Writing in the present tense

Struggling right now with this. A while back I started righting short fiction in the present tense. It was fun to reveal story as it happened. I liked the immediacy of it. And in first-person, I felt it was almost easier to hoist the reader on my back, so to speak, and show him or her around.

This seems to work particularly well in short, single-scene pieces. In longer form, however, I'm finding that staying in the present tense is pretty tough. It's tricky to describe the past in the present without it feeling cumbersome or awkward.

Just something bugging me right now, because I like the present tense and want it to work. With a couple days off, I may try finding novels that manage to do this. We'll see...

Tom Wolfe on writing

My latest hobby is scrolling through the NPR archives for interesting pieces on books and other stuff. I know I'm late to this particular party ... I used to only listen to public radio -- or any radio -- while driving. I don't drive that much.

What I just realized--duh--is that I don't have to wait for the clock to roll around to catch a good program on the radio. I can just go to the NPR site and click what programs I want to listen to. Somehow I always knew I could do this, but hadn't really wanted to until I missed a Normal Mailer interview that took place earlier this year.

After that, I hit up a Tom Petty retrospective interview, caught up on This American Life, and some odd book readings that I'll never have the time to make in person.

The best one so far was a Tom Wolfe interview aired 20 years ago and re-aired to celebrate Fresh Air's 20th anniversary. Wolfe talked a lot about writing and the genesis of his writing style... like writing a novel like you're pretending to be writing a letter to a friend, and how he purposely choose clothing that stood out, which seems antithema to the traditional fly-on-the-wallishness of being a writer.

"It is much more effective," he said, "to arrive at any situation as the Man from Mars, than to try to fit in."

I'm probably guilty of idolizing mainstream or popular authors like Wolfe too much. It's not like I don't read lesser known scribes. But I'm fascinated with why certain authors are considered greats, and I often find I waste little time when reading them.

Anyway Wolfe's interview is good stuff.

Norman Mailer, RIP

Seems all the giants of letters that I got to know as a young man are going, one by one. This week it was Norman Mailer, arguably the biggest one left. (Not too long ago it was Vonnegut.)

NPR had a really good interview with them recently, by Michael Krasny, that they aired tonight. In it, Mailer toys with the idea of death and reincarnation, and how God judges our worthiness by what he assigns us to be in a second life. Mailer wants to be a black athelete, but figures he'll just be a cockroach -- but the fastest cockroach on the block.

I, like Krasny, hopes he becomes a black athelete. Toodles, Norman.

Aldo Nova, say it 10 times fast

I've been working too hard lately and I know it. It's nice to have money. I wish, though, I could have more time to write... and to twibble around on the Internet.

No idea what "twibble" really means.

I like my jobs, though. The second one is the best. Lots of weird, interesting people. Kind of like a newsroom. I feel right at home -- and appreciated.

The first job -- in daily order, at least -- is a little more jarring, in a capitalist sort of way. But good for cash.

The third I never go to anymore. That's a story for another time... or another blog.

The fourth is writing. I do it when I can. Like, I'm writing right now. And what I want to write about, I can't even explain.

It's about this guy, and this song, and I don't know. I'm just dreaming of leopard skin.

God help me.

NERDIEST picture ever

Six albums for a penny!

When I was 12 years old I took the record club flyer out of the Sunday paper, chose six albums and taped a penny into the circle.

The albums came. They reflected my taste in music at the time, which reflected my friend's taste in music, who lived across the street and had two older brothers. (Everything I learned about sex, drugs and rock and roll came from you, Jeff. Muchas gracias.)

I don't remember all the albums. I remember some.

Foreigner, "Foreigner;" Eagles, "Hotel California," Queen, "Live Killers," and Styx, "Cornerstone."

Come September, I'll see two of those bands en concerto: Foreigner and Styx. I'm more looking forward to the latter.

Without a doubt, Styx was the last great "concept rock" band of the 70s. "The Grand Illusion," "Renegade," "Come Sail Away," all classic gems.

The band was ill-suited for the 80s, a little too deep and not quite cute enough, I suppose. They literally got laughed off the stage with their Mr. Roboto stage "play."

I think there were some reunion gigs with Dennis DeYoung in the years after. But according to the best "Behind the Music" VHI ever produced -- in my humble opinion -- DeYoung got some strange disease where he was allergic to light. I don't think he tours with them any more.

Anyway, going to see them, along with 3 3/4ths of the original Def Leppard. RAWK!

By the way, that record club? My dad called them up and told them I was only 12 years old. Never joined their stupid club. Kept the records, though.

RAWK!

Goodbye black tar

I think I give up. I need sugar and cream -- or milk -- in my coffee. And that's that.

I tried to be the total con-o-sewer and drink it black. I wanted to like the taste of coffee for what it is. It would streamline my morning, too, not having to fool around with granules, a gallon jug and a spoon.

Its coffee's own fault for getting watered down, though. It teases you into thinking it tastes good.

Stick your nose into a bag of cold, rich beans, and breathe in. Oh, sweet delight! But brew it, or french press it, or drip it, and it's a different story.

Speaking of marriage, my wife scowls at my half-finished mugs with the liquid sitting there, fermenting like motor oil, with hint of aluminum. Meanwhile, my credit card surges with Red Bull purchases.

I love my better half, by the way.

But I hate the bitterness of untreated java. I realize that now. When it gets cold, it's even worse. At least coffee that's been properly sweetened and creamified still tastes consumable when it's lukewarm.

So give me a coffee "regular," as they say in Noo Yawk, and call me a moe if you want. See that gleam in my eye? It's my tummy, giving you the finger.

American Hero Redefined

C to the H to the E to the S to the T to the NUT.

Eat your food! Eat it! EAT EAT EAT YAWM YAWM YAWM GAK ...

I'm lost, I'm lost... Find me!

By this blog it seems I live half my life in yesteryear. Anywho...

The good part:

A friend yesterday loaned me the first season of Land of the Lost on DVD. I realize only now what a profound impact it must have had on me as a kid.

It isn't Lidsville, Sigmund, or Pufnstuf. It's actually pretty dark ... and, in spite of the overacting, damn good. I had nightmares about being cornered by Sleestak in the Lost City. And now my kids are as hooked as I was. I mean they LOVE it.

The depressing part is this: There's a movie version coming out. It's described as a drama/COMEDY, starring Will Ferrell.

I admit it, the Brady Bunch Movie was campy and fun. But with all these old TV shows being rejiggered for the big screen, it makes the stuff I grew up with seem cheap, like a big joke. That's my fear.

Yeah, there was some bad acting in Land of the Lost. But it had good writers. And for a sci-fi kids show, it was pretty hardcore. Characters got badly hurt or slipped into other dimensions, and dinosaurs ate each other.

That being said, I'll probably like the remake... making this rant nothing of consequence. Where's my beer?

Father's Day

At the water park
you don't feel so out of shape
you eat fried foods
sit on damp grass
and play guess their age
after a certain time
we're all "old" anyway
we slow down and pick up fat and wrinkles and balding patterns and cankles
meanwhile
the real youth fly
through neon play equipment
collecting scabs and sunburns
in a haze of hot dog smoke
on to tomorrow

Freaking out at the imprinting thing...

My youngest is four months old, and he smiles. A lot.

What I want to know is, what the hell is he smiling at?

I make funny faces, funny sounds. Oo-ba-doo-bee. Shit like that. But what, specifically, makes the grin crack?

Is he copying my smile? Are my words and faces THAT pleasing to look at? Or is it my intent that elicits the response?

If parents never smiled, would their babies never smile, too?

Red Sweater

fiddles and cakes
bitches and flakes
a hand scrubbed hard
with lemon scented lard
in a kitchen with black and white tiles
and one red tile
Coca-cola signs over the sink
all retro and shit
dreaming of showtimes,
a man-sized girl
sitting in a thin steel chair
pasta slipped through the stovetop coils
burnt black
don't look back
eating alone
with a cat
still in her work clothes
jewelry on
she'll make the Disney dream fit

The Mind is a Terrible Thing to Taste

Welcome to the post that will get me labeled as a weak-willed whacko susceptible motivational crapspeak.

So I've been checking out the "how to succeed" book section at work. These are the kinds of books I've avoided since I first dabbled in them as a confused teen (I once wanted to be a cop, going so far as wearing a tan trenchcoat, a la Columbo), before opting for books for artistic enjoyment or facts.

A few years ago, as I was wrapping up my personal Year Of Hell, a friend's dad recommended that I read "Think and Grow Rich" by Napoleon Hill. It contained the key to life, he said. Read it. Know it. Live it. And you'll be OK.

I had never heard of Napoleon Hill. But my friend's dad was so adamant, I bought the book and forced myself to read 50 pages, until I felt ready to puke.

BOR-ING.

Fast forward a few years. I've now read the entire book and even listened to the audio version. I've also read J. Paul Getty's "How to Live Rich," Bob Proctor's "You Were Born Rich," and a few other sales/motivational tomes. Which is really funny when you think that, 20 years ago, I was sitting in my mom's house, mirthfully running my fingers through the 30 joints I had just rolled, giggling like Scrooge McDuck.

So why am I reading these things?

I don't know. But I know it has something to do with my way of thinking, and probably a bit about where I've been, where I am, and where I want to go.

What I'm learning from these books is that I haven't been preparing for success as much as I've been trying not to fail. For example, I used to say I was always motivated best by desperation. There certainly seems to be truth in this. Proctor, for example, teaches about creating vacuums by getting rid of things you don't want to make room for the things you do want, even if you don't have the money to buy them. You're actually acquiring the need.

Anyway, before, I had lots of confidence. But I was confident only in my ability to work hard, not to get ahead. When I had success, I was always just pleasantly surprised. Maybe I shouldn't be surprised. I should expect to reach my goals, and carry on as though I will.

Just thinking out loud here.

I realize a lot of these books are produced by self-promotional wingnuts who had little to sell but their own mouth. Hill is still a boring read, who goes a little overboard with his "master mind" and "power of sex transmutation" crap. But it's not all bullshit I suppose.

Good times, bad times

Good time, morning: Spent five minutes on "floor" time at the office and got a $1.9 million client.

Bad time, night: Took kids to see Shrek III at the drive-in. We were behind the last car that got in. We didn't get in. Cue three crying and confused kids.

Hey, at least I'm drinkin'.

She just put her foot in it

Wife, watching Dancing with the Stars, on Billy Ray Cyrus's routine: "That was very gay."

Marysa, 6: "What's gay?"

Wife: "Uh, it means he's very happy ... and purple-ly."

Wha-??

"Little Sweetie?" Looks like her head was impaled by a bike tire...

Definitely a no-smoking zone

My stepdaughter, bless her soul, loves helping out. Give her a task, she's on it. She's six, adorable, and smart as science.

Even when you don't give her a task, she's always on the lookout for something to do. Some way to contribute.

The other day she was in our front yard and saw a red watering can. "I'll feed the plants," I reckon she said to herself.

Feed the plants she did. With GASOLINE.

Thank heavens it's raining today...

Poem

like a troll
in a dusty hole
brushing one's skin
against the dirt
digging, digging
smells like tinder
and mold
there's no gold
just the aged
bones and ash
of lives that passed
before your own
in a dusty hole
digging, digging
like a troll

Monday, Monday

1:45 p.m.

Got out of interview with "strategic planning officer" of tech company, a lizardy sort who couldn't stop talking though his voice failed. Leaving the Hilton, heading toward Market Street. Hot. I take off the $5 wool sports coat I picked up from Goodwill and think about giving it to a homeless guy.

The bare bones of the situation: I have an hour to kill, I'm done with work for the day, I have no kids on me and it is Monday. I need a bar. But this is not the Market Street I knew in my teens. Between Powell and Montgomery, there are no places to drink. Just Puma shops and electronics stores.

Look down side streets, Swill had said. Look, look. Is that one? Closer... Looks a century old. Crusty tile floor, wooden booths painted brown. Empty, but there's a blonde at the end of the bar on her cell. Yes, we're open. Saved.

Cheapest beer per ounce? PBR. You know it.

I have no cash and there's a $10 minimum tab. But my friend is coming, I will make him, using a magical text message. He will drink.

The beer goes down like soda and the girl cranks up some Bowie. I fold my coat, pull out a notebook, and toss my cell on the brown counter top. It sticks. I smile.

I always feel a little bit fake after talking to people like the lizard man. Now, lifted by the souls of generations of drinkers, I'm starting to feel OK, even if I'm bound to fall asleep on BART later and miss my stop.

An hour later my friend is by my side. He's making me laugh something stupid. Or maybe I'm making myself laugh. I can't remember. Probably both.

Ah, Mondays...

(Turns out I stumbled into a San Francisco landmark. The House of Shields originally opened in 1908. Stanton Delaplane mentioned it at least once, in a story about old watering holes in The Chronicle more than 20 years ago. "Writers discover saloons by a kind of ESP. They get on a stool behind a glass of Heineken and they know they're home. The Wash. Sq. is that kind of place. So is the House of Shields...")

She's a bouncy little thing, isn't she?

I was trying to find out what happened to Kenneth Eng, the "Why I Hate Blacks" guy. It appears I'm not alone. Funny how you can set off a racial firestorm that involves everyone from the NAACP and the House Speaker, and then make the world go away by masturbating into your plushie doll collection.

What I did find, however, was an unedited version of the column, proving the fine folks at AsianWeek at least did some work on this piece. Ha ha.

The superior find, however, was the above video, which immediately transported me back to 1980. When you're 12, there's nothing better than watching Battle of the Network Stars and seeing your favorite TV stars kick the asses of your little sister's favorite TV stars. Except, that is, for Chachi, who, I admit, OWNED the obstacle course event -- and Howard Cosell's heart:

"A tremendous victory! Scott Baio, what a victory! C'mere! Top of the heap! King of the hill! 'A' number one! Scott Baio, what a performance!"

It's almost like Cosell wants to take that scruffy little Scott Baio home and nuzzle him cooingly, while brushing his cigar-stained fingers up and down his back. Step off, Joanie!

Nice, too, were the days when one could call one's female co-star a "bouncy little thing."

Ted Fang

Many years ago, I worked for a chain of newspapers ran by a guy named Ted Fang. It was the kind of place you went to when you were trying to get somewhere else but didn't have "clips." Among us J-school types, Fang -- the scion of a wealthy and politically connected John Fang family -- was a notorious cheap-o.

The newsroom equipment was crappy. The papers were pretty much advertising flyers, distributed free in San Francisco and San Mateo County. "Readers" got them whether they wanted them or not. We called them bird cage liners. The hard work of writers and editors were stretched as far as possible ... one person might be responsible for reporting, editing and laying out the entire editorial part of a paper, as well as doing the police blotter and putting together community announcements.

I got my clips. But I never once saw Fang show an interest in anything that was actually printed ... In fact I rarely saw him at all. The rumor was he was handed the family's publishing business to give him something to do, and that his true loves were comic books and clubbing. That's what I heard anyway.

Which makes the following a little funny to me, even if it isn't very funny at all.

Ted Fang's still in the business, and, among other things, "runs" AsianWeek, another free, crappy rag that parlays the Bay Area's huge Asian population into ad revenue. Thousands, possibly millions of Americans would never have heard of it -- IF Fang didn't hire a 23-year-old science fiction writer/columnist who began penning such gems like "Proof That Whites Inherently Hate Us" and "Why I Hate Blacks."

In the latter piece, published on Feb. 23, the author, Kenneth Eng, actually implores readers to discriminate against black people. No, it wasn't published a century ago ... not that it would make any more sense. It was published last week.

Cue shit hitting fan.

I could turn this into a rant about bad newspapers and the consequences of operating with little or no editorial oversight. Considering the general state of the newspaper industry, however, that would seem to be a waste of time. Sad, too, that AsianWeek probably employs people who might be embarrassed about what was happening, but needed the work. Who knows.

A small part of me, however, is grateful that Mr. Fang is finally getting exposed for being the bad publisher he is. In my experience, few deserve it more.

Ye Olde Dry Witch of Long Ago

He could tell he shouldn't have brought it up. She stopped chasing the baby and put her hands on her hips, mouth open like a caught fish. She used to seem so ... more than flesh and bone, less hollow. Now her lips traced a dry hole, as though when Bonnie was born, all the hope was gone and the moisture with it, until she creaked around the house like she was held together by rotten kindling. There wasn't enough water or skin cream to make it all go away -- those veins had sawdust in 'em. He knew he shouldn't have brought it up, see, because she was about to talk... and the bed and its cotton derby sheets where he could pretend to sleep were all the way on the other side of fuckin' house, and there was simply no way of getting there without feeling sheepish or stupid... anyway, YOU try it.

My latest creation

Sonny

Hernias!

Don't you love them.

Several things suck about hernias -- at least the inguinal kind, which I had:

1) Pervasive fear that intestines have slipped down into your nutsack and are crushing your nuts.

2) Pervasive fear that surgery means cutting into nerves heading toward your "fun zone" and that the surgeon may have been drinking the night before...

3) Pervasive PAIN following laproscopic bilateral hernia repair surgery. Vicodin notwithstanding. Can't do a single situp. Coughing hurts. Laughing hurts. Forget about lifting weights.

4) Because of 3), forced to walk like Fred Sanford. OK maybe not so bad. Fred had a pretty sweet pimp roll.

The benefits:

1) Self-medication. Taking two vicodin and chasing it with beer. A rare chance for us "straight" folks -- with kids -- to get ripped without guilt.

2) Well-wishers and sympathizers. A good friend called me up same day of the surgery to see how it went. Call me a sap, but I got teary eyed. No greater gift than just being cared about.

Jackie Earle Haley

He probably has no idea, but I've long held a weird, obsessive interest in the actor Jackie Earle Haley. He first made an imprint on me as as Kelly Leak, the smoking, motorcycle riding punk of the Bad News Bears movies. He was everything I wasn't: tough, independent, good at sports and able to tell adults to take a flying leap. He was also Tatum O'Neal's romantic interest, and I had a crush on Tatum as a kid and tomboys in general. Envy, envy, envy.

Jackie could act, too. In Bad News Bears in Breaking Training it was Kelly's conflicted relationship with his father hat gave the otherwise formulaic swearing-brat comedy some emotional depth. The scene where Kelly briefly tousles with the Texas ballplayers and sprints away in frustration is my favorite. If you ever reached that breaking point as an adolescent, and tried to run or hit something or scream as hard as you could, or did whatever it took to get IT out of you ... you could relate.

Haley was later in Breaking Away with Daniel Stern and Dennis Quaid, another brilliant film and another good role. But he's had some lean years since. Thankfully, he never whored himself out as some reality TV washup, like Emmanuel Lewis or Christopher Knight. After years of delivering pizzas and security guard-type jobs, he did OK for himself as a television commercial producer. This I found out through Wikipedia, where I ran Haley's name a year or two ago to see if he was still acting.

The guy finally got another at-bat in Hollywood last year. And damn did he swing for the fences.

Earlier this month Haley was nominated for an Oscar for a supporting role as a sex offender Ronnie McCorvey in the film Little Children. I hope he gets it. Yeah, I know child molesters are a hot film role these days. But I can't recall anybody who was nearly as good at being both creepy and sympathetic. An unforgettable character.

Bah

Years go by and I care less and less about the Holiday Season (C) all rights reserved. Broke the news to the family that I don't believe in "God." Who has time? I got three kids and they all need help with their homework and macaroni and cheese to eat.