Political threesome

Mysterious attack ads placed around the internets surrounding a potential Metz in ’16 campaign (I deny any knowledge of an impending campaign nor any validation of the comments herein):

G--- Metz cut his teeth in the liberal SF political machine, advocating free gay sex for methamphetamine. Is this what we want running America?

G--- Metz has wined and dined known terrorists, associating with Nancy Pelosi and Barbara Boxer. Just say No to METZ.

G--- Metz was born in San Francisco to a Mexican mother, meaning he was born on foreign soil to a illegal parents. G--- METZ: He's not even eligible.

Suck it, Rush Limbaugh. Suck it, Glenn Beck.

(Ed. note, whoever can find the mysterious poster of said statements, I would like to interview him or her for my campaign manager. If I needed a campaign manager.)

pissing in the corner (again)

I have, before, been on record that I can't stand Yelp out here. As some of you may know, in SF, while it's not golden, it's a pretty good indicator of quality, experience, etc., for most places one might want to check out. Also, SF has a nasty tendency to bring out the closet pontificator in everyone.

However, with the general vastness of the city in the state that is doubly named -- New York, it seems that Yelp is pretty much, while not useless, a little bit of a trainwreck of democratic process. Too many voices, nobody filtering them. Ironic, since it's New York, not California (sorry, that will be my last dig on that fair, arid state by the most inaptly named ocean in maybe forever -- it's getting frankly like old shtick. Or old socks).

So I'm going to claim it. Or reclaim it. Or not do a damned thing. But I'm writing on it again, which, while seemingly inconsequential for the spurring of such a blog post, is mainly a reason for me to try, try as I might to get my writing chops in gear.

Ah, now the truth. I have always figured myself to be grossly, chronically overextended. I write this, I watch this, I play guitar and attempt to be social and attempt to find and hide and otherwise be a general man-of-all-seasons. And I like it and then I forget to get writing and I don't. It's a vicious, viperous self-defeating cycle.

But, I think I've also forgotten just how much of a sounding board it could be when I'm upset or not writing or otherwise moot and tongue-tied and completely unordered. And prone to run-ons. Oh well. I wrote some blah on there the other day. Now I feel rejuvenated. Somewhat.

So shame on me. My writing problem is not inspiration. It's the actual writing.

warning: compendium post incoming. be forewarned, watch out for shrapnel

Well look at this, you get another post within, what, two weeks of each other? The excitement, were it not about to lock up your throat in fits of asthmatic glee, would probably be enough to lock up your throat in fits of asthmatic glee. If such a thing were to happen.

And now:

1) I'm wondering what exactly it is that makes the average credit-cum-loan-cum-populist-babble radio post sound like the babbling of a semi-coherent homeless guy on a Sunday afternoon 4. What I'm thinking is that ad agencies, in lieu of hiring somewhat competent writers or, say, all-smiles-and-teeth communications professionals, they've taken to outsourcing to the shelters.

From the radio:
Are you tired of all the bailout loans going to poor people, while you're struggling to pay your mortgage?

From the 4:
...and in this time of bailouts, and I know you're struggling with mortgages and putting the kids through college...

Frankly, I'm thinking this might be the best Madison Avenue idea in years. Except for the throwdown steel-cage jello-wrestling Superbowl throwdown. I might have just made that up.

2) I might have found a god shot (and please, no comments on the lack of a definitive article). On Friday, I took the walk -- nay, I say, adventure and or safari -- through the mildly alienistic nyc shtetl of South Williamsburg. Nothing against it, nothing all that odd although I felt I needed a tazer or at the very least raw bacon to hold off the legions in the odd case that somebody recognized that the indentation on my head was in fact a result of age and thinning hair than, say, a yamulke, but walk I did. Forward, forthright, foolhardily, but I moved. And I stumbled on, in this little nook of an area, on Bedford between the tiny little shopfaces and squee and cutesy mopeds, Oslo.

I will not rate Oslo. I will say the shot here (and when I say I speak specifically of the Bedford Ave. location, not to be confused with the straight-from-the-strip-mall Roebling location -- I had one there as well and it was not as good) -- I will say that, apart from being a darker roast than I usually like, might have been near espresso perfection. I will say that it was, not to bore with details, but it was: spicy, creamy, caramely and in-your-face, sweet, slight dry, bold, kick-you-in-the-teeth brash and fuck-you-in-the-face wonderful. Yes, it was that good. It might have just been a thing of skill, but it was that good.

3) The original 3 has been deleted, and was much more entertaining and provocative. Enjoy this photo (courtesy of the Billyburg excursion)L

And now for something completely different (and no, this is not the Monty Python post you are looking for)

I do not usually do this. It's not in my nature, it brings me a slight tinge of discomfort and even thinking about the next few words and sentences creates an unconscious discomfiting tickle in my upper intestinal lumen. My stomach is churning to right itself.

But like any good little trooper, I'm about to put on my Jay-Z best and perform the only previously stated: here comes the obligatory shout-out.

Specifically, and as some of you may know, I'm a fan of the Bat Segundo show, which was a salve for me especially back in the dark age of San Francisco and has become a staple of my Friday afternoon listening walks. More recently, I've gotten into the interviewer's -- Ed Champion's -- blog . More specifically still, the last two posts are, if anything, a source of both titillation and all around book-geek glee.

For your perusal:

1. The breakdown of Michiko Kakutani's The New York Times reviews loving entitled "Why Does Michiko Kakutani Hate Fiction So Much?" (with a nice self-deprecating nod to the author's own reviewing predilections).
   (g.m.'s response: yes, she has a lot of snarky reviews, yes, she reads a lot of crap as the pre-eminent review and thus a lot of marquee titles, but even the books she likes tend to be middle-brow, semi-sentimental drivel).
   
   
2. And this one I think I'm strictly enjoying as a point of public service, the (by all means not complete) list of Literary Podcasts. I do have to be frank in this one, as I've not listened to the majority of these, but for anyone who comments on the NYTimes's own Book Review podcast as "Every Friday, for fifteen minutes, the corporate yesman Sam Tanenhaus manages to take all the life out of books," well, for that, I have to give it credit. But it also happens to be a very wide-ranging list, complete with a list of reviews, commentary, readings, etc. It even breaks down for genre stuff.
   
   Now, if we could just get the same level of vitriol he has for the NYT (we feel it Ed, trust me) applied to the NPR/PRI bastard baby Selected Shorts, which if anything consistently throws out the most compelling list of bland on a weekly basis, well then I'd be happy.

And as a completely separate thing, completely on the Edward Champion kick, I have to throw out a nice little Bat Segundo with Robin Black delving into craft.

* * *

(ed. note: I understand. This just turned into a three-dotter. I will keep it short.)

[REDACTED]

(ed. note: on second thought, this section seemed moderately half-baked at the current moment, so will have to be saved for another day/post. Enjoy your weekend.)

And where exactly is that warp zone to the springs of bikini-clad Iceland?

I've been trying to pin down the surrealism of the subway system here. I mean, the entire thing, apart from the seeming moebius strip quality to the layout, has always had a varying haphazard ramshackle setup to the stations. This plays nicely into fantasies. No, not those kind. What I'm referring to, and I'm sure it was part of the design intention, is the bizarre mosaics/installations that wend their way onto platforms, walls, walkups to platforms and walls, what have you. The entire thing is a video game. Like some mushroom-hazed and coked-out version of Mario Bros.

Case 1:


(Here, as you will see, is the entrance to the Sino-Egyptian section of Wario world).

Case 2:

(Somebody should tell Dig-Dug this is a job for a gardener/horticultural technician).

Case 3:

(So what did we tell you about pretending like you're frogger?)


Now. That's it. I'm on a bit of a dry spell right now. Excuse the calcium build-up on the brain. Oh yeah, and I'm running out of coffee. The world is topsy-turvy.

ahem (pt. 2 -- or how Apple further degraded the peaceable existence of the free world)

Now. I don't know and I don't really care that much about how you feel one way or the other about the state of Israel/the Zionist Hegemony/Center of Racism in the World/The Shining Embunkered Jewel in the Middle East Hill. I don't really care. I spent long portions of my childhood (probably on account of a staple of Golan Globus films, most featuring Ninjas playing the part of the Mossad) idolizing them, before maturing to a state of ambivalence. I'm okay with this, which is why I've put it in print.

However, today the news was cast that the same-said state has lifted its ban on the importation of iPads. Sad, yes, but even sadder is this possibility -- so the iPad operates on a frequency that could interfere with other electronic gadgets, which in Israeli-speak means that the iPad could possibly have figured in to some type of terrorist plot. What this really means: if this were to happen, would Apple then be considered a state-sponsor of terror, as it rightly should be? It's already got a lock on the SF Bay Area, which holds its own on several watch lists.

Shame on you, Israel, for not letting this come to pass.

ahem

It's been a bit amazing to me how, once I jump on this thing, I immediately forgo/forget all the previous little bits of information I've been intending to pass around. Or pass off. So be it.

But I've also been intending to get back to this blogspace -- yes, this is the cliched entry, the "I really really mean to write this time" post -- and frankly, it will or will not exist and devolve into that sort of realm. I haven't decided yet.

What do you get instead? Another digest post. Enjoy it. Deal with it.

• First off, I got the results from the short fiction challenge. Those of you who may have been following, essentially I got an honorable mention. It irks me. But it's probably correct. Considering the threat of power outage I was dealing with and the discomfort from the overall strictures of genre (Romance) and subject (Blindness), I did the best I could, but even realized it could have used another hour or two for re-reading. Here are the reviewer comments:
  
  

  ''ZATOICHI'' by Geoffery Metz - WHAT THE JUDGE(S) LIKED ABOUT YOUR SCRIPT - The narrative settles after the first four pages or so. All three characters here are well-rounded....A sad, realistic portrayal of unrequited love....I love the itemized, concrete inclusion of grocery items. This piece has a really great sense of narrative tone. Nice job relaying the backstory exposition for the origin of his blindness. There is some very unique use of language here that works quite well. Great concrete sensory elements. Nice, simplistic dialogue. I really like the off-beat characterizations here. Interesting ending. ...This story has a very strong narrative arc and excellent character development in Maxwell. I could absolutely feel his struggle and frustration, his thread of hope and his disappointment, they were quite well-drawn and well-executed. The descriptions of his tactile world were deftly handled, from grocery shopping to massaging Kaylia. I particularly liked the description of his neighborhood, the "olfactory gruel" that exists outside his window, how he is oppressed by the smells and sounds just beyond his sanctuary. These sensory details were all quite well done, and since this is a piece about a blind man, I think a careful realization of the sensory details makes all the difference. Good work..........................

  ......................................... WHAT THE JUDGES FEEL NEEDS WORK - The narrative bounces between run-on and fragmented sentences, and fails to maintain a consistent tense. There are frequent grammatical errors, such as "Monday nights was his night." The faces on bills aren't raised--it's one of the blind contingent's most common complaints about American money, that it isn't blind-accessible....This story could use a bit of tightening grammatically....Try to avoid derivational suffixes like "sugariness". A few punctuation errors, nothing major. Avoid passive usage like, "Kaylia would lie on the beach."...A word about writing numbers: the rule is as follows -- one through nine are always spelled out, while 10 and above are represented by numerals, unless they begin a sentence, or some other, rare exception. So, in your story, you'd have, "He was 15 when they gave up on his eyes," and "The apartment had been his for 13 years." In the first paragraph, it should be "... whom he knew..." Also in that paragraph, it should be, "the kiwi" rather than "kiwi fruits." (Saying "kiwi fruits" is redundant -- like 'apple fruits,' or 'orange fruits' .) Same paragraph -- "Her voice WAS inflected..." I didn't understand the following lines: "Because of the curry Maxwell had switched markets." and "But the smell no longer interfered with his shopping." I think you need to include some sort of clarification there. The following line should read, "Monday night was his night..." (Not plural.) On page three of your text, try, "The sounds of broken English gave way to no English..." On page five, the line should read, "The two of them had been trying to get pregnant..." On page six, I'd cut "the table," since you've already described the whole table setting. "Masseur" needs to be in italics every time. Finally, "superhero" is one word..........................

  
  Not that bad. Really, I was expecting worse, and it still means I finished in the top 3%, rusty chops and all.


• Second, and as some others of you fearless readers may know, I am both a) a person who has been coached while playing hockey in his time, and b) an enjoyer of the San Jose Sharks since their inception. What that means to me is that I enjoy a very large amount of schadenfreude (italics intentional) from knowing how they continually fuck up while parading as a top flight NHL team. So I don't know what to do with myself now: they could potentially win tonight (Saturday), and advance to the second round, in spite of their best wishes.
  
  Do I mourn, do I rejoice? And in there lies the rub.
  
  
• For anybody who has taken the time to weed through my little hockey moment (should be in italics), I have to recommend the letters from Saul Bellow, seen behind the link. Unfortunately, you need a subscription. Fortunately, you could just pick a copy of The New Yorker and enjoy it, regardless.
  
  The biggest issue with this is now I feel like I need to write letters. The secondary issue? I need to write more letters.
  
  
• And finally, kudos to the boys of South Park for making Muhammed a bleeped-out word. Shame on everybody involved otherwise, but Trey and Matt have more than Orgazmo and Cannibal: The Musical for me to talk about them as two Satirists Who I Like To Watch^TM. Bravo (If that can be said drolly).

Good night, kids.