Writer's Best Friend

I'm not a morning person, and I'm not one for kitschy mugs, but this combo does it for me. I avoided coffee for 30 years and just, basically, avoided mornings. I was in the theater and waited a lot of tables, so I spent over a decade never cultivating a healthy friendship with mornings. We avoided each other and spread a lot of nasty rumors about one another. But then on a writer's retreat down in Mexico, I complained about not having writing stamina-  I couldn't keep my pen up for longer than 2 hours. That's when a friend introduced me to the writer's best friend, coffee. It started with mochas, progressed to lattes, graduated to coffee with cream and sugar, and now has landed on coffee with milk. I guess the manly thing is all black, but we'll see about that. I get a lot more writing done and am even considering dedicating my book to caffeine, and now that I'm a teacher, coffee and I have become even better friends. I keep mouth wash in my desk, so I don't repeat the scarring I received from my seventh grade teacher with his coffee breath and algebra equations. And on top of that, I found this mug that says it all.

Chief and The Admiral

Much like rockstars have other names and personas (The Edge, Slim Shady, Lady Gaga), so do these guys. The guy on the left is called Chief and the guy on the right is The Admiral; he used to be called the General, but upgraded. Two years ago they embarked on a 26 destination Pacific Surf Odyssey (they only made it to two). The t-shirts called it the "Search for the Biggest Kahuna Surf Tour."  The forthcoming film documentary called them "insane, delusional, and mustachioed." These things were absolutely true about the tour: they drank Absynthe, they hula-hooped, they surfed double-overheads, and their wetsuits got mildewy and stank like the bottom of the sea. Even though there was a mortal shark attack last week on a California beach, these two continue to search for and ride epic waves (1-3 footers). Just yesterday, they realized a career dream of not only catching the same wave, but to reach out and clasp hands as they shredded in (seems easy, but actually quite difficult). Keep your eyes on this blog for the release of their documentary "Holding Hands in the Face of Wet Death."

Rusty Trap of Wondrous Doom

Nothing like a funky traveling carnival in a far off land. This was in a little town by the Caribbean Sea. The carnival assembled itself in the dark of the night, after the lightning-rod salesman scouted the perfect spot. The rides were sparse: a carousel, this rusted metal contraption, and an old bull. We paid our one-dollar to get our bright blue ticket for the ferris-wheel. Thing was, it wasn't really a ferris-wheel, it was more of a rusty trap of doom. The Panamanian carney locked us in the metal cage and started heaving our car round and round like a demented schoolyard bully. Then a kid, no older than 11, started up the motor and got the big wheel moving. It groaned and shook and spun at a velocity I didn't think was possible. The engine whined and we sucked in gasoline fumes as we smashed around inside our little sardine can- no restraining bar, no pads, just us tumbling around like shoes in a dryer. No way could this be legal in the States. We were laughing and trying not to die and laughing and trying not to vomit. No one else was in line, so that little kid just kept us spinning and spinning, while the carney smoked a cigar and whistled at the girls.

Martini Hangovers

When my mother graduated from college in the mid-60s, she took an ocean liner from New York City to London. It took two weeks, and every night there was a formal dinner with tuxedos and cocktail dresses, dancing to live ballroom music, and plenty of intrigue. She'd sleep off the martini hangover the next day, read on wooden deck chairs in the afternoon and then have dinner all over again. She has never forgotten the friends and couples she met on that trans-Atlantic voyage almost 50 years ago. The art of travel has changed and lost much of its class and patience. I went on my first cruise a few years ago, the Princess Cruise Line (The Love Boat!), and the company I brought along was great fun, but the boat was filled with tacky people in Gap shorts and flip-flops dancing to cheesy pop music and eating cafeteria food. Similarly, my mother just returned from a long train ride through scenic southern Canada. While the views were great, she said it felt like a long, cramped airplane ride with TV dinners and mini-bottles of cheap wine. Perhaps this is just what budget travel has become, or perhaps I see the old style of travel through a nostalgic lens, but boy, I'd love to spend two weeks at sea in my tuxedo, reading for long uninterrupted stretches, ballroom dancing to a live orchestra, and recovering from a martini hangover.

Half a Decade in the Making

It's been half a decade in the writing, but a first print of the rough cut is currently on its way to the Inspiration Conspiracy headquarters. It's got a million typos, plenty of stories that will never make it to the next cut, and way too many pages (736), but it's a complete first draft. It's been 5 years! I now understand why I hear that books often take a decade to write. Hopefully it will see the light of day soon, and be available to the friendly folks who are interested. Hopefully. It'll be good to have a solid copy in my hands.

Extraordinary Bombardiers

We thought it would be fun to go to the thrift store and buy outfits for a night out on the town. Each fashion ensemble had to be under ten dollars, that was the challenge. We were quite successful, it's San Francisco after all, and homeless, rock 'n' roll chic is everywhere, including the Salvation Army. After we suited up, the test was to be admitted into a ritzy cocktail lounge (Top of the Mark) with our discount duds. We told the bouncer, and everybody else too, that we were in a band called Apache Dream. We explained that we were quite indie, and that no one had heard of us... yet. We went on to explain that our new album, The Extraordinary Bombardiers was coming out the next day and we were celebrating. A group of suited VCs (venture capitalists) offered to buy us a drink. We said we should buy them all drinks, laughed (hoping they wouldn't take us up on our offer), and then accepted their free drinks. After two complimentary rounds (I drank Vespers because that's what James Bond drinks) we left our new admirers, saying we were off to a private listening party. They said they'd look out for Apache Dream. We said we would too, and made our exit. 

North Beach

North Beach has become my new favorite neighborhood in San Francisco. There's this two block section that has everything I need for a night out on the town. An evening starts out at Francis Coppola's Zoetrope Cafe with his spaghetti and meatballs and house red. Then things move across the street to Tosca Cafe for Vespers and a jukebox that only plays opera. Then a stumble across the street again to City Lights Bookstore for an intoxicated reading in the upstairs poetry room, and by reading I mean me reading my favorite parts of books aloud to my friends. Then halfway down the block to the new steampunk bar Comstock, where fellows with curly mustaches and ladies in corsets serve Absinthe cocktails. Then, finally, to the corner doughnut shop for a nightcap- a freshly cooked glazed confection and a small carton of milk. And the best part of North Beach is they paint signs all over to point you on your merry way (pictured above). This is particularly helpful after imbibing the Green Fairy.

Sexy Magazines

I love magazines! They are so full of hope and dreams. And sexiness. And information, too. I miss the magazine stands on every corner in NYC. I miss those stores in Manhattan that carry every magazine that ever existed and lets you buy weird European fashion ones for big prices like 25 Euros. Those stores don't exist that much in San Francisco. San Francisco seems to only sell magazines in the Safeway checkout aisle, except in this photo, taken at Booksmith on the Haight. Speaking of magazines, I once applied for this cool staff writing job at Nerve.com and they said they were looking for someone who could write highbrow and lowbrow and everywhere in-between. They said an ideal candidate had a subscription to both The New Yorker and Hustler. I didn't get the job, but I subscribe to a lot of magazines these days: The Week, Rolling Stone, New Yorker, Juxtapose, Inked, Outside, The Surfer's Path, and Middle School Digest. I'm thinking about getting a magazine rack for my living room so I can remedy San Francisco's magazine problem.

Glamping

I was recently accused of being a "Glamper". This came after I described a camping trip I had just gone on to a friend. This friend often camps in the land surrounding Yosemite National Park, hiking in his gear, miles and miles, with a high-end 19oz tent, freeze dried food, minus 120 degree sleeping bag. This is not what I do. I drive my camping "gear" in, and by "in" I mean into music and art festivals in the woods and deserts. I roll out Persian rugs, light Moroccan lanterns, string LED light ropes through my two-family tent from Target. I blow up a queen-sized mattress (with an electric pump), lay down 400 count sheets and goose down comforters. I put up shade structures, assemble four burner stoves, and sometimes bring out a dusty couch. I lug in a crate or two of costumes and make-up and chilled champagne. So no, I guess this isn't traditional camping. It's glam camping. All my friends do it. It's great fun, like bringing a traveling circus into the woods. We're Glampers.

A Good Sign

Many of my friends around me are starting to publish books. I take this as a good sign, as friends can only lift us higher. I think about groups of friends, collaborators, collectives, tribes, rising together, supporting each other, eventually "hitting it" together. Dustin Hoffman and Gene Hackman were roommates in NYC when nobody knew them. Hemingway and Fitzgerald were buddies during the lean struggling years in Paris. I firmly believe it's good to surround yourself with friends who are doing things or going places or becoming people you want to be. I'm in a writer's collective called the Non-Fiction Novelists. We all have great books brewing and some are starting to come out. We take group photos, with the thought that down the line, young writers will look at those photos and say, damn, they all knew each other and hung out back before they took over the literary world. As for now, when I see my friends' books in bookstores, I turn them to face outward to encourage other people to buy them, like in this photo. Jaimal's book about running away to Hawaii and finding surfing and Buddhism is great. If you find it in a bookstore, turn it out, or better yet, buy it. Jaimal is reading at San Francisco's LitQuake Festival this Monday night (10/4/10) as part of Words and Waves: An Evening of Surf Lit http://litquake.org/events/surf-lit

What does my Trader Joe's shopping cart say about me?

What does my Trader Joe's shopping cart say about me? I consulted my inner therapist and this is her analysis: "The large amount of pre-prepared meals indicates his continual denial, that heating up meals does not equate to cooking meals. The Indian and Mexican food points to an appreciation of travel and an understanding of the dreams and aspirations of foreign cultures (perhaps too, that he has a secret fetish for Vishnu Piñatas). The box of assorted dinner crackers reveals that he still feels like a hapless child, but desires to appear to be a sophisticated adult who knows how to entertain. The bottles of booze (Coppola's Cabernet, Jameson's Irish Whiskey, and cheap Prosecco) indicate he wants to be prepared for any celebratory drinking occasion, or perhaps on the other hand, that he is depressed. Finally, the bouquet of flowers, is a clear indication of the sunshine in his soul and that he thinks, he's worth it."

Hot Naked Groupies Not Allowed

A colleague of mine took me to a death metal concert the other day. Maybe I shouldn't say death metal, but it was heavy, and the lead singer  seemed to be channeling some combination of Satan and a gorilla (funny, cause in this picture I snapped, he's channeling a bit of Jesus).  As I sipped my expensive plastic cup of Scotch on the outside of the mosh pit, well, quite on the outside, in fact, not even close and way back by the roped-off disabled seating-- well, I pondered the band's name, Dir En Grey. I figured it had to be a literary reference to Dorian Gray, but the band was Japanese and seemed to only be grunting like simians. But I liked the idea of a bunch of Satan worshipping rockers quietly reading the classics of literature on their tour bus. I could picture a sign outside the bus that saying, "Hot Naked Groupies Not Allowed- This is a Quiet Place for Reading."

Poor Man's Speedball

This is my drug of choice. The street name is poor man's speedball. It's legal, for now at least. There are different methods to mix this drug. In this photo it's 16 fluid ounces coffee, cut with a few tablespoons of half-and-half. This is carefully ensconced in a 6mm, double enforced pint beaker and insulated with a cardboard hand-protector. The other beaker contains 16 fluid ounces of Stella Artois, chilled to 7 degrees celsius. Here's the trick that your average street dealer wouldn't know: the mixing of these substances does not occur in pyrex pitcher, no. The powerful narcotic is administered through the mouth, through alternating sips, and mixed in the stomach. The high comes on fairly quickly; it's a rushing-Zen, a speedy-calm, a passionate-relax, followed by a bathroom run. The PMS (not to be confused with the other one) is perfect for writing that first draft of a kick ass memoir, or grading student essays, or as I ended up doing tonight, playing pinball in a laundromat.

Apocalypse

Three years ago I had a bit of a family reunion up at the EarthDance Festival in Laytonville, California. It's kind of like a smaller Burning Man, but instead of methamphetamine Road Warriors on the moon, it's more like stoned wizards in the forest. Well late one night, while tromping through the brambles, I stumbled across the most charismatic and debauched bunch of carnival folk- a band called The Yard Dogs Road Show. It was steam punk, sword swallowing, burlesque, voodoo, sex and danger. The gang leader was this cat named Leighton Kelly- he of the skull rings, tattoos, striped socks, and yes, the curly mustache. I was mesmerized, and I abused my press pass to basically stalk this crew. In the year that followed, I got to throw sliced turkey around Juliette Lewis' dressing room, drink whiskey out of a shoe, and blow my nose on an American flag--all with these glorious hoodlums! Leighton even had me over to his house to take some old typewriters, clapboard suitcases, and finger-less gloves off his hands, because he had just returned from India and had the epiphany to "get rid of all my excess baggage!" Well long story short, he drew this cool picture of me (at the lovely Sonia's request). He's got this amazing blog that actually inspired this blog, and it features an original drawing a day and some hilarious musings. I cannot recommend it enough. Click back through the hundreds of drawings for inspiration overload. Here it is: http://dayone2012.tumblr.com/

Swamp Trailer

I thought it was cool back in the 90's when Sean Penn's house in the Hollywood Hills burned down and instead of rebuilding, he lived for a year in an Airstream trailer on his charred property. I thought it was even cooler when my dad bought a school bus (well, let's be honest, a short bus) and renovated the interior to be his new house, and then took us in it to Burning Man. But this thing, parked across from my front door, is another story. This trailer looks like it fell in a swamp, stayed there for a decade or so, and then was recently fished out. And some dude is living in there! I haven't seen him yet, but I see the light on at night. I imagine he's some sort of swamp thing, or a guy with no teeth named Cleatus, or maybe, he's an eccentric millionaire getting back to his Deliverance roots. It's ugly and blocking my view of the bums in the park. I'm paying a nutty amount of rent to look at this. Maybe I should stop paying rent, give in, and just move in with Cleatus. Maybe then, I can finish writing my book.

This dock makes me want to do things...

I have a magic camera that takes pictures of beautiful things and makes them even more beautiful. But a dock like this is beautiful even without my magic camera. Beautiful because of what this view conjures in your heart and mind. Well at least in my mind. It was nearing sunset and we were on Catalina Island and everything felt so pure again, so much so, that I wanted to take off my shoes, well all my clothes actually, and run full speed, launching into a cannonball at the end, sailing through the magical dusky air and kerplashing into the refreshing sea, gasping at the chill and the beauty and the purity. The two dudes at the end made me think twice, but the thought brought a smile to my spirit.

crotch-rocket

Harper rides a crotch-rocket. It's cherry red and currently sitting in my garage collecting dust. It's got a bad spark plug or something. Harper is thinking about trading it in for a car (maybe this one pictured here!). He often says, it's not a matter of "if", it's a matter of "when" in relation to laying it down. And by that he means skidding his body along pavement at an extreme speed. We often dream of being Evil Kanevil; Harper on his steel horse, me on my surfboard, but we're also getting older, and learning to find thrills without risking it all. I currently enjoy scrapbooking while drinking fine scotch, and Harper is "enjoying nice bicycle rides around Lake Merrit", while also drinking fine scotch.

Swinger

I like to think of myself as a swinger. But a bunch of foolios have tarnished that moniker, made it relate to hot-tubbin' in Marin and growing 80's mustaches and having "open relationships". That's not the kind of swinger I am. I go to county fairs and drop hard earned dollars at the ticket booth (or "booth-o boleto" in Mexico, where the carnivals are broken down and brilliant) and I ride the swings. It's a dying art form, but a noble one. I'm a swinger, and I'm taking back that word!

The General

I'm considering trading in the dented Mazda 323 for this two-wheeled General. But only if Sonia Q. wears cut-off shorts and calls me Luke. And only if my dad lets me call him Uncle Jesse. And Pasha lets me call him Rascoe. And Dr. Cahn lets me call him Enis. And Harper lets me call him Cooter. And, mostly, only if I can shoot flaming arrows at bad guys.

Siamese Dream

Well, the circus sideshow came through town. I paid to see the tiniest man and the bearded lady and I had a great time cracking jokes with the lobster boy, but the Siamese twins took my breath away. I offered to buy them a drink (two drinks that is) but these two beauties, connected since birth, wanted me to win them a black velvet Elvis in a game of skill and chance. After spending my paycheck trying to dart a balloon that never popped, they sent me off with this picture postcard (25 cents) and a kiss on the cheek- well both cheeks, that is.