Writing … ?

I attended a workshop the other evening, in which we were guided to contact and listen to our Divine Masculine. Never mind why I was interested in this workshop. That could become a long explanation. Point is I was there and so was a friend of mine and he asked, “How’s the writing going?”

It seems more of my friends know I’m “writing a book.”

I said it was on hold; but then I added that it’s only for short spurts that I think I don’t have time for that nonsense. I’ll come around soon enough, I said, and get back at it. Thanks for asking.

The actual conversation probably didn’t drip with as much suppressed frustration as it appears to have here. But I am frustrated, because I don’t have time for that nonsense. The real world keeps getting more real and anyway I need a job. Yet I must have time for that nonsense because I think about it in some way or other every day, sometimes twice.

We can make time for what’s important to us.

The world needs my book.

My people need their stories told.

The second week of the class went by without me having any “time” to do the work. Now the third week is under way and I’m just not setting enough aside. Yes, I could want to if I wanted to. But it’s Halloween Weekend. There are important things to do.

Oh shit. And then Nano starts on Tuesday.


For The Ages

ccStunning, and wonderful, isn’t it? The Indians have only been to the World Series three times since they last won it in 1948. The Cubs haven’t even been been there since 1945, and haven’t won it since 1908. Whoever wins the 2016 championship, it will be the end of a long, long drought.

Snippets but no Whip-its

One reason I hate Facebook’s threaded commenting is that a post might be shown as having just one comment when in truth there’s a 77-piece thread full of all kinds of semi-entertaining wack but you don’t know because all you see is “1 comment” and you go eh.

I got an invoice from AARP, which I guess is their clever way of taking advantage of the fact that us old people are better at paying bills than remembering whether or not we ordered something.

I updated my NaNo page. That must mean we’re in that portion of October in which I’m sort of excited about it.

I started Yet Another Blog, but I will try to keep it focused on Writing. I done writ something in it yesterday. The title reflects the fact that trying to be focused doesn’t mean I’m not Teeter Tottering.


Lodging III

Expedia published my review. Apparently I’m a lot kinder than other people.


Scrol down and press the Guest Reviews button. Mine is by “Don from Sacramento.” Quite a contrast between mine and everyone else’s.

Why is that? It’s quite possible that I’m crazy. Also, I wasn’t there at night. I collected my keys at four in the afternoon after coordinating with some guy via text. He met me, unlocked the gate, showed me up the stairs to the room, and took his leave. Polite guy, no weird vibe or anything.

I didn’t unload the car because I had just dropped people off at Decom, i.e. the Burning Man Decompression party that was on a blocked-off street two miles away, and we wanted to have our stuff near us.

I could talk at great length about the event. But I won’t. Suffice it to say we took actual possession of the room around seven o’clock in the morning, not just the two of us but one of our friends from Sacramento plus a couple cute homeless girls who were kind of getting away from their boyfriends. No, there was no messing around. I wanted to at first, and I think the other guy probably did too, but the vibe wasn’t really there, and I’m just not a dick about such things. We had booze, some of us were still tripping, we worked on some art ideas for an upcoming event, and one of the girls — the one who flashed her dimples at me rather a pleasing amount, I thought — described her chaotic life just enough that we realized there was significant risk of STD.

STD = Spiritually Transmitted Disease.

If you are intimate with someone, sex or not, you are going to pick up some of their spiritual energy. That sounds woo-woo but think about it. Can you make out with a guy who’s angry at his ex-wife or has weird mommy issues and actually enjoy it? I think not. You may not be conscious of it, but it just ain’t workin’, and his unsolved bullshit is why.

So anyway, they got hungry and went off to breakfast about nine. I napped an hour or so and we vacated the spot around noon and drove home. At no time were the ever-present street people an issue. They were just who they were, which is who they always were, have been, and will be. I guess it’s understandable that travelers don’t do their homework on the location, but if they had, I don’t know what the hell they were complaining about.

Why, Good Morning

We were in Oakland till midnight, hence not home till one thirty. She fell asleep immediately. I did not. I don’t remember sleeping. Technically one never does, but I don’t remember dreaming either, or even being particularly drowsy. I know I slept because I also don’t remember being awake for five or six hours. So I probably slept for two or three. When the sky grew light, and then the sun rose over trees and houses opposite the bedroom window, that was all she wrote as far as sleep goes.

I don’t know how we’ve gone so long without getting actual curtains for the bedroom windows. Something one thinks of only on certain weekend mornings. We need real curtains, too: blackout curtains such as used in motels.

Well, I’m not getting that today.

This was a good night to get some good sleep. Sometime later today we are going back down to the Bay Area, probably with extra people, to go to SF Decom. It ends at 11:00pm but next door will be a private party we have invitations to that will go till noon Monday. I have no intention of staying up all night but it would be nice to get into the wee hours without having to dig super deep.

Lodging II

A place looked interesting, indeed upscale, and offered on Expedia at half price. Full price was really high, half price about typical for a good room. I booked.

We learned Monday isn’t a school holiday after all and I checked for cancellation policies. But we discussed and decided to go for it anyway. We have resources.

I’m familiar with the location. A block south of Mission, a few blocks south of Market, an area I’ve walked through several times at all times of day and night.

Finally, though, I looked at the reviews on G+. Two stars on average. Lots of complaints about the high crime neighborhood. Drug dealers, streetwalkers, even a shooting. No complaints about the room. People wrote a lot about the neighborhood and added that the room was nice, as an aside.

Zero reviews on Yelp. Can’t seem to find reviews on Expedia and their system is poorly designed. Agoda had two that essentially said the same thing: Nice enough inside, terrible outside. One review on Orbitz which, what the hell, I’ll quote here:

The room appeared as advertised but is not a hotel with any services or cleaning. There is no check in but a text message exchange with someone who will meet you outside to give you the keys. The interior was comfortable but there was shoddy workmanship and evidence of recent construction. The walls were very thin and one could hear everything on the street. The area is very dangerous with degenerates who hang out outside the door and in the adjacent alleyway. It is very loud. One night, someone threatened to kill another person. I left this place a day early because I returned to an ambulance taking away an old man who was bleeding profusely in the crosswalk. I was really disturbed by that since I was traveling alone. No amount of nice furniture and decor can cover up how unsafe this listing is.

This may seem strange but none of this bothers me. We’ll only be outside late at night for a couple minutes when getting out of an Uber car. I have no idea what time that will be. Two-ish. I only got a room because we just don’t feel like staying up all night anymore. The streetview doesn’t show an alleyway anywhere. My impression of low-star reviewers is they are the sensitive type. Not someone I’d want to travel with. I just don’t care about all that.

I often look like one of the degenerates anyway. It’s great when they think so too. This long hair helps me fit in in all sorts of useful ways. No one’s going to bother us.

And there’s nothing quite like sleeping in late on a sunny San Francisco morning.


The show was outstanding, and, as you do, I wished my friends who’d never seen MarchFourth could be there to experience it. They were preceded by a local band appropriately named City of Trees whose funk and soul spirit reminded me of the second line bands we’ve seen in New Orleans. It was so much fun I wanted to play my horn again. Again.

Prior to all this we met friends in the sidewalk seating area to talk above the traffic noise and somehow the subject came round to mothers. Not mine, so much, though it’s cool that at her age she’s flying home today from New Orleans, but another friend’s, whose mother is evidently a fierce woman who works in rescuing the victims of sex slave trafficking. In this brief conversation I learned:

  1. Sacramento is the national hub for the practice because of its position on the freeway network. Most slaves enter via Los Angeles and are quickly shipped out to Sac for transshipment across the country.
  2. The tony suburb of Granite Bay is a hub within the hub, I surmise because it is quiet and rich and has large properties. I was told there are houses with basements of forty rooms to house the victims. (Of course, there might be just one, but that’s one too many. It makes sense, since the houses out there are huge and the properties many acres in size.)

This contrast between being able to relax and have a ton of fun while other people are imprisoned and enslaved has been with humanity so long most of us have no difficulty putting the latter out of mind. It’s too overwhelming: what do we do? At the very least, don’t patronize the businesses that may contribute (e.g. massage parlors that sell sex). That’s an easy one to avoid, needless to say. What else? Be aware, perhaps. Understand that someone on the street who’s lost and scared may have very good reason for it. I don’t know.


One short poast a day? I can do that, why not. I’m sure as a phase it will pass. Meanwhile, we roll with it.

The bar with whitewashed walls and dark wood trim and strung with industrial Edison lights was just cranking up Motown Monday when we left. We hadn’t been there in a long time, and the vibe was really good. Completely fun, with James Brown videos on the wall, and people drinking and dancing who were mostly born after the Godfather of Soul got out of prison. But it was after ten and we had a show to go to.

Across the street was the pounding heart of the gayborhood, a bar that gives “industry workers” half price on Mondays. Our friend and former housemate was set to debut as a drag queen. The show was starting late so we went out back. Found a few friends, and within minutes had a few more. I was recognized as an occasional participant in a super-secret Facebook group that breaks a lot of the rules and will disappear if it is ever reported. A redhead with really strong happy energy introduced herself as the one who did that tit-fucking video. Somehow I knew which one she meant. I told her I loved that shit. It was amazing. Needless to say, the rest of the night the back of my mind held the happy thought that her chosen intro suggested a possible dimension to our acquaintance. Especially given how friendly, indeed vivacious, she was throughout the evening. Her date, presumably the video partner, was completely friendly too. I like friendly.

The show was a lot of fun, held on the floor-level stage with the bar about half loaded. The performers did really well. I had the impression from a couple of them they were living out a dream and doing a good job of it, but I couldn’t decide if it was uncharitable of me to think so, so I didn’t share that observation with anyone. Our friend was the final performer and looked absolutely fabulous but needed, I thought, a more dynamic stage presence. I took a video and he can decide for himself.

That’s it. The idea is not to spend much time.

Nota bene. I started yet another blog but its purpose is as a place to put things that I might actually want to share on Facebook or elsewhere. Therefore nothing about my current life and the people in it. What, I dunno. So far, virtually nuthin. But here: Teeter Tottering.


Takes me all day to find a place.

Mission: Find lodging.

Scenario: San Francisco Decom, Sunday 9 Oct.

Constraints: Decom is held in Dogpatch, and there’s no lodging within a mile of that place. Not much in Potrero Hill either. But I don’t want to go too far because while Decom shuts down around eleven, we’ve been invited to a private party at a house there that goes all night. Our intention is to avoid staying up all night, but I figure we’ll stay into the wee hours, at which time I won’t want a long drive to our rented bed.

Used to be I or we would just drive home after the event. But neither of us has a job and Monday is a holiday anyway so why not take care of ourselves. Also we will probably cart several friends down there and after they’ve been partying all night they’ll want a ride home.

So I’m online and damn, it always takes me hours. Google, Yelp, Expedia, Hotels, Priceline, it’s all the same. You want to get the right place for a good price, but it’s hard to figure out what the places are really like, and the prices in the City shade to the higher side if it doesn’t have shared bathrooms and a permanent roach population.

So that’s what I’m doing right now. Fascinating, what.


Clearing out, I found two boxes full of DVDs. These are the ones that survives a culling pass a couple years ago. There’s a lot of good stuff there. Thing is, we never watch DVDs. I don’t think we own a functional DVD player. If we want to watch a movie we find some medium-grade thing on Netflix or HBO, and we don’t watch movies often. I probably don’t really need The Lord of the Rings or Patton or Bladerunner or the entire Monty Python’s Flying Circus or, needless to say, any of my father’s ballets and musicals. Yet … it makes me sad.

I need the room. I need the money. People who live closer to life’s edges don’t stockpile this crap. I need to clear out. Out out out. And yet.