Max iPad Ruminations

Congratulations, Apple. Your hype machine works. I'd forgotten how effective this thing was, but, what with the revealing of the iPad and the subsequent "I want this" lowing of the peanut-gallery generation (read: anybody who has a keyboard and who has ever used an iphone), you've shown the world that yet again your ability to unleash a half-baked, first generation product upon the masses is unsurpassed in the world of hyped up Edsels (read: Silicon Valley. Also, I'm talking to you, Google and Nexus One).

I should be fair here. Apple has unleashed a slick, well-constructed device. It's polished. It does everything you might ask of it, and I'm sure, given Apple's multimedia-friendly outlook, it will do all of them beautifully. And Apple has always been good with the business model aspect of things: starting with the iTunes store, they established a model that worked beautifully for the music world, then tvs, and now are hoping it will apply to books. And it looks like, from the early adoption by various publishers, it just might work out. And frankly, I can't cry about having a venue for magazine subscription service on a display that can give it justice.

But, dammit, they whiffed on the OS. I've been staring at this thing, really staring at it, and trying to figure out what type of user experience they were envisioning. I don't know about you, but when I read, I like background music. Esp. magazines. And with the old iPhone OS not being able to multitask, it fails that. Blah blah blah blah, noise machines will want their own devices. But frankly, if it can't accommodate all possible experiences, then it's not quite ready to be hatched.

Okay, I lost my train of thought. Ruminations and otherwise. I think it's time to visit the social security office. Wish me luck.

two more entries in the portmanteau hall of shame (or, how marketers are destroying the world and western civilization one dictionary entry at a time

First things, the portmanteau. A combination of two words, for instance "stay" and "vacation," to create a third: "staycation." Usually created by marketing departments. Usually by marketing departments who think the sum of all corporate intelligence can be summed up by their hello kitty doll and/or supersoaker situated at the foot of their desks. And who can't think without sitting in a committee.

Well, we have two more entries.

• Mancession,
• Bleisure.

Discuss. I need to poke a hot skewer through my ears.

And now the rust and the mysterious wonder chicken

I've spent this last week trying to recapture the writing. The ease, the voice, the words falling on top of one another in a seeming intuitive, natural sequence. This probably more than anything puts too much stock in last week's writing, considering that everything is better in revision, but frankly I can't find a voice right now and my layering upon layering of thoughts is not creating a cohesive or interesting whole. So be it.

With the rest of the week, what have I done? Downloaded tax information. Went to a hockey game. Ate way too much chinese food. Washed laundry.

And now, I'm awake and way too alert and am needing to move onto something again. I'm not sure what right now. It might be time to write a pulp. I need to refind that smell of blood.

* * *

As some of you may know, I live on the Nostrand line, 2/5 in Brooklyn. I work in Midtown. And that means I get green (as in line) to travel there. Which can be a nightmare. Overstuffed, musty, the lingering of somebody's flank just so from your nose for at least twenty minutes of the trip. But I've never seen anything quite like this. Enjoy, kids, it's less nightmare than sheer bliss.



Oh yeah. And please notice the judicious refrain from the word "funky" anywhere in this post.

And thenceforth our spam will be grilled and tinged with the flavor of musabi curry

This will be a short one. A few notes:
1) is anybody else tickled that, when they open up the spam folder in gmail, the ads at the top of the screen display recipes for the canned-mystery-meat-and-congealed-salt-lick of its namesake (i.e., spam)?

2) The story was happily completed on Saturday, although to be frank, I wish I had a chance to revise yet again. But in the way that only a week's worth of sitting time could have allowed. Final word count: around 2,050 words.

3) When I was a younger lad, about the age off 22, I was sitting at a restaurant bar in Columbia, Md., waiting on a friend to get off work. A man of African descent asks me if I'd ever "Played the Jones," which he went on to explain was essentially the "Your momma" series of jokes and that he wouldn't expect a pasty white boy like myself to know it, so no hard feelings. I looked this up recently on Urban Dictionary -- apparently it involves a crack habit. So I can't vouch for its fealty, but it's something that's bugged me.

UPDATE: In the course of writing this post, I discovered the proper spelling. "Joans." On the link, definition one. Damn, I'm white.

The Stare Down

What is it about the competition where four-figure payoffs are at stake the I feel the need to size up the opponents? Okay, what is it about competition period that makes me need to size them up?

As some of you may know, I'd signed up, in my writing rehab program (not to be confused with an actual, structured program of any sort of which I am painfully, sadly remiss), for a Short-fiction contest. One week, one story, they give you the genre and the subject. And you compete, in the first round, with about 20 other people. Naturally, the names are published, naturally, it's there for the world to see.

So yesterday, I end up hacking out about 800 words for this (max: 2,500), comedy, dog walker. Today, I push it to the end. Final is probably about 1,900 before revision, which could easily add another. What do I do to get it going this morning? If you said "Drink coffee," you get a gold star. If you said "Pace around the apartment semi-nude," you get a gold star. If you said "Masturbate until your [phallus] is raw," you can keep your gold star (I don't want to know where it's been). But I also decide to see who the competition is.

I'm flashing back now: times at whiskeys, smokey, barroom pool table, we each hate each other idyllically. To get ready for a game, I would stare at the opponent, samurai-style, eyes slits and stick piked in front, waiting to be impressed. At least, the games I almost won.

I have to say, I'm kind of a competitive jerk.

* * *

Apart from Monday's writing not being nearly so tangent-inducing, it also started with a different scenario. If you said "Reading John Gardner," you get a gold star (if you're one of the masturbation people, you can keep your own star again).

But, and this is now completely an aside, meaning it will be brief, before the blog gets taken over: I finish the story. What is it about it, that, even in its first-draft form, I feel the need to foist it on others like a cat with a dead bird?

Maybe this is part of the rehab.

manic episodes on the post post proust goals find

It shouldn't be a secret I don't like making resolutions. I marginally like making plans, so the idea of making a promise to myself that I'm supposed to adhere to on the passing of an arbitrary calendar date has never fueled my inspirational fire. Frankly, my moods/desires are based more moment-by-moment, much like a certain person acknowledges a hunger and sates it with, say, mcdonalds. Sadly, yes, mcdonalds.

But I have a goal today. And I might succeed with it. As some have seen, I've picked up the reading yen since living on subway lines, and, having spent my waking subway hours chasing John Banville with Saul Bellow, I've decided to go to their bastard, three-way love child with Jose Saramago: John Gardner.

I knoww, this will sound odd. I don't like American authors. In fact, the cult of narcissism being the only real legacy of the great (small 'g' intentional) authors from the 60s and 70s, I have no real lust for them. But for anybody who has ever taken a writing course, Gardner is a ghost that must be dealt with. Why? He wrote probably the best how-to books on what a novel, what a story, is. And, thoughts on Grendel aside, he represents something apart from it. Frankly, that represents the last novel I read that just gave me absolute, unequivocal joy. But his books are impossible to find.

So now, my quest, and I do choose to accept it, is to find him. One of his books (not Grendel). Any one.

But first, I shower. And maybe pick up some socks.

2009, redux (in a pit of sausage, cheap chianti and, frankly, some of the stuff they put in fast food soda)

I've let the year sit now. Settle. Die, rest, subside, subdue. And so my emotions for the year -- and frankly, the decade -- will not be nearly as descriptive and entertaining as probably should be. For a blog. For, what this genre is, a mock-memoir.

But really, how does one start this? The biggest thing, the happiest thing, is that I finally left San Francisco. No offense to the people back there but it was a bad fit, akin to hiring the bubble boy for a sanatorium. And when does this start?

2002, and a possible transfer. I was getting tired of what I was doing in the place I was at and was seeing someone long-distance in Maryland. There was an opening in the Boston office. Succinctly, with little ado save for the emails that met me between when I sent the inquiry (not request) to when I got into work, the thing was shot down. Not to dwell, but the seeds were planted.

Now, I'm not going to talk too much about myself. I love myself, but I understand that such vanity has led to my hopeless, quashed ambitions and desires. I have a healthy understanding of that. And yes, this is a blog and I understand that and I will work to not make this too antithetical to the nature of blogs, but I can't make this about me me me me me. That should have been in italics. I fail.

Long story in short-form: I leave the company, test life possibilities, have a nightmare roommate that makes me sleep with a knife under my pillow, rejoin to transfer, get side-tracked by authority. There should also be a capital 'A.'I fail again.

Fast-forward to 2009. The transfer happens which, considering the creative differences that have rended the cohesion of the supe-staff, I let happen. It feels early. It was probably just right.

And now I ask the question: how damaging do I want to be on this? To myself, I mean. It's a blog, but, for the feeling of inprivacy with these. People will read this. I can't help it or control it. And really, how intense were the emotions towards the end? Or at least, reliably, trustworthy, soundly and foolproof...ly? I can't be certain.

I'm going to make this short, to save face. 2009 essentials: I get strep. I discover Love and Beauty (damaged as it is). I lose great friends and get strep again. Realizing the baggage and being pragmatic, Love and Beauty leaves. Gets relegated to Like and Fetching, but there's still hurt. In a fit of redemption (small 'r'), I reconnect with great friends. Damage is still done. In my fit of trying to connect, as one last hurrah, the move-out is a disaster, it's too early and I'm not ready. I feed crack habits on the last day of my existence on the west coast, so much dumping on the streets of the Tenderloin. Move. Rain. Pleasant Rain. Hills & Hastings. New office, same job. Different clients, job no longer the same. Move again, midnight. Survive and survive and survive and survive.

To be frank, it's not been a bad year. Yes, I'm essentially in the spot I was ten years ago, when the fateful decision came down between New York and San Francisco, and I chose San Francisco, what with being close to family and all. Transposed ten years later, the decision seems fraught. The family was ultimately a non-starter. The community was sorely lacking (again, this is not meant against friends, but the town of SF needs a good editor, and the ability to accept one).

Hairline receding, hypertensive, I can now say this: The year, the years, have left me with a new start with perspective. Twenty-ten. The new environs, it's the seriousness, man. People give a shit. They get their emotions into things banal trite cold but it's an honesty, a respect. I'm working on it, goddammit. I will be here.

A friend told me this place will give you energy, but will feed off your energy as well. I haven't gotten the feed yet.

But the stimulus is still sinking in. Maybe with perspective and the survive I'll do something. If not, at least I have seasons.