch display, the decent keyboard and the relatively loud sound system.

So my intent with this blog is to share my thoughts on creative writing, tablet pcs and the intersection between the two.