Carbon Paper

A good many young writers make the mistake of enclosing a stamped, self-addressed envelope, big enough for the manuscript to come back in. This is too much of a temptation to the editor. -- Ring Lardner

Mount Shasta, March 25, 2004: This morning Adrienne told me she learned, in journalism classes, not to send a stamped, self-addressed envelope. She went on to say that beginners think their work is so precious that someone might steal it, but, she says, any thief could just make a xerox copy.

I had to argue, of course.

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Cosmic Dance

Mount Shasta, May 20, 2004: This morning over coffee, Adrienne told me about how Chakras get clogged up with bad events, and I told her how Dianetic auditing is said to clear up clogged events. We came to agree that Dianetics was really Chakra theory, which will amaze and alarm any student of either Chakras or Dianetics, but it's swell for Adrienne and me. To agree, I mean, if you follow me.

We then discussed the upcoming dog park in Mount Shasta, and Adrienne had made a collections jar that she took to the Pet Wash, and she said it was an "apocrothary" jar. I said "apothocary." She corrected herself. I said it was no problem, and that such mispronunciation just showed the moo treening of a munctioning find.

So the morning was off to a great start, and the coffee pretty good.

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Larry's Last Gig

San Francisco, July 14, 1993: Today being 'Bastille Day', the French National Holiday, I was hired to play a gig at a French Restaurant on Polk Street. Wearing my tuxedo, with my tapping instrument and amplifier, I was wedged into a small niche near the door, and the wine was flowing freely as the evening progressed.

I'm playing my usual blend of Beatles, Bossa Nova, and Standards, when a fellow came up, introduced himself as Tom Bullock, and said he'd been a keyboard player. Over his wineglass, he started telling me about himself and his buddy Larry, a horn player.

As a nominee for 'The Gig from Hell,' I think it merits attention. Here then is the sad, sad story of Larry's last gig ...

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Who Goes There?

Two monks argued about the temple flag waving in the wind. One said, "The flag moves."

The other said, "The wind moves."

They argued back and forth but could not agree.

Hui-neng, the sixth Patriarch, said: "Gentlemen! It is not the flag that moves. It is not the wind that moves. It is your mind that moves."

Very Strong Auditor

Westbury Hotel, San Francisco, 1974: When my mother lost money in the stock market, it became difficult for her to continue sending funds for San Francisco State.

Fine with me. I'd found the courses in Creative Writing both helped and interfered with my writing, so I dropped out, found the Apartment from Hell, and located a job as part-time night auditor at the Westbury Hotel, downtown just off Union Square.

Thirty stories of steel and glass above us, and in the lobby late at night I'd think, "What if the earthquake comes now?"

Showing me the audit, was the regular night auditor, Henry So.

He had a peculiar habit.

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On This Day: California in 1850

What happened this week back in 1850?

California became a state.
The state had no electricity.
The state had no money.
Almost everyone spoke Spanish.
There were gun fights in the streets.

So basically, it was much like California today, only the women had real breasts.

Buddha Next Door

495 Third Avenue #8, San Francisco, 1975: Reading a lot of metaphysical books, I studied astral projection and conscious dreaming. Success was limited, but on this particular night the dream-like experience was clear.

I was lying down and deeply relaxing, in the evening, and mentally I left my body. I rose and floated outside, finding myself now walking the sidewalk. In this vision, it was daytime, and in crossing the street, I found myself wading through a heaving mass of alligators.

When I made it across the street, there was something odd about the door of the house on the corner.

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A Photograph of the Past

St. Loup de Varennes, France, 1826: Mr. Joseph Nicephore Niepce (Nee'-sah-for Nee'-yeps) has made a photograph: the view from an upstairs window.

Discovered in a trunk in 1952, the photo now resides in an airtight case at the University of Texas. The six inch by eight inch image is believed to be the first photograph ever made.

You are, right now, looking out a window into the year 1826.

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A Photograph of the Future

Denton, Texas, Winter 1964: Living in my one-room cool apartment at 1308 1/2 West Hickory, across from the English Building, somewhere, somehow I came across a book of photographs about San Francisco.

Taken in the Beatnik heyday, late 50's, the photos show chinese children playing hide-and-seek up and down the narrow, hilly streets, show the intellectuals drinking espresso in stark coffeehouses, show women dressed as models shopping grandly, and much more.

Lefevre and I had visited San Francisco while returning from the Seattle World's Fair in Summer two years ago when I graduated high school. My senior year in study hall, I'd read about the fair in Life Magazine. Then, in San Francisco, I'd become enamored of the beautiful Victorians, the views, the exotic sights of Chinatown and Little Italy, oops I mean North Beach. So this photograph book reminds me of the strangeness and the beauty.

And, oddly, one of the photographs shows my apartment, where I will live ten years from now.

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Emily's Hot Tubs

San Francisco, 1976: On Geary Boulevard not far from my apartment, you could see the sign: Emily's Hot Tubs, Sauna, and Massage.

At that time, I'd placed my Yellow Page advertising; I'd installed a phone. That September, when the phone book came out, I was in the Answering Service business. In fact, I was very much in the Answering Service business, because I was the only operator, 6 am to midnight, seven days a week.

I'd started this business in my studio apartment on Third Avenue, so the commute was less than ten feet. From my pallet on the floor I'd rise at six, turn on the phones, then snooze till the first calls. Then, coffee-time and up to speed!

Business was slow enough for baths and breaks, lunch and dinner. And I'd planned ahead.

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Rodeo Drive

Beverly Hills, California, 1969: As the night clerk at the Beverly Rodeo Hyatt House, on fashionable Rodeo Drive, I met interesting people.

I've seen Hendrix stumble out of the elevator, on his way out to gig, so stoned that he couldn't get through the door because he was holding his guitar case sideways.

Chuck Berry signed in one night with a young woman, giving me his American Express. He wasn't doing his duck walk, so I wasn't sure it was Chuck Berry, and later I called American Express. As it turns out, they called his home. He wasn't there, but his wife was.

Ginger Baker (of the rock band Cream) and I broke into the kitchen one night to make sandwiches. Taj Mahal said hello. David Nelson was in and out. Miles stayed there sometimes.

But the most interesting guest was Ralph D.

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The Panther

Denton, Texas, 1964: In my latter year in college, working as night auditor at the Holiday Inn, I finished my work, then studied or dozed till the morning shift. This particular night, around two in the morning, the lobby was deserted, and I was reading a small book of ghostly stories. It was to prove a mistake.

This particular story was about a panther. I remember nothing except that the last page scared the hell out of me, and, with an oath, I threw the book across the lobby.

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Uncle Esty

Hurnville, Texas, Autumn 1955: Born Pfeiffer I. Estlach he was, of German family, but when emigrating to the United States, they'd made the name more 'American' by translating it. East Lake it meant, and so Eastlake their name became. Pfeiffer I. Eastlake married my mother's sister, the beauty, Rosemary, and so became my Uncle Esty.

World War II fell upon them all, and like his peers, Pfeiffer had joined the army. I don't know where he served, nor how it went for him, save that he came back. He was a small, compact man, slight but durable, with bright blue eyes and blonde hair. If he fought the Germans in the war, I'm sure he gave it his best, for in the photographs he looked very dashing in the uniform. However, I'd guess they would have sent him to the South Pacific, so that he wouldn't have to shoot some cousin.

As a child I must have first met him at my grandparents farm, for there I most remember him. On this particular Autumn morning we had to find some water, out in a field. Why? I don't know. He cut a thin green branch from a young tree, and made a Y-shaped wooden device, and on the long arm, he mounted the cap from a fountain pen. Then, holding the two arms inside his hands he paced across the field, watching for the long arm to turn down.

Turn down it did. Dig there we did. Water we found.

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Law 23 regarding Being, Doing, and Having

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

Doingness Goals can produce more Happiness than Beingness or Havingness Goals.

That's it. In the physical universe, one must Be something, in order to Do something, with the result that one will Have something.

For example:

One chooses to be a surgeon, so one can do surgery, and then one will have the respect, money, and lifestyle of a surgeon.

One chooses to be a ditch-digger, so one can do the labor of digging ditches, and then one will have the muscles, money, and workday of a ditch-digger.

One chooses to be a car salesman, so one can do the selling of cars, and then one will have the wardrobe, commissions, and lifestyle of a car salesman.

Can you imagine somebody being a ditch-digger, so that he can do the selling of cars, so that he will then have the respect, money, and lifestyle of a surgeon?

Nope. Because it just doesn't work that way.

And this knowledge leads us to something very, very useful ...

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Glynda and Pat

Denton, Texas, Summer 1963: Glynda G. was a happy-go-lucky, merry girl who'd appeared in our High School my Junior year. She was friends with Carolyn, my then-girlfriend, and the two girls had come to the same college a year after me. Pat M. was one of the four of us guys who had lived in the house in the Shady Shores community on Lake Dallas, a few miles out of town.

The Viet Nam war hovered over us all. We were being called for the draft left and right. They gave a 100-question multiple-choice test with four choices for each answer. If you scored 25 -- which would be the average score if you just threw darts at the test -- you passed. You qualified to be a soldier.

To escape, you had to be enrolled in school, be married, or run away to Canada.

Then, the draft board decided it didn't matter if you were enrolled in school.

I didn't know anybody in Canada, so I got a psychiatrist to tell them, truthfully, "You don't want this boy." They believed him, and I didn't go. I'm glad, for I know I'd never have come back.

Pat said he was going to get married.

Since he didn't have a girlfriend, I thought this idea sounded peculiar. But he had a plan.

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So Long -- to the Ramen King

Osaka, Japan, January 6, 2007: Today at age 96, Ando Momofuku, the inventor of Instant Ramen, passed away. While a student at Ritsumeikan University he learned to operate a clothing business, but on a cold night shortly after World War II, he came upon a long line of people who were waiting to buy fresh ramen (noodles) at a black market food stall. In an epiphany, he came to believe that the world would have peace when people had enough to eat.

So in 1948 he began learning the food business, and ten years later developed instant Chicken Ramen, which he thought would provide better nutrition for soldiers in the field. His company grew and grew and grew. Two years ago, his company developed vacuum-packed noodles for Japanese astronaut Soichi Noguchi to eat on the U. S. space shuttle Discovery. When interviewed, Ando said, "I'm happy I've realized my dream that noodles can go into space."

One small step for man, one giant leap for noodles. But perhaps more important is this: We don't know who invented beans and rice, and we don't know who invented spaghetti, but we do know who invented Instant Ramen. So for all the students of the world, and for those of us who once needed very affordable food for a simple meal, we thank you, Ando Momofuku.

In this simple way, you've changed the world.

The Mobius Megatar

A Megatar is a musical instrument manufactured by the Mobius Megatar company, of which The Bloggard (aka Traktor Topaz) is the U.S. Manager.

The Megatar is similar to an electric guitar with a wider neck, on which are mounted six guitar strings, and also six bass strings. The strings lie close to the fretboard, and you don't have to strum or pluck them.

You just touch a string to the fret, and it plays.

Since you need not strum nor pluck strings, you can play with both hands at the same time. Much like playing bass and guitar at the same time, or like playing a piano on strings.

And guess what? It's easier to create music on the Megatar than learning guitar or bass or piano. That's because we've created a revolutionary new method that reveals the secret of playing quickly.

How is this possible?

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