John and Joan

North Texas State University, Denton, Texas, 1965: There were two girls named Patty. I loved each of them, at different times. The one called Pretty Patty eventually ran off with a guy named Gary; I lost track of them in Santa Fe.

The other was called Patty Cake, and on the eve of my 21st birthday, completely misinformed while I was away getting the beer, threw a fit and all my records onto the floor of my apartment, and so I stopped phoning her. When next I saw her, she was abashed, embarassed. I leaned over the table, looking into her eyes, and said softly, "You scamp," and she knew it was over between us.

But this was before all that, when life was still fresh and light-hearted. Now the deal was, there was John, and there was Joan. John was younger, because, being brilliant, he'd graduated high-school at sixteen, and now found himself editor of our college Literary Magazine.

Joan I no longer recall clearly, except that John showed us the marks she had made on his back, so I guess she had her points.

But the thing was, the two of them squabbled. Squabbilus, squabbelaste, squabbalorum. All the time. About anything. About nothing. Without regard to anyone present. Always, always, always. So annoying it was, to wade through this movable skirmish.

So Patty Cake and I, commiserating over wine, hatched a plan to cure them.

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The Musical Idiot

San Francisco, 1979: On Haight Street, the music store was originally called "Chickens that Sing Music." There Dave Harp offered a class called "Blues Harmonica for the Musical Idiot", and I signed up.

Dave used advanced technology: xeroxed lessons. I was impressed because, at my business, we'd thought ourselves thoroughly modern with a Gestetner mimeograph. So as to fit on one xerox sheet -- expensive, fifteen cents per page, those early copies -- he chopped the lesson up into different boxes, sometimes packed in sideways.

I still have these original xerox lessons, fading in a folder; Dave's gone on to create a publishing empire and lives in Vermont with his sweetheart and babies, and gives talks about meditation and music all around the country. But back then he taught Blues Harmonica.

One day, in my studio apartment, I'd heard the blues walking up the sidewalk, underneath my windows. Later, as it turned out, he hired the Thumbtack Bugle and we put his posters up. But I digress. Back to Chickens that Sing Music.

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Ode to the Drive-In Movie

Wichita Falls, Texas, 1961.

When a man is young, and has a car;
And lives at home, and loves afar,
Hooray for the Drive-In! There unseen,
In Winter's best, when windows steam.

Law 23 of Human Agreement

This is a simple law of nature, but one which is very handy:

A human will tend to resist any change about which he has not been consulted.

That's it.

Don't make changes -- no matter how beneficial -- which will affect another human, without first saying something like "I notice that your car is broken. I could fix it for you. Should I?". Exceptions? Sure. Buy your girl a diamond bracelet; probably things will work out. But generally, consult first, then change stuff. Everybody happy.

Even if you already know what you're going to do, ask them for ideas first. Even if, when consulted, they claim your desired change is a terrible idea, you will still get better acceptance if they've had a chance to say. (At the very least, they'll feel satisfied that they told you so!) Take it for a test drive; you'll see.

Knowing this important secret of the universe, go forth and prosper.

Bob's Typing Service

San Francisco, 1984: When I was married to Lori Ingram and Network Answering Service on Geary Boulevard, Lori's friend Allison moved from Southern California to start a typing business in our office suite.

This was because I'd told her how very easy she would find running her own business. Whereever you are today, dear Allison, I deeply apologise.

Typing. She found the typing part easy. Business. She found the business part difficult. Particularly, she just couldn't go up and down the street posting flyers, and she just couldn't make calls to solicit business. The tiny yellow-page ad brought some business, but she hated the monthly cost.

After a while she packed it up. That just left us. And, of course, Bob.

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Judy's Eyes

Wichita Falls, Texas. Fall 1971.

Today she told me lies
like ravens standing
on the brink of winter.

How to Pick Up Girls (Part 1)

Wichita Falls, Texas. Spring 1971. A bright idea pays off.

Havingness, noun, Your willingness, often automatic, to experience something in your life; how much you are 'having' of something, such as: love-life, money, nice apartment, etc.

From puberty to age 26, I had been incompetent in learning about women, and then one day it dawned upon me that this was something I could systematically learn. I'd learned other things; why not learn this?

So I did. I studied carefully, and then discovered that the Havingness Concept provides a key that makes it easy ...

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Band of Thieves

Shady Shores community, near Dallas Texas, 1964: Paul H. was the largest roommate, and visiting his girlfriend in Fort Worth, he drove that highway often. A large and quiet guy, when he returned that day, all excited, we knew something was up.

"What is it?" asked Hardy M., the art student, a rugged fellow of sour demeanor. Paul lowered his voice.

"It's a boat, with two big Evenrude motors," he said, "It's just sitting on a trailor beside the highway!"

My roommates, and myself, instantly became criminals.

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Carrie Street Station

St. Louis, Winter 1967. I was saving up my money, so I got two jobs.

Days: Yard clerk at the Rock Island Railroad.

Nights: Night Manager at the Hilton Inn.

With different days off, only three days had me working both jobs. At night from eleven, until seven in the morning, I ran the front desk at the Airport Hilton Inn. (Usually pretty quiet, except that time the Stones arrived). In the wee hours, I balanced the NCR 1600 bookeeping machine, and in the morning ...

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Sleeping On the Job

Shady Shores community, near Dallas, Texas, 1964: In college, my roommates and I lived on a lake, in a concrete-block house made from a garage, just behind the grand house of Mr. J. D. Lingo, who operated a Dallas heavy-equipment business. I don't know what that means, except that surely it involves large equipment.

Because my roommates found jobs as banquet waiters, I also applied at the Holiday Inn, and found myself a bellboy, and I also carried breakfast orders to the rooms. I became very proud of my skill in balancing the huge tray loaded with dishes and cups.

It was also fun to call in from the pool phone, on the busy summer days, and request Mrs. Heflin at the switchboard to page Mr. T. S. Elliot. She paged him again and again, but he never answered the page.

My life changed due to James, the cajun.

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Just Like a Real Person

San Anselmo: Adrienne is a very patient woman. This is good, for her patience is sometimes tried. By Tulip's barking, Percy's attacking her foot, my snoring. For example.

Sometimes she will say, "One of these days I'm going to have a real bedroom that's quiet, like a real person." For example.

I've been thinking about this real person ...

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The Thumbtack Bugle

San Francisco, 1976: You have dialed (415) 751-4022. A click, and one of those new answering machines begins speaking. It says ...

"Hello! You have reached the lejurious office of the Thumbtack Bugle, high atop Third Avenue. Right now, we're out on motorcycles, putting up posters all over town, but this machine would be as happy as a machine ever gets to take any short message you might care to leave. I'm now going to make a beeping sound by magic. Behold!"

And then a beeping sound. Another thrilling chapter of ...

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The Lesson of the Paper Bag

Today I found Adrienne laughing in the kitchen. "We're out of sacks for the trash," she said. I should add that we normally put the trash into large brown grocery-store bags.

"I got this one," she said, holding up a white plastic sack with a cute pink drawcord. "It's silly, though, because I saw one of these over at [somebody's] house, and looked all over to find one." She looked at me expectantly.

"So I see you found one?" I said.

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Late and Night and the Mind tends to Wonder

Ever get kind of goofy, because it's late?

Maybe you're reading a story, and you're sleepy but it pulls you onward. Your eyes ache, still you are reading on and on?

Why do we do that?

Life keeps Happening to Me!

My vision is impaired. Just recently, dark specks appeared before my eyes. Actually, only before one eye. Not the little odd things you sometimes see, dust motes floating, because when I blink they don't move. Inside the eye, then.

Good old Kaiser slid me into a 4:30 appointment with eyedrops and tests. Come to find out ...

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The Bicycle Thief

Wichita Falls, Texas. Fall, 1970: At 26 I returned to school. The philosophy professor, a thin-veneered communist, resembled Robert Redford's half-brother sired by John Denver, with round spectacles and curly blond hair.

The reading list covered the Chinese Revolution, and the Autobiography of Malcolm X. One day while blondie professor waxed poetic about the "beautiful street language" of Malcolm X, I pointed out that Malcolm hadn't written the book. Prof was stupified.

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Yo Mama!

Two Bird Cafe, San Geronimo, Mama Day, 2003:

From Tulip the dog and Percy the cat, my dear Adrienne got new sneaks yesterday, and a card today. There was a 37-cent stamp drawn on the envelope. They thought that would make the card look real classy.

Adrienne has breakfasted on Pannatone French Toast, here at Two Bird Cafe, at an outside table, in mottled sunlight through the willow. Tre sportif she is, in green pants and stylish pale yellow sweater. The air is crisp and clear. The waitrii are jumping, the place is packed.

In a moment, since nearby, we briefly visit the Celinas, where the children in jammies come to excite Tulip. Percy has not come with us, pleading a prior appointment with a patch of sun upon the deck.

Did you phone Mom today? If not, don't you wish you could?

I know I do.

Wrestling with the Angel of Hack

Searching a method permitting BlogBoys users to edit their AboutMe, I was hunting a php programmer. A Nucleus forum visitor pointed me toward a free script to do the job, and once downloaded and installed, it's great and it's terrible.

It's great because I can copy the script anywhere into html space, then browse there, and presto I can see inside most any folder on the server. In any folder world-writable, I can copy files, make links to files, delete files, edit files. Neat.

It's terrible because, if I can do it, anybody can do it. Getting into a previously 'secured' folder and stealing the credit-card number proved way easy. If I can't throttle this boy into acting with some restraint, he's outta here!

Derley Davis and the Dew Drop Inn

Henrietta, Texas, 1955. Before Marty Robbins, before Elvis, before Bill Haley and the Comets. I was 11.

Sometimes my classmates walked to lunch at the Dew Drop Inn. A holdover from the 30's, a rundown shack painted white with lots of small windows, on the main road, built when that main road sported wagons, and horses.

Dew Drop Inn. The name was painted vertically in black letters on the white posts holding a roof over ...

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Mutability, Linkage. Why Weblogging is here to stay.

It will cover the world within ten years. Why? It is, as they say, the killer ap. Why?

Discourse and logic is not ever proof, only a audio-visual aid so you can see it for yourself, as we do. So I'm skipping the logic, for now, to appeal to your own experience.

Remember when surfing the internet was new? When was that?

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Law 23 of Human Comprehension of Numbers

This is a simple law of nature, but one which is very handy:

A human can comprehend approximately two numbers.

That's it.

Don't ever offer a bunch of numbers to a human at the same time. Try to offer only two numbers at any one time. Feel like a wild, risk-taking kind of guy? OK, offer three numbers at a time. Beyond that? A waste of time.

Knowing this important secret of the universe, go forth and prosper.

Death and Phil Nimmo

Back in Henrietta Grade School (North Texas, 1950-1956), Phil Nimmo was a classmate. Lived on a farm to the west. His mom taught third grade and art. His whole family was quiet, and slightly rounded.

I stayed the night once, and was introduced to Ghost Rider comics, and the concept of using baking soda instead of toothpaste. I still remember the Ghost Rider story: while he (Ghost Rider) was unconscious, the bad guys bandaged up his head, but put a deadly tarantula inside the bandage. Later on, they were as surprised as I was when he was not dead. Come to find out, he had taken the spider out of the bandage. It was a relief to me, and I'll bet you're happy, too.

In later years, Phil Nimmo's mom died. I no longer recall how or why. An illness. And then in high school, one winter day I got a call, Phil's brother Lindsay had found his father; he'd died abed during the night. For some reason, hearing this news, it seemed vitally important to drive fast. Their farm was perhaps 7 miles out the highway. Many of my friends were there. Did we think we were a comfort to Phil Nimmo?

At some point, firewood was needed. I volunteered, then clumsily learned that chopping wood is not so easy. Phil Nimmo came out and said, "Let me do it." I protested. He said, "I want to." He made short work of it.

Years later, living in Dallas, I heard roundabout that Phil Nimmo now lived in Dallas. I located him and phoned. He seemed quite surprised to hear from me, and seemed displeased. He didn't quite know why I was calling. I can still feel it, but I can't exactly say why, either.

He thought he was a wit, and he was half right

Haw haw haw haw haw!

Just saw mpt, the weblog of Matthew Thomas. I don't know a thing about this guy -- though I might guess his middle name starts with 'P' -- but the articlse seem mighty fine to me. The stolen quote in my title is his. That makes me remember the time ... never mind.

It's probably time to figure out what traceback and blogrolling mean. Time to find my peerds, or is it my pears? Lotto clever writistas out there; some must be findable.

Burgs with the Boys

Around mid-day I met Joe and Dameon and M&G Burger where we dined sumptuously on burgers and fries. After this light repast, the boys adjourned to the local moviola parlor where we saw trailers for Hulk and Matrix, and our feature film for today, the X-men (2). I've not seen (1) but I suppose this is still (2), because Joe and Dameon have seen (1). Pathos and fighting and wierd jumping around all occured in mighty sequence, and a good time was had by all. That's today snooze.

It Is Not Reality

Lesson three. A blog is not reality. It is a construction. Why do birds make nests? Why does a man with a hammer walk around looking for nails sticking up? It is the nature of water to flow downhill.

Make sense? A blog is not reality. Instead ...

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The Synthesizer

East L.A. 1969: I lived in a house with roommates, one of which was a jazz musician named LaMont Johnson.

One night I had a peculiar dream: I was a musician in a space-age society, and gave a concert for a small auditorium of people, playing music by moving my hands inside a square 'grid'. The music must have been really good, because both myself and the audience just got caught up and we were all getting higher and higher and higher.

And somehow, we never came back. We just dropped those bodies. I woke up thinking I'd either been a stupendous musician or maybe an unusual mass murderer.

Over breakfast, I told my roommates about my peculiar dream. And LaMont said, "Such a thing exists. It's called a syn-the-sizer, and I know a guy who has one." We stared in amaze. He continued, "Would you like to go see it?"

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May Day

As expected, I met Tim W., the last known paid web designer in San Francisco, in Townsend Center hallway. I carried a blogging book; still studying, you see. He suggested to search out favorite blauthors. Good idea.

Sure enough, Jon E. almost escaped. Due to the enslaving nature of the cell phone, however, he was impelled to return, and I signed paperwork on May Day. New home for voicemail numbers coming soon. This will make me mobile. Or, as we say in our slogan from the Abe's SuperBudget VoiceMail brochures, "Freedom to Move!"