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I realize that most of this site’s traffic comes from either a) people I know or b) Korean people who just want to pay their bills, but after watching the debacle at BoingBoing regarding unpublished posts, edited comments and standards of accountability (and posting a little bit in the fast-approaching-conversational-singularity thread at MeFi), I figured it would be a good idea to crank out some sitewide, privacy and comment policies, both heavily inspired by John Scalzi’s. Here they are.

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I grew up with comedy albums. I can still do Bill Cosby’s Hofstra from memory, and my brother only has to start singing “Soap, soap, soap” to crack me up. Dr. Demento only opened more doors.

And of course George Carlin was in there. The classic gold albums (FM & AM, Occupation: Foole and Class Clown) are still my favorites, though it’s his routine “Death and Dying” from On the Road that epitomizes what I loved about Carlin: the voices, the microphone mastery, the playful love of words and language how they shape our thinking about Big Heavy Shit.

I didn’t like much of his standup after Parental Advisory because it sounded like he’d stopped going for the funny and gone after the applause. It’s easy to make a friendly crowd hoot and cheer, but making them laugh? That’s hard, man. And to make adults laugh over wordplay and absurdity all while dealing with Big Heavy Shit, that’s really hard. All of the albums that were based on misanthropy sounded like a man who’d just said, “It’s too hard. Fuck it.”

So, I don’t mourn George Carlin, because the teacher I listened to hasn’t gone away and will never go away. Light up some Toledo Windowbox tonight for him.

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Tim Russert

Tim Russert came in, wearing his Rex Harrison hat, the morning of the caucus. It was a funny little detail that I thought about every time he showed up on The Daily Show or a blog: where’s the hat, Tim?

RIP.

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I can’t remember the last time I saw something this gloriously, rockingly silly. Supergrass, I am now going to buy your entire back catalog in pounds sterling. Because I want you to spend it all on puppets.

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I realize that previous post was a long time coming, but in between working on Windswept and posting to Twitter, I’ve got the writing bases covered. There’s other stuff, as always, but I can’t talk about it until it’s done, because to do otherwise would ruin the surprise. And why be a writer if you’re not going to surprise people?

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1) We survived the trip from LAX to Florida and back. No limbs were eaten by eels, sharks or retirees. Floating above the wreck of the Spiegel Grove with eighty feet of water overhead was a marvelous experience, made even better by doing it with Anne and Chris. It made up for the cramped seats on Spirit Airways and the fact that, while the people at the desk think that row 10 is the emergency row with the sweet leg room, it was a pile of Not Fun.

2) Mark Zuckerberg is my new Evil Corporate Nemesis, taking the place of Steve Jobs (though I’ll probably put ol’ Steve-o back up if I ever buy an iPhone). Why? Because he represents the company who thinks that the following is a Good Idea:
- I make a Facebook page for a client’s product. Said product is a movie, and said movie has a soundtrack that will get the kids a-hippin’ and a-hoppin’.
- I want to put Facebook’s Music Player application on this page in order to facilitate the aforementioned hippin’ and hoppin’.
- The Music Player says, “First, I’m gonna need to confirm that you do, in fact, formally represent the movie in question. You can confirm this by uploading a scan of your student ID, your driver’s license or your passport.”

Now, the magical disclaimer says that I can black out any sensitive information as long as my name and picture are still visible. I know this is all so Facebook has its ass covered in case the RIAA Cops start kicking in doors and waving their weapons-grade subpoenas around, but still. Who in their right fucking minds would trust these Facebook assclowns with any of the information on a fucking passport just to upload music? Screw you, Mark Zuckerberg! You’re probably not responsible for this, but between this and the awful UI and everything else, screw you!

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The first part of periodized weight lifting is called anatomical adaptation, which means, “Oy, muscles! These little bits of weight that you’re going to be picking up and putting down for the next four weeks? Yeah, this is just the warm up. It gets tougher from here.”

The thing about AA is that the exercises are embarrassing, things like getting on all fours, then holding a 2-lb. dumbell in front of you while you straighten the opposite leg. The weights are tiny, the poses lack dignity, and you’re the only one in the gym doing this. Even if you’re in a place where Serious Athletes are working out, it’s tough not to feel like a ninny.

Oh, and the weights are pink.

I bring all this up because the more I work on Windswept, the more I can feel things stretching out inside my skull. The past year of short stories and Tweets and blog posts was all adaptation, and now the hard work begins. This shit isn’t easy, and I wonder how people like Jay Lake can crank out an incredible amount of words and while working a steady job and raising a kid (hint: he doesn’t watch TV). I’m also letting myself wander into blind corners and write stuff that is sheer crap, because I know that I can redo it in editing. I’m lazy and would rather get it right the first time, but I now know that editing is just a different kind of writing, not repeating previous work.

Still, I wonder if I’ve bitten off a lot more than I can chew. One hundred thousand words by Christmas Eve? That’s going to be quite a haul. But better to say a whole bunch of stuff at first and pare it down later, right?

Right.

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Thinking: the problem with space elevators and human passengers is one of safety. It takes a long time to get something high in orbit, and it’s a hell of a high gravity tax to seat all of those people comfortably and safely. So, you knock ‘em out, stack ‘em like cordwood, and stick ‘em in a lead-lined box for the long ride up.

So, would a civilization that’s capable of that have any technical limitations? If you can kick ten thousand fishsticks into space at one go, why can’t you shrink ‘em? Upload ‘em? Crack time-space on the ground and let ‘em slip through to Dimensions Beyond?

Is it a moral issue? Do the Luddites keep you from monkeying with genes and quarks? Or are there technical limitations that we just can’t crack? If you had an army of hungry mouths who were willing to do any crap job, would you bother with AIs and the like? Why create new problems when human nature is relatively unchanged?

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No Clarion this summer. This, of course, is a bummer and a half, but it does mean I can focus on two things: 1) the novel and 2) kicking Jon Cryer’s ass at Malibu. You hear me, Ducky? You and Mulder both, you’re going to eat my dust!

Also, this means I’m going to the UCSD library this summer just to find out what the hell does pass muster. Research your markets, right?

Right.

Thpt.

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Back in July 2007, I was in Waikiki, waiting for a bunch of people to arrive for a wedding rehearsal dinner. It was a gorgeous evening, not too muggy, just enough moisture in the air to scatter the light and do incredible things to the sunset. I was working on my third glass of pineapple juice (beer you can have any time, but fresh pineapple juice? Pour me another, dude) when I realized I was surrounded by white people. White people behind the bar, at the bar, at the tables, waiting on the tables, even a trio of white guys playing ukeleles and mangling songs in the golden light. Everyone said “aloha” and “mahalo” without any sense of irony. And then these words jumped into my brain:

“The one thing they taught us in B-School was this: if you’re working for the Colonial Services, for God’s sake, don’t go native.”

I pulled out my phone and fold out keyboard and started typing. And now, some nine thousand words into Windswept, I’m not going to stop until I finish this damn thing.

The original target count was 50K, but now, in the post-Ironman I-can-do-anything glow, I’m going to push that target farther out. One hundred thousand words by Christmas Eve, 2008. Look up and reach, dammit. Now, get writing.

Also: should know if I’m going to Clarion by Sunday. Keep your toes crossed.

*It was either this bit (which, thanks to the Googles, I finally know is from Act III of Lady Windemere’s Fan. Context matters, people) or Browning’s “Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?”

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George just posted this link about something small and revolutionary: room temperature superconductivity. My first thought: holy crap. If this works, this could change everything. Maglev trains, transformers, power lines, all would become cheaper and more efficient. This is amazing.

My second thought: it’s about time the Republic changed a few of those Tax Collectors into Scientists and moved us up the tech tree. Time to research Fusion Power!

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Life is a ride. Remember?

Somewhere along the line, I read this essay by a Zen master who liked to call out to himself and answer, “Yes?” I’ve always liked that. I don’t think I’ve gotten the hang of it yet, as my responses border between timid and Two-Kegger Boisterous. Maybe it’s one of those things that you spend your whole life practicing, and then, just when you get and you know you’ve gotten it, you’re enlightened and get whisked off to the Holy Buddha Milkshakery.

But it’s a good way to remind myself to pay attention, and to keep starting over. Every day is chapter one, every line is a first line, every moment is a chance to get it right. Right? Right.

So, two weeks ago, I was doing this thing, and now I’m not. I don’t define my life by the workout sheets or measures of calories or the number of icebags down my trousers. It’s been a good two weeks of unwinding, doing next to nothing (one yoga session that likely threw my neck out of whack, and a pilates class that probably finished things off). I’ve also probably gained back some of the poundage I burned away, which is also probably good.

But it’s time to turn on the focus again, to call out to myself to see if I’m paying attention. See, I made a deal with myself on the road home from Reporoa: I would get through this day with a finisher’s shirt and medal and a mighty run across the finish line, and then I would move on to writing, cooking and gardening. I tried today, and failed miserably.

And then I reminded myself that not everything on the road to Taupo went right early on. First you crawl, then you walk, and then you run. I tried to run today, when I should just pay attention to how my feet touch the ground. And I felt like crap for not getting right into everything, but you know what? That was today, and it’s done. Tomorrow is a fresh start, and I just have to keep putting one word after another, one plant after another, one step after another. That’s the lesson from Ironman: keep moving forward.

And now I’m moving forward to bed. Tomorrow is chapter one.

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So, I thought about a lot of stuff during those nasty sixteen and a half hours. It went something like this:

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This was the longest day of my life. But the Finisher’s t-shirt? Awesome.

UPDATE: Kouy and Ken captured this shot from the live feed at Ironman Live, but you can see the clip here. I come in around 1:53.

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Seriously, how can you not want to stay in a country like this? It was like God’s own watercolor set just spilled from one horizon to the next as everyone gathered in the evening cool.

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Actually, this was taken at home, but my entire body feels like my hair in this photo: upright and awesome. So far I’ve survived driving on the left-hand side of the road, a steak and mushroom pie, and the squeaky top bunk at the hostel. As soon as my lungs clear out, I’ll be off on a training ride around the Bays. You stay classy, America!

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Hi, there. May I call you Nathan? I’d call you “Captain,” but I’m sure you get enough of that, especially from the Internet.

Here’s the thing, Nathan: I had a hell of a tough weekend. 22 miles on foot on Saturday, then 1.5 hours in the Pacific (water temps somewhere in the high 50s), then 8 hours in the saddle. I was supposed to bring in 115 miles, and the weather was beautiful, just the kind you’d want on a big ride. Problem was, see, I still can’t do the hills on PCH, so I had to go south along the bike path. And if I thought it was a good day for cycling, so did half the city. The other half decided it was perfect for walking and rollerblading, and that the bike path would be the perfect spot to get their mobile on.

So, it was a long day of slowing down, dodging pedestrians, helping people out with flats because I wasn’t going fast enough to escape their pleas for help, everything. And the sun was going down, and I still hadn’t found the last 17 miles and…

Nathan, I had to pack it in. I probably could’ve grabbed my windbreaker and lights, slugged down one more Powerbar and done a fast Marina loop, but I was done. No more dodging cars, no more looking out for taxis fighting for fares, no more swerving around jaywalking Venice hipster wanktards. Finito. Finished. Done.

I felt like an utter failure, that I was going to travel to Taupo only to get pulled from the bike course because I couldn’t finish the bike course in time. It’s been a long nine months, man, and I’m sure you could imagine how frustrating that would be. I flopped on the floor, without even the energy to stretch, and I flipped on the tube, hoping to have myself a good manly cry.

And there you were. TNT was playing “Saving Private Ryan,” right at your scene.

I don’t know if your turn as James Frederick Ryan, Minnesota, is one you recall with fondness (though, dude, getting a speaking part like that in a Spielberg movie had to mean a pretty good paycheck), but it has now earned a special place in my heart because, just at that moment when I lay on the floor, completely out of gas, and you started bawling. And I mean bawling, just sobbing your guts out like the entire world had come to an end and there was nothing else to do.

And I realized: I don’t need to cry, because you did it for me.

After watching that bit a few times (thanks, Tivo!), I felt better. Granted, the hot shower, banana and resting in my wife’s lap helped, but I will always know that it was you, Nathan Fillion, who pulled me out of that funk. And for that, sir, I thank you.

-A.

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This has been the toughest week of training, just because I thought last week was it. I’d get through that long ride (97 miles, in the rain, with headwinds, wolves and snotty Manhattan Beach teenagers chasing after me), pour myself a fish taco martini, put my feet up and relax until race day. It was time for The Taper, that mythical time when triathletes’ broken bodies magically knit themselves into something stronger, mightier, sexier than before.

But no. I had one more week to go.

This, of course, is where the mental preparation is supposed to come into play. “I think I can” must give way to “You bet your sweet ass I will,” even though every little bit of me wants to sleep thirteen hours a day and spend the other eleven hours on the couch with a stack of comic books at my side. I am tired, man, tired in a way that I’ve never been before. It’s not just the physical exhaustion, either. I am sick and goddamn tired of Powerbars, pre-dawn risings, going to bed at 8.30, the stretching, the icing, the whole enchilada. Tired. Sick And.

But I’m still going to get up early for tomorrow’s 40 miler. And I’m going to do that 22-mile hoof on Saturday. And I’m going to do the swim and the last big ride (115 miles!). And then that is it. Until race day. And then that’s it.

At least, that’s it until the next race.

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I feel like I’m in a holding pattern. Waiting for my leg to heal. Waiting for Ironman. Waiting for my birthday. Waiting for the inevitable hassle that the TSA’s sure to inflict. Waiting to hear from Clarion. Waiting for time to write. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

And it’s a lot of crap. Waiting is the opposite of not doing, and not doing is the same as being dead. The worst drug in the world isn’t tv, it’s waiting. Waiting kills time, murders by inches, crushes the soul one tiny weight at a time. Doing is being, is living, is telling entropy to take a flying leap. Yes, it’ll get me in the end, but, dammit, it’ll never take me alive.

So. Doing. Edit this gawdawful copy. Finish that story. Start another one. Do those stretches. Ice those limbs. Get in that saddle or that pool or those shoes and do, dammit. Let everyone else wait. I need to do.

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…when my mind wanders back to college, when everything was new and exciting: Thai food and Pearl Jam and people from Michigan, dorm rivalries and making out to Toad the Wet Sprocket, talking about nothing all night long and pinball and…

…and then I’ll look over at Anne working at her desk across from mine and think, Man, fuck all that.