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Glot-glot

Restructure

I just created a new category, “Smartglot,” for all the thought-piece writings that I tend to be proud about and that tend to be forgotten. Also, it gives me more of an excuse to write throwaway posts about junk that’s happening at the moment. Just saying. There’s also the semantic and also highly unimportant addition of the Stuff-n-Glot category, which is broken down into audio and video/pictures. I was also try to install a word-meter that will show the amount of words written since a certain date (no reason here given for such an addition) but that has yet to be worked out. Thanks, ProgressFly—how many fields do you want in your table, anyways? Why must I ask casual readers in SQL jargon? Wouldn’t it be better simply to ask on a proper forum?

As they say, Content is King. Maybe tomorrow I’ll actually have some of that. But really, who says that but douchebags? I’m not gonna say that. Come back tomorrow.

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Glot

A Non-Novel Experience

I’m sad, because there’s not a chance in hell for me to accomplish something I wanted to do. Mostly we all know what that is, it being November 30th and all. Yeah. I don’t have a book, and so for the second year running I have failed at National Novel writing month. I don’t have even close to the 25,000 that I scaled back to. I have about an eighth of that. The question I kept being asked during November, and which I find myself asking even now, is why? Why do I want to write a book in the first place?

Well, I didn’t, dummy. That’s the whole point of putting it on a blog, is that it’s not a book. It’s just a steady output. It’s a constant stream of writing, that, while perhaps over-effluent at times and perhaps a tad indulgently repetitive, et cetera, et cetera, it’s writing. And I remember enjoying writing.

I remember that when I was in eighth grade I joined “Writer’s Circle.” It was a bunch of geeks who got together every Friday… in a circle… and read stuff they had written. It’s how I met one of my best friends, Lauren. It’s when I wrote my first full-length story, and where I got some of these weird ideas in my head that still stick around there even though they’ve never been justified—like that one shouldn’t repeat nouns, adjectives, or non-common verbs within a 1-page radius, and that the sentence structure should alternate. Like this. Short, long, short, long, personal, non-personal, object-based, perceptive, non-personal, personal, et cetera. Et cetera. Et cetera. And it’s where the very beginnings of what I now generally think of as “flair” started: little stylistic, randomly emergent oddities that occur as the writing turns in on itself. Like this one. It brought about my writer’s philosophy, so to speak.

This experiment was just something to try to walk further down that path. Like the fair-weather flagellant that I am, most likely I’ll come back next year with high hopes. I’ll do the same thing. I’ll make compromises and I might not meet them. Probably won’t. And I’ll make the same apologies to myself. I might start in October just to cheat, like some I know who actually made it… I’m looking at you, Miss 60,000. I’ll do it all over. I’m not that sad about it, anymore. Better to have dreams and not attain them then to not have dreams at all.

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Glot

Nothing Works and Everything is Broken

It’s a favorite saying of mine:

Nothing works and everything’s broken.

Lost Keys The funny thing is, it’s one of those things that we may say because it sure feels like the truth, even if it isn’t true, and then it more or less happens. Let’s get to specifics, cause the specifics will allow me to vent. I have to fix all this stuff. My ladyfriend’s desktop computer is broken. The hard drive shorted out and I’ve been recovering data since. Her laptop has this funny thing where it’ll overheat if it’s not turned upside down or vented every once in a while. Both fans are ok, according to her uncle who bought the stooopid thing. My computer has a hard drive that randomly disconnects, every couple weeks or so, and must have its IDE cable detached then reattached. This involves opening the case and finding the particular drive. That’s always fun. Today, my iPod wouldn’t work. None of the programs was recognized as a “valid Win32 application.” And all that was caused by one file, one file that was improperly copied and so left an unfinished bit dangling off the end, causing Windows to ceaselessly, uselessly read the damned bit. Fucker.

Decorating SuppliesEnough techno-talk. What am I saying here?

You know, they always say people die in threes. Like, three famous scientists will all pass away within a couple of weeks, and maybe a couple months later three famous television personalities will die—one of a heart attack, one of old age, and one from a freak accident involving a blender and a foreign voltage outlet? These things seem to happen a lot. Of course, it’s probably just a perceptual fallacy. Human beings are pattern-seekers. It makes sense in our evolution that we should discover patterns in nature so we can predict and exploit them. Hence, the “laws” of physics. Dependable things those are. Trouble is we tend to seek patterns in everything, even those place where there are no patterns: like the letter pi. And then we go crazy.

Hopefully the computers are just circumstantially entropic. They are complicated systems. Complicated systems tend to gather more entropy as they have flaunted so far in becoming as complex as they are. Entropy: the Grim Reaper dressed like an accountant. And who likes an accountant, really? Not me.

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Glot

Blue Hair Glot Post

Dyed hair is pretty awesome. Praise.
Hair dying is kind of difficult and somewhat annoying. Caveat.

Hair color, especially non-natural shades (like blue), has a certain effect on people that’s quite enjoyable, for me in particular—and so it’s totally worth it. Explanation.

Hair, hair like mine, seems to always be a subject people want to talk about. Don’t ask me why. I’m not a hair freak. It could be said, and has, that I am a hairy freak (but that is an altogether different subject). My roommate is a hairdresser. Sometimes, my roommate likes to ramble about my hair. How manageable it is, how no matter the length it seems to keep a definite shape, how thick it is despite my lack of a rigorous conditioning routine. It’s wavy. I never knew it was wavy until I grew it out as a teenager. This is, apparently, fascinating. Not just to her, but to everyone who wants to talk about my hair. Exposition.

Many ask why I did it. And this I say to them: I wanted to do it before I died. I’d never done it before. I think blue’s a good color on me. I was tired of looking the same. Brown wasn’t really my style. People thought I was weirder than I appeared and so I decided to run with the stereotype. San Francisco demands that if you live there, you have some sorta self-evident self-expression on your-self. That’s all. To be fair, about two people have asked. Reasoning.

I really like finding out people’s reactions. See, in my entire life I’ve never done anything to my hair more than pull it back with a hairband when it was long and I looked like Jesus. Sometimes, summers of my youth, my hair would lighten in the sun. Just the very tips of the front. Other than that, a pan-European brown is what I’ve lived with since before I can remember. My family is surprisingly cool with the bluish-greenish welter that is my head. I guess they were expecting something like this since I was a teenager. Late bloomer, I suppose. The reaction from strangers has been even better… Development.

“Like the hair.”
“Oh, thanks. My girlfriend did it. By putting my head in the toilet.”
“Man, that’s a great color. Matches the shirt.”
“Oh yeah! I knew there was a reason I wore clothes today.”
“Whoa dude, your hair is BLUE!”
“Oh my great… When did that… it must have been that Gypsy I cut off in traffic the other day!”
Examples.

(Note: I have never, nor will I ever, cut off a Gypsy. Not only because I admire their culture, music, and people, but also because that’s just a bad idea and if they wanted to those people could curse your ass for good and you’d have to rescue an orphan with HIVs from a burning building that also served as a detention center during WWII or something. Parenthetical statement.)

I like my blue hair. Conclusion.
Wide-Eyed Not Surprise

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Glot

These Are the Graffiti in My Neighborhood

Mission District, San Francisco (by Soaked In Sin)It’s hard to write about one’s urge to make graffiti and do it in a non-incriminating manner. So what the hell; I won’t.

It calls to me. I have a roll of sticker labels, and a neighborhood crawling with/calling for graffiti. Funny story, there. Lynae tells me this: there’s a guy, one guy, who, after getting off his work in the afternoon, drives around the Mission noting all the graffiti he sees. He then gives his list to a Graffiti Task Force Officer (or whatever they’re called), whom I shall henceforth refer to as GTFO. This GTFO takes the list, looks up each property owner, and tapes up the neighborhood equivalent of a Cease and Desist letter to their building. The guy who drives around has gotten so popular there’s even graffiti of him (pictured at right). Going into Surgery on the Streets (by Orin Optiglot)Nice touch, huh?

Here’s another funny thing: the definition of graffiti, as stated on the GTFO letter, is that it’s non-consensual. Without consent of the property owner, that which is painted, affixed, engraved, assembled, or sautéed in garlic butter with minced figs and within the public viewpoint is considered graffiti. It then becomes the responsibility of the property owner to get rid of it within 30 days. Here’s an odd observation, property owners: why not just say yes? If graffiti is stuff on your stuff without permission, give permission for your stuff. No more paint to buy—and no more frustration when the damned things got more scrawl on it the next morning. I’m just saying.

I’m just saying that if more stuff starts showing up that actually comments on the existing graffiti, don’t be surprised. If you’re not part of the problem you’re part of the solution. Or something.

By the way, anybody besides my dad even notice that I haven’t really come close to my goal of 25,000 words this month? Anyone?

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Glot

A Review of the Marin Headlands

Sure, they’re in Marin. That’s kind of a strike against them from the perspective of a cool young San Franciscan irked by Bridge-and-Tunnel infiltration into my own neighborhood, like Medjool. But what the hell, if they’re invading I might as well invade them back. No hard feelings.

It’s not so far a drive. You go through a little gorge and then a littler tunnel, a ONE WAY tunnel which has a 5-minute wait (or so the sign says… more like three, so hold your horns). Then you emerge into the oddest micro-community this this side of the Golden Gate. Well, the oddest I can dredge from recent memory anyways. Deers rest on front lawns, children’s swings hang from ancient branches, and all the houses are identical military-issue shape, size, and color. Past that you will of course miss your turnoff down McCollough Road to do the scenic route and end up at the Visitor’s Center. Nice place, but not sure I’d wanna live there. It was here I realized they’d converted an old Army church; I’d been here before, in this exact same building. But when I was in it before it was on old Fort Ord, and it was totally abandoned. Can’t say which I liked more. Like the idea, though.

Then we got on with the part we came for… back down McCollough Road and onward to some awesome views and more old things. Views were good. Old things coulda been better. Open ’em up, people! They’re not as dangerous as the building inspectors tell you they are. It’s just a little rust. And a little shrapnel. Unexploded ordinance? Is there unexploded ordinance? You might wanna take care of that. I hear there’s a couple leftover nuclear missile silos somewhere around here, and that’s acceptable. Just chuck all the bad stuff in there and light the whole thing. Or, at the very least, let grownups like me sign a waiver or something saying “I promise not to sue the National Park Service if I can’t find my left arm after exploring your park, etc. etc.” I can deal with that. It’s an annoyance having everything… well, most everything locked up. Didja know that the trail to Point Bonita lighthouse is closed a lotta the time? Yup. Big sign saying “Trail Closed” and a wide open trail just beyond it. Doesn’t matter. There’s more stuff to see.

Like the Marin Headlands hostel! Woo! I didn’t really see it; I just drove by. It looks lovely though. There’s lots of deer, of which there are lots. No, seriously—they outnumber you. Do not anger them, for they are legion. Hanging around bends and cliffs in some places are a couple lovely picnic areas overlooking a cornucopia of San Francisco skyline. However, the beach was calling. Moreso, sunset was calling since we didn’t actually drive in until after 1:00pm. Nice beach, not crowded but well-endowed with beachgoers, plenty of parking and plenty clean. Can’t really say as we didn’t go out as far as Bird Island. Did you know that birds poop there? Well they do. And I suppose they’d make for some pretty good pictures, but I was too busy taking pictures of someone trying to do cartwheels in the fine sand:


The Best Worst Cartwheel Ever from Orin Zebest on Vimeo.

Then I made a zen garden:

Zen Garden on Flickr

It was a nice day. A nice anniversi-day. Yes, today marks one year that I’ve known Ms. Lynae Straw, lady-friend of mine. Maybe talk about that later.

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Glot

Managing Expectations

Pause. Uh, backtrack. 50,000 is too much. I’m way too busy to write a “novel” novel, you know? So let’s not do that. Making up my own rules, and with full knowledge that I’m able to edit this post at any time, I hereby commit to half-ass Nanowrimo. 25,000 words, 833 a day. At least one post a day. That sounds right, right? I don’t want to be a burden. I mean, I’m doing this for the readers since I know that most of you, also, lead busy lives of excitement and intrigue and working a lot. Let’s just say I have a lot to say. And at least for this month I shall rely on my gift for conciseness.

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Glot

Reasons to Be Zebest

It’s a great name. You might not think so now, but you will. It’s silly. Not everyone gets it. That’s part of why I like it. The other parts, of which there are many, are equally great.

It’s a superlative. Ok, everyone should get it at this point. “Orin is the best” … “Orin’s the best” … “Orinz-tha-best” … “Orin Zebest.” Get it? I’m receiving a compliment everytime someone says my name, albeit a back-patting, tongue-in-cheek, fake-it-till-you-make-it, aww-you-really-mean-it? kind of way.

It’s short. It’s memorable. Zebest: six letters. La Londe-Berg: eleven letters, one dash, one space. It’s pleasing in that manner; “Orin Robertjohn Zebest” is seven syllables of twenty letters, and omitting the middle name it’s ten letters. My initials, with the name change, would be O.R.Z. I like that the last name begins with a Z. Somehow having it near the end makes it more special—save Zebest for last. “Save Zebest for…” get it? Ha! There’s lots of neat little sayings one can make:

  • Cross your fingers and hope for Zebest.
  • Zebest of both worlds.
  • “It was Zebest of times, it was zeworst of times…”
  • “Zebest laid plans of mice and men.”
  • Put Zebest foot forward.
  • Zebest things in life are free.
  • Honesty is Zebest’s policy.
  • Zebest is yet to come!

See? And I like that. I don’t mind that it’s weird. Half the purpose is for the name to be a little out of the ordinary. Not that “La Londe-Berg” isn’t exactly unique. Lots of people change their names, especially in San Francisco it seems. I met a guy named Aaron Ximm the other day, and he told me that he changed his name when he got married (not a bad idea considering the confusion that a combined last name would cause if it belongs to only one of those combined). The name XIMM is actually Roman numerals for October 1st, 2000, Aaron’s wedding anniversary. And, since it was my girlfriend Lynae who came up with the idea anyways, and she’s said in the past that she’d be fine with being known as “Lynae Zebest,” well… umm, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. So right now the only thing to consider is how I’d like to go about it, and I would like to go about it.

You hear me? I know it’s a silly name. It’s not silly to want it, though. Future employers, friends, family, other… I appreciate your input. But don’t try to change my mind, thanks. I’ll close with a (paraphrased) quote:

Zebest ideas come as jokes. Make your thinking as funny as possible.

-David M. Ogilvy

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Glot

Public Perception

There’s always been the idea that this thing should be fun. Hasn’t there? Whether that thing is life, art, writing, blogging, or this very blog post here you may be about to read. It should be playful.

And why is that? It’s not written in stone (technically this is written in pixels, or database tables, or binary digits, depending on how you look at it—but that’s just a pointless aside meant to add more words to my monthly word count—doesn’t it though). I could write boring if I wanted to. I could. Watch me… I’m using short simple sentences with basic words and minimal punctuation. This voice is very factual and the voice seems officious and clear, if not brusque. Whether I intend it or not, the style portrays the speaker as having more authority even if there is little if no real information attached and no claims are actually made. Sometimes those reading may not even notice the change. It is the kind of voice people might respect as a superior. This also applies in business, obviously. Dunnit sound good ‘n’ convincing? Oops… knew that couldn’t last.

But then again I spose it shouldn’t. That’s my opinion ‘course, but it doesn’t sound like me and it doesn’t fit the medium. I blame my upbringing. All my parents ever did was teach me that it was important to be happy and learn and do things I liked, and be respectful and interested in other people. Pfft. It’s not my fault if I also apply that to whatever this web-log-thing is.

I guess that’s kinda the problem. See, I care what other people think of me. I know, I know… hard to believe but it’s true. You all know that my parents read this thing? Yeah, they’re my #1 commenters. So there’s some things that, I can politely say, I know they’d rather not know about. But I might need to write about them anyways. What to do? Well, obey Flower the Skunk’s Rule of Courtesy …c’mon. Flower the Skunk? Bambi? Ok, I’ll spell it out: “if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” That goes for everyone, myself included. I’m not gonna say anything mean and I won’t say too much about all the illegal activities I’m planning on participating in (for obvious reasons). I’ll just be myself.

And I’ll try not worry too much about whether the writing “measures up” to the standards of GLΘT-itude.

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Glot

My Nanowrimo

I figured out how to do it.

I’m not a novelist. Well, I’m not one right now. I don’t have the organization, I don’t have the consistency of focus, I have too much cool stuff to do and not enough time to do more than half of it. Can I tell you about my life right now?

I do lots of things. Recurring things like the Dr. Hal Show, like Bad Movie Night, like events put on Chicken John, or Kinky Salon, or CSC, or the Cacophony Society, or the parties of friends. I write lots of stories and I post lots of pictures of the places I’ve been and things I’ve done. That takes up enough time. Then I go on roadtrips or clean up the backyard or buy stuff or perform a dozen other productive-lifestyle like things. Is one still a weekend warrior if one never has weekends off? Then I design websites. I practice Spanish. I read cool blogs. I do the things I want to and by and large I want to do the things I like.

Where do ya see the Great American Novel in all of this? I don’t. Last year, I decided I had a story to tell. And old story, a true story, a complex and interesting story from my own life story going through middle school in a faux-magic pre-Rowling semi-LARPer reality-fanfic microculture. It woulda been interesting. Living my life interceded and I never got beyond my one page of story and seven pages of notes. Seven pages of beautifully thoughtful, detailed notes.

Not this year. This year I take a different tack—why not write as I do anyways, here on my public blog glot? If that’s not good enough (which it’s not) I need to up the ante. What’s 50,000 words? That’s… 1,666.6 words a day. Wow, that seems like a lot. I’m gonna need to set up a counter. And I’m gonna need to blog every day. See what we got already… 333?! Man, I’m only 1/5 there! For one day! Well, I think I served my purpose nonetheless in announcing it. One last thing is required: a pledge.

I promise, for the next thirty days, the month of November 2007, C.E., to participate in Nanowrimo by writing daily posts on my public website (this one), toward the goal of completing Nano’s 50,000 word target, and heretofore shall not engage in ridiculous and repetitive repetition of words or word phrases, to the effect that they shall lengthen the length of my posted posts, or otherwise engage in raffish or disregardful writing which is not of “publishable” quality, nor shall I copy and paste IM conversations, run vast backlogs of Twitter tweets, or, for that matter, put forth any generally unreadable and un-paragraphical tripe, nor forget the audience entirely and engage in stream-of-consciousness narrative monologist activity, and will someday make that appointment for the optometrist like I’ve been hoping to, and shall to the greatest degree probable fulfill this promise to the greatest degree that I want to.

There you have it. Around 500 words, and most of them actual words. Expect more of the same, folks.