Category: Glot

Dreams, agonies, joyful reminiscence, reflections, delightful fantasies horrifying truths. All just words.

Migrated from a blog, or “glot”, if you will, that I wrote from 2004-2016.

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Glot

We Have It

We may just have it. I mean, we have it. The apartment. I have in my right jacket pocket a cashier’s check in the amount of $3680 and a contract signed by us, dated today. It’s going to happen. I’m going to live in this town, not just stay in it for an extended period.

A confluence of circumstances has led us to this occasion. This apartment isn’t perfect. Or rather, it’s not perfect for me. I won’t bother writing about the one we didn’t choose. We could’ve. I was persuaded, after Emily and Lynae persuaded me it was perfect for everyone. If this had come a couple days before or after it did, we wouldn’t have had it.

But we have it.

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Glot

Critiquing the Viewing of the Dwelling

There are a lot of apartments in this world. Some of them are livable. Lemme tell you what…

There’s a place in the Marina with bay windows and a couple of big bedrooms. Hardwood floors. Private entry. Nice Chinese landlady. View to the bay (just a little). Extra room, almost as big as the bedrooms. Dining room’s gigantic too.

There’s another place in the Mission, on a corner. Got a lot of character and some nice bedrooms, really sunny. Been painted a dozen or more times and we could do the same. Sliding door between the bedrooms. Lots of stuff in the neighborhood, markets and little stores and maybe a crazy-cool neighbor downstairs.

Both places cost the same. They’re both spacious and close enough to public transit. Awesome party houses, if that turned out to be our thing. There are four roommates and we’re split down the middle. Not two and two, but each one of us liking the both of them. We applied to one. The other gets put in tomorrow. How do you decide these things? A coin toss seems somehow inadequate. They’re both good.

Then again, the Mission one is in what some would call “el Barrio.” Those charming taquerias and markets and community parks might harbor gang-bangers at night. The paint is peeling outside and the common courtyard has stained asphalt and a half-dozen neighbor’s windows. Loud music bumped from the place next-door, and I’d assume more of the same. The guy downstairs could just as easily be crazy-crazy. Valencia, the cool street in the Mission, is way farther than I’d like it. I think it’s also possible there’s ten people living next door.

But in contrast, the Marina spot is as boring as a lobotomy. There are enough cool restaurants to shake a toothpick at. A flavorless, bland and splintered toothpick. Union street is close, at several blocks away, and has lots of charming… upscale shops. Every room is ample (and then some) save for the kitchen—which wraps around both the hot water heater and the recycling and the back door and indeed, despite it’s granite-osity, still manages to seem cramped and uninviting. Did I mention that this place is situated on the main highway? Yeah, that’s our doorstep.

I’m not sure if I told everyone who reads this yet: me and three others are currently seeking an apartment in San Francisco. We’ve been living together in a small room on the fifth floor of a hostel in the Financial District, one that now houses a total of six, and we really want to move out by April 1st.

We’re gonna get a cat.

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Glot

All Over the Internet

I haven’t been paying attention. The place changes so fast.

I find it is a healthy and normal internet activity to Google oneself™. While some might characterize this activity as self-indulgent and call it “ego-surfing,” those 21st-century web-savvy digitally-enabled electronically-mobile young semi-professionals amongst us… we know better. We’ve got enough stuff up on The Internet that the FBI doesn’t even have to ask us where we were four nights ago—we’ll tell them. I’d suppose, what with all this stuff lying around right here on this website, that I am counted among the no-privacy generation.

So I should really know (since I’m in charge of it) what about me is going up on the web. That’s half the idea of this glot-thing: to manage digital identity—all my junk in one pile. I was amused yesterday when a friend stumbled on an article about how to dump your travel partner that featured one of my Flickr photos. They’re all Creative Commons licensed, which means anyone can use ’em so long as they say who took ’em. Then today, for whatever reason, I decided instead of googling my name I would google my flickr name.

An article about a check-cashing place moving into a neighborhood. A post about natural selection and environment. A thought piece about “The Creator Economy” and Web 2.0. A German guy writing about American fireman and beer (I think). Many, many other things. Occasionally I’ll get an email asking for my consent to use a photo, or (since that’s not actually necessary) just a notice that someone has decided to use it. People make things out of my photos. Bloggers find them daily. I am all over the internet.

I’m not unthankful for such attention, however inattentive. This is a definite ego-boost for my ego-surfing as you could’ve guessed. It’s just that I had no idea how much I contributed. I’m not a photographer; I take photos. A long time ago, I used to touch up every photo I’d upload. Made sure each one had the right framing and adjusted the light levels. Used to work carefully on ’em. Thing is, I learned to trust my camera-hand. Framing is easy enough with a program like Flock. I still take out red-eye and sometimes play around a bit more. But by and large, I choose laissez-faire snapshot photography over the careful and deliberate shot.

What I’m saying is that I like that The Internet likes me. I just always thought, way in the back of my head, that there’d be time for perfecting things. Digital identity means what you contribute, you contribute instantaneously, no filter. Living freely on the internet where all your friends and family and old girlfriends and possible stalkers can see you has it’s disadvantages. But it can be fun from time to time (when you damn well catch up).

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Glot

things I can and cannot do without pants

  • I can open the desk at the hostel without pants, no problem.
  • Other people (other people who aren’t me) can’t even come downstairs without pants.
  • However, I still cannot cook salmon burgers naked and/or pants-free (waffers are still ok).
  • I can be in a mariachi band (in my imagination) with no pants, because that’s actually a funnier image than just being in a mariachi band.
  • I cannot be sworn in as the President of the United States without wearing pants. It sends the wrong message to the nation.
  • I can take a nice bath with absolutely no pants — it is, in fact, recommended.
  • Pants are encouraged for all trips to relatives house’s. Gramma has staunch morals.
  • I cannot take a driver’s test without pants, but I can help someone get to a driver’s test with no pants.
  • I could make mixed drinks with no pants if I were required.
  • In fact, I can delegate tasks effectively while managing multiple priorities, solve problems proactively in a dynamic environment, work well against deadlines, all without pants.
  • It is still not recommended to go to a job interview without pants.
  • Similarly, inspecting apartments without pants can be problematic. Think of the children.
  • I do a pretty good “Fuzzbottom McTickleface duke of Catchester” impression, if I am free of any pants I may or may not have worn.
  • I wear pants if it’s cold out. It has not been cold out.
  • For the record, it is perfectly fine to blog pantsless.
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Glot Smartglot

Specialized Civilization (and Clowns)

Let me become suddenly, emphatically clear on something: the pervasive specialization of human skills frightens me. Our civilization is endangered. Empirical knowledge compels me to think we have a fascinating, frightening condition called “Whole-Picture Anemia.”

In academia, one can major in increasingly specific subjects. The still-infectious ideal of scientific reductionism makes believe we can split things into smaller and smaller units. Until what? Until they all fit together and we understand how the watch was made. Hey, organizing into more complex forms worked for single-celled organisms, right? I read Future Shock. I’m not so sure it’ll work for us.

Doctors are a great example. Allow me to give an awful example of this example. Say you’re a dermatologist, and discover an unusual skin condition. It seems your patient’s top layer of skin is eroding, producing a mottled pattern over their body. While it doesn’t seem like it’s getting worse (and there’s no apparent bodily irritation), it’s interfering with his work as a children’s party entertainer a.k.a. clown. Let’s call this patient “the Mystery Clown.” Now I’m not a doctor, and I hate clowns. Clowns are scary old men who play with children (most clowns). But—bound by the hippocratic—you’ll treat him anyways. While it could be a lot of things, the only thing that works is having him wear gloves at night. Big polka-dotted clown gloves, let’s say. Problem solved (freaky excema and clown-shame aside, right?). On to the next doctor, his shrink, to whom he reports that he can no longer sleep at night. Hormones? They’re ok. Personal life? Same. No increased stress on the job? Nope, still a clown. Well, here’s some nappy-time pills. That works.sorrk..wko..rkr.wrso….s.k.rokrwossss… What’s this? My fingers are stuck to the keyboard? Hmm, that’s unusual. Seems this whole time the Mystery Clown had been handling children his hands had gotten so perilously and annoyingly sticky that he had to remove the child-goo by unconsciously scraping his skin off in the dead of night. That is one devoted clown—he loves at his work; it’s all he knows. He’d never admit his disgust by washing away all the friendly child-smells. Whoa, Mr. Shrink, you totally should have caught that “reverse OCD” thing. That and all the makeup still caked on, too. And wouldn’t he smell? As I said, this is the worst great example written. Take that, House.

I’ve lost my point. Clowns are still very disconcerting for me. Ah yes… I’d like to express my dislike for the idea of becoming a liver cell by age 30. Wait—lemme try again. The prospect of human beings becoming separated by unbridgeable esoteric chasms of knowledge is an alarming one. It seems to me that this thing called “the internet” could just be serving as a prosthetic to bridge the great divide.

Homo sapiens grew up in tribal groups, divvying roles out to who could do them. And we thrived! But can we really take biology meant for groups of about 200 (maybe) and use it in societies of, say, 300 million plus? It worries me that it doesn’t seem to be anyone’s job to oversee “the Big Picture,” and invigorate this damned anemia. I guess what I’m saying is that I’d like to be something greater than the sum of my part.

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Glot

Burned Out not a Burnout

I might be bored. I might be lazy. I could be frustrated or befuddled. Mostly, I think I might be burned out (and so young; I know).

But I’m hoping in this case for the specific. I’m hoping I mean the status quo. I’m hoping, because homeostasis is boring although the animal’s body seems to like it. I’ve been hanging out a couple of new places… Builder. Monster. List. They’re not that fun… not as fun as Hostel. But Hostel is getting old. I’m young; I said so myself. It’s my imperative to have more ambition than resources. The only ones I need anyways are my wits (not wit — even though having Woody Allen and Winston Churchill in one’s back pocket can come in handy).

Here’s what I’m trying to say: I want to quit working here, at this place that I love, sooner rather than later. Simple enough.

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Glot

Womb with a View

Home. Returning home. I want to return home.

That was me, four days ago. I’m back. I’ve returned from returning. I got stuff. New undies (manties), some chocolate, some booze, some womper speakers. I got a new book about San Francisco and writing. I got a mind to do a lot of things. One of ’em is to write.

So here I am, writing the wannabe sublime. I wonder how many of my friends and family realize that a blog is not really a window to the subconscious? Glot. Glot glot. Editing is for sissies.

My feeling about the hostel has undergone a shift. I understand why those who live here, live here shortly. It’s a great place. But it’s a place where space has to be constantly claimed and carved out, where one’s status is never in comfortable stasis. Even more so than the ever-arriving travellers, I understand this: one is judged by one’s actions—in the past week. It is exactly the same as when I came here more than three months ago. It should perhaps at this point be pointed out that the point of moving here was to find a job and settle somewhere. I applied to SFSU back awhile ago, but never finished the application… so I never went. Now here I am, living in the city of San Francisco but not quite of it, living in a limbo world where I greet the world’s visitor’s who take in the place in larger doses than I’ve had since too long ago.

Returning home brought me back into a place where my mere presence is appreciated. Being here again is like emerging from the womb again, cold and blinking and more than a little confused. It’s a different view. It’s something I need to think about more.

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Glot

Aqua Teen Huhwhat Force

Everyone is telling me about it. The instantaneously infamous Boston Aqua Teen LED Bomb Scare of ’07. No, I haven’t heard about it before. Wow, no really. No, I haven’t been reading “the blogs”. I understand it’s all over the internet. Yes, it’s pretty funny. What you people don’t understand is that although I have a lot of online presence and know a lot about a lot, I am not all over the internets like flies on butter. This may seem an unlikely and unusual state of existence, especially for those that knew me in college. Things change.

Let me explain something: I’m a longtime fan. Aqua Teen is made from distilled awesome. It’s one of the most original, hilarious, and culturally ingenious shows in production today. It’s gets bonus points for confusing the hell out of anyone over a certain age. Then take Homeland Security, which is of course one of the greatest dumb factories in current times. The supercollider built to smash these two together may one day obliterate us all when Jerry Springer is nominated to the Supreme Court. It is, by all contemporary definitions, a super-meme.

I don’t care. I don’t care. Why don’t I care? Lots of good reasons. Although on the internet, I am not of it. In real life I am in fact possessor of a rather convoluted and novel social life. I have come to favor this over previous pastimes—i.e. this computer. And while I’ve neither the time nor impetus to describe the IRL world further, I do feel satisfied asserting it’s existence.

Keep me updated about this bizarre Boston business. I’ll give you that special feeling you get from telling someone who should already know (but doesn’t).

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Glot

Free Bike

The best things in life are free? I’d like to agree. Free: friends. Free: bike rides. Free: sore butts.

I rode around the entire northern side of San Francisco today. Don’t ask what inspired me, because inspiration can be depressing. It cleared my head of all that. The pain in my limbs, and in the sudden cramp attack deep in my torso while I watched the sunset on Baker Beach, that clutching muscle-demon I won’t soon forget, was enough to rid me of many woes. Has a way of focusing the mind. Makes me realize a few things…

I’ve been seeking people’s approval too much. Consequentially, my voice has been higher, my words often unnecessary, my intentions confusing even to myself. There’s a balance there (or there should be). You should seek my good graces and I’ll try to find yours too. If I need to get something done it doesn’t matter if I’m gonna be spending 6 hours holed up on my computer to do it—I’m getting it done. It doesn’t matter if I’m not the most social being in the universe if I’m still myself—that’s enough. It doesn’t matter if my blog posts sound like LiveJournal entries—that’s how people keep in touch with me nowadays anyway. I’m free to do any of these things. More free than I thought.

Free things have always been a big draw to me. I’ve never liked paying for things, cause ironically enough it seems to cheapen them. Tiny reminders is the way you keep yourself. Little bike, big town.

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Glot

The Nature of Frustration

It’s kind of a tangled ball of string that you have to pluck delicately painstakingly apart; a string that unravels your favorite shirt; a string that trips you in the dark; a string stretched taut between the limits of your patience; the same string scraped by the 10 year-old violinist torturing their parents; it’s a string that makes no sense; a string that defies the reality of the universe.

Much as I’d like to be speaking at length on the failures of string theory in the past 20 years—which I can’t—I’m not. I think instead another list is called for.

Callouts:

  • Planned Parenthood: If you’re gonna try to bill me for things that you said were free, have the balls to call me back. We can have a discussion like civilized people/organizations. Just because you misrepresented information and didn’t ever contact me after my appointment, like the bad one-night stand that I never had, doesn’t mean we can’t be civil. Step off.
  • CSUMB Administration & Records: Please mail my transcripts to me. Please do it now, not when you feel like it. This is important, cause otherwise I don’t go to SF State on the 24th. And you don’t get to continue not stepping off. Step off.
  • S.F.P.D. Meter Maid Task Force: You need to call me back too. And then we can discuss under what circumstances, exactly, free parking isn’t free. Steppoff.
  • My Computer: Houda, you heard me, that was totally uncalled for the other day. Getting unplugged and losing all my work was out of line. You made the list, nowsssstephoff.
  • Email Spammer Using my Domain: I’m just gonna tell you up front, and we’ll keep this simple: you need to DIE. Step off da face of da Urf.

OHthatFEELSgood—out, damned string.