Kissing a woman, the taste of sweet wine on her lips, my hands on her full breasts feeling her heat, is knowing the presence of God. Like Moses at the Burning Bush, the voice appears in the fire.
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(via iphone3)
I’m beginning to understand why I never get any PR companies asking me to attend blogging events. Â It not because I’m not a parent. Â It’s because I am bad in writing reviews of blogging events.
I’m one of those people who find it difficult to separate an event from the people that I am with at the time. Â I’ve had as much fun in dusty Bakersfield as I’ve had in exotic Hong Kong. Â It depends on who is at my side. Â This is important for me to remember when going out with friends. I’d rather be with good friends at McDonald’s then with acquaintances at a four-star restaurant.
On Saturday, Marinka invited me to join her and her kids on THE RIDE, a new-fangled NYC tour bus “experience” that has been getting positive reviews by the local media. Marinka was invited as part of a blogger PR out-reach, and asked them if she could bring me. Â They reluctantly agreed. Â That means, in blog-speak, that we didn’t pay to go on the Ride.
I first met Marinka in August 2008, when she was a complete nobody in the blogging world. Â I wanted to test having guest posts on my blog, but I wanted to do it differently, so I just chose the first five people to write a comment on my blog. Â Â Marinka was the first. Â As a test of her skill, I presented her with a topic to write about, and I purposely chose the most ridiculous one ever, “I Woke Up Today with a Penis! Can My Marriage Survive?”
As anyone who has ever seen the movie “A Star is Born” knows, it wasn’t long before our fortunes turned, and I was the one bowing at her feet.
On Sunday, I was Marinka’s guest.
The Ride differs from typical tour buses in that the seats face one-way, theater-style, towards a large glass window which is open to the public. Â The riders look out at the passing city like it is a movie on a giant screen. Â Those on the street can see you, so there is a good amount of waving and photographing going on back and forth.
As we passed a few landmarks such as the Chrysler Building and Central Park, two cheery twenty-something tour guides entertained us with jokey information about the city. Â It felt as if were were on a ride at Disneyland. To add to the artifice, actors/entertainers were placed on the street to interact with us.
We might see a UPS courier delivering a package on 45th Street.
Tour guide: “Hey, look, there is a UPS guy, working on a Saturday. Â In NY, there are so many people wanting to get a break in show business, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was also a dancer going for auditions.”
A second later, the UPS guy would start break-dancing for our entertainment, and then the bus would move on,  just like in  the Pirates of the Caribbean ride!  Except here, real-life New Yorkers, just walked by, ignoring it all.
The bus was also a character. Â Lights blinked, and videos blasted, and the bus even spoke, in that deep electronic voice of Knight Rider, joking with the tour guides, and telling us New York facts and statistics.
My review of the Ride: It is very very clever, making the typical 70-minute bus tour ride around Manhattan as old-fashioned as the evening news in the age of Twitter.
I am a fan of clever. Â I love Disneyland. Â But in all honesty, I’m not sure I enjoyed seeing New York City turned into Disneyland. Â Will the tourist on “The Ride” go home thinking he had a real experience? Â Why don’t tourists just walk the same twenty blocks themselves, carrying a tour book? Will future generations of tourists be disappointed when no opera singers approach them outside of Carnegie Hall with a song? Does EVERYTHING have to be interactive and pre-packaged?
If I were on the bus by myself, without Marinka and her kids, I would be counting the time, waiting to get off it and back on the noisy, crowded street with real smelly people.
If I were a thirteen year old tourist with my parents, I would hate it even more. I would not enjoy having tourists in the street taking photos of ME sitting in a bus with my parents, all of us in the dorky “I Love NY” hats. Â I do not want to be part of the entertainment. Â But maybe that is just me.
That said, everyone in the bus loved The Ride, including Marinka’s kids. They got a big kick out of seeing the performers in the street. I mostly wondered if they were getting paid union wages, and where they waited before their cue. Â In their car? Â At a Starbucks?
Should you go on The Ride if you are visiting New York? Â If you have ten year old kids, and have never been to New York before, the Ride could be a lot of fun (although pricey, $59-$65!). Â I also think stoned college students might find The Ride a fun and campy experience if they go on it at night, when the lights are on and there are less kids in the bus, and after the ride, go off for some pizza.
Did I have fun? Yes, I did. I was with Marinka. I’ve know her long enough now to have developed some a rapport. Â When the Knight Rider “bus” made some cliched New York-centric joke about cupcakes in “Sex in the City” or “Robert DeNiro” in Taxi Driver, we could just glance at each other and, without words, know each other’s snarky response.
And that was fun. It is always who you are with that counts, not where you are.
Recently, I asked a blogger why she kept on writing every day online. She said that she wrote as a personal record for her children. I like that idea. Why have I never thought about that, if not for my children, at least as a record of my own life and thoughts? My blog allows me to go back and see my frame of mind during a certain day and year.
Today, I feel like writing about the death of Osama bin Laden, not because I feel any great urge to compete with the other million voices on the same subject. I know by next week, we will have moved on to a new subject, so I wanted to engrave my thoughts on this spot, like a virtual Plymouth Rock. As a record of a time and place.
I was on Twitter at 10PM on Sunday night when I saw a friend mention that Obama was going to speak at 10:30PM. I turned on CNN and Wolf Blitzer was hyperventilating with double-speak and speculation about not speculating what the speech was going to be about.
I tweeted something about this mysterious speech and said it seemed “scary.” Initial comments from my friends also used words like “frightened” and “worried.”
Soon the rumor was spreading on Twitter that Osama bin Laden was killed. The news media played by the old media rules, and didn’t broadcast the information. You could see the frustration on their faces as Obama delayed his speech. Everyone knew the news, and CNN was trying to slip in the information through smoke signals and wild gestures.
The environment on Twitter became silly, with jokes about the networks. There was a sense of absurdity to the media disconnect. Instead of the news media behaving like authority figures — a Walter Cronkite or Tom Brokaw, for instance — they were like game show hosts, waiting for the big reveal behind curtain number two, faking it for the audience.
The mood certainly changed once Obama spoke eloquently to the nation. Suddenly, we realized that this was a significant moment, a closure to the years of national pain that America has felt since September 11th.
The mood online quickly splintered as crowds appeared at the White House chanting “USA! USA!” Was this a spontaneous expression of patriotism or a disgraceful display of crassness? Should we be joyous or somber?
On Facebook, my status today read: “Adding my 2 cents, like everyone else. It was a necessity that we killed Bin Laden, both politically and symbolically, and it is good that we did. But it only reminds me of the evil and the lack of concern for humanity that exists in the hearts of so many, particularly those who pervert religion and nationhood for selfishness, that I feel more sad than anything else.”
I received a direct message from someone hoping to shake me out of my lethargy.
“Imagine this is Adolph Hitler. Wouldn’t you be dancing on his grave?”
I thought about that question, and quite honestly, “No.”
I don’t see the world like a Marvel comic book. The evil, at least for me, is not only Hitler the man, but the countless others who followed his horrific beliefs and orders — the soldiers, the citizens, and the sympathizers who helped make the Nazi machine so effective.
Bin Ladin may be dead, but what he represented appealed to many, including those who willingly killed themselves on September 11th in the name of religion. Some around the world still see him as a person of holiness.
Today’s statement from Hamas:
“We condemn the assassination and the killing of an Arab holy warrior. We ask God to offer him mercy with the true believers and the martyrs.”
That makes me sad. A real victory will come when all ideologies of hate are seen as evil.
Success as a published writer is possible. Â Currently, I am reading the terrific “Planting Dandelions: Field Notes from a Semi-Domesticated Life” from long-time blogging friend, Kyran Pittman. Â As talented a wordsmith as Kyran is, even she will tell you that luck and the right concept go a long way in getting your project published by a major publishing company such as Riverhead, a division of Penguin. Â I’ll write more about her book next week.
My blogging friend Emily Rosenbaum has also just published a book. But she has gone a different path than Kyran by self-publishing it.
In the past, this approach to self-publishing might be viewed with mockery. Â But I’ve been around long enough to know that not every book Random House publishes is good, and not every book they reject is bad. Â I’m also familiar with Emily’s writing talent online. Â I think anyone who finishes a book and puts it out there to be read by others should be proud of their work, and there is no reason I shouldn’t take it seriously.
The publishing industry is in chaos. Things are rapidly changing, especially as we all begin to read our novels on Kindles and Nooks. Â As the world becomes digitized, it is easier for writers to bypass the traditional system completely. Â The question remains — is this a good development, an opening of doors, or does it destroy the quality of our literature, as maintained by our gatekeepers, the agents and editors?
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The following is not a review of Emily’s book. Â I have not read it. Â The book is not geared for me. Â This is a conversation between me and a blogging friend, a writer, about her experience self-publishing a book, and what it means to her.
Oh yeah, I also would love to help her sell some books, because I think the subject might appeal to quite a few of my readers.
Her book is titled “Cooking on the Edge of Insanity.”
Her bio reads as following, “Emily Rosenbaum is a writer, mother, adult survivor of child abuse, and lousy gardener striving to live sustainably in New Jersey.”
The book blurb: “Emily Rosenbaum is that mother; you know, the one who avoids chemicals, minimizes food waste, shops locally, fears sugar, hides from corn byproducts, and tries to convince her son that lemonade is not a fruit. Don’t even get her started on BPAs. Six years after making her first batch of muffins, she’s not just pureeing squash and baking bread. She’s forming little lumps of chicken-apple-spinach mush into nuggets, coating them in homemade breadcrumbs, and lovingly brushing them with olive oil. She is poised on the edge of craziness, unless she toppled in last Tuesday.  In Cooking on the Edge of Insanity, Rosenbaum shares recipes and tells the tale of living sustainably while cooking for a family of five.”
It’s available for download to your e-reader for $2.99, from Amazon or Barnes and Noble.
The Interview:
1) First of all, this is a book about sustainable living, part essays/part recipes. Â Just so I understand more of where you are coming from, when did you get involved in worrying about the food you eat? From your parents? College? Friends? And how do all your kids manage with such a crazy green mother? Have they ever eaten a Big Mac? Do they feel as if they are missing out?
Well, definitely not from my parents. My mother died when I was two, leaving me with a detached father and abusive stepmother. They actually were very into the whole sustainability thing: compost, gardening, etc. They were also assholes. Then I lived with a few other relatives, none of whom were at all foodies.
I didn’t even start learning to cook till college. I had an old Moosewood Cookbook I had taken from my aunt, who most likely never had cooked a single thing in it. Have you ever seen a Moosewood cookbook? The recipes are labor intensive, to say the least. Learning to cook out of it is like learning to play the piano starting from Beethoven’s Fifth. But, I began to teach myself, and over the years learned to love the process of figuring out how ingredients work together.
Then I had kids. And when you put nine months into making a little body (not to mention the fertility treatment) plus another year into breastfeeding it, you get kind of particular about what you put into it. I also really began to worry about the future of the planet because I have these little people and they’re going to inherit the earth that I leave them.
There were two other catalysts for my eco-mania. The first was rereading and teaching Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Sower when I was pregnant with my first child, Zachary. It is a phenomenal book, and it made me think hard about the world my son-to-be child would inherit. Then, Hurricane Katrina happened right around Zachary’s first birthday. It was a wake-up for a lot of people. We’re screwing up the planet so badly that it’s actually fighting back.
Hell, no. My kids have never had a Big Mac. Once, I let Zachary have a chocolate milk at McDonald’s. That said, it’s easier to shield them from McDonald’s than it is to avoid the sugar/chemical-laden snacks and candy that pervade kids’ lives. People hand that shit out to kids all the time, and adults get all huffy if I try to object. Really? The teacher doesn’t know why I wish she wouldn’t hand my first-grader a candy necklace?
I think it’s hard for my kids, especially now that we live in a very conservative area. I make some concessions, to be sure, like the chocolate milk thing. But some things are non-negotiable.
2) How many books or stories have you written outside of blogging that you have sent into magazines or publishers? From your blog it sounds, like with many writers, you’ve had to face some rejections with publishers, even when they gave you positive feedback, saying things such as “It’s very well written and compelling, but in the end I just don’t have a clear enough vision for how to position it.†How have you been able to overcome these frustrations?
Oh, yeah. That’s the $10 million question, isn’t it? How do you overcome rejection?
I only really became a writer four years ago, when my second child, Benjamin, was turning one. I was so sensitive to rejection at the beginning. I have no confidence in my work at all, and every rejection made me feel like I should give up. A good friend and far more established writer, Jacob Sager Weinstein, believed in me as a writer. His willingness to see me that way made a huge difference.
The last year has been good to me. I’ve been fortunate to have quite a few articles published – Hip Mama, Glamour, Bitch, and Brain, Child, to name a few. Plus, I have gotten a lot of bread-and-butter work, so I’m starting to feel like it’s not just an indulgence as the checks come in. Of course, I also lost the agent who was representing my other book, so the year has not been perfect.
Rejection still hits me hard. We all want that stamp of approval from the people who are supposed to know about such things. And you have to understand that I went to college with Elizabeth Banks and others who are unbelievably successful. So, I get that whole, “Well, we started from the same place and look where she is and look where I am†jealousy thing sometimes, no matter how happy I am for them. On the other hand, the amazing actress, Jamie Denbo, was my high school friend and she has been one of my staunchest supporters, so that has lessened the sting of her being beautiful and talented.
Ultimately, I remind myself it’s not a contest. Given the childhood I had, I’m proud of myself for getting my ass out of bed every day. I have three lovely kids, only two of whom regularly tell me they hate me. Life is about slowing down and living, and I work very, very hard to realign my idea of success whenever it gets out of whack. Cooking does that for me. It’s so completely basic. Food is what life is about, not blog stats.
3) Was there a moment during the process after writing the book where you just said to yourself, “Screw the system, I’m just going to publish this myself. I know it is good and there is a audience for it?”
There are two books. There’s the first one I wrote, which is not about food, and which was a much longer, more intense process. Then there’s Cooking on the Edge of Insanity, which is short and a labor of love. I’ve wanted to do a cooking book for years, but it’s a completely saturated market and my husband isn’t famous. Plus, there isn’t a whole lot of market for cookbooks with the F-word on the first page.
So, I decided to e-publish the book that would never land an agent or publisher, anyway. I figured it would be a great way to see if I am up for this kind of publishing or not. I didn’t care whether 5 people or 5000 people read it, so there was nothing to lose by trying.
4) You are selling your book as an ebook for $2.99 on Amazon and Barnes and Noble? Can you give my readers a quick breakdown on what steps you did to do this? Was it a simple process of downloading the content to these companies? Did it cost you anything to publish an e-book? Do you have a business plan or are you winging it for this first time?
Publishing an e-book is absurdly simple. Seriously. Kindle Direct Publishing and Pubit (which sounds dirty but really is the e-publishing arm of Barnes & Noble) are very, very user-friendly. You get about 70% of the profits from those sites, so it’s win-win. They don’t care if you only sell three copies, because they’ve done nothing to publish your book, and you don’t get charged anything upfront.
Anyone can get a Kindle App for a smartphone, iPad, or a computer, so people can download the book even if they don’t have a Kindle or a Nook. The bigger problem is that people wanted to see the book on the iBookstore or get it for their other e-readers. That’s where it got sticky.
There are several sites that host e-books and would have channeled it to those other readers. I chose Smashwords and uploaded my book there. But to get “premium distribution,†you need to format it just so, and my book as complicated formatting because it is a combo of essays and recipes. They also end up taking a larger chunk because Smashwords gets a small take and then the other stores take another chunk. Plus, you need to buy an ISBN in order to get into the iBookstore. That’s a $125 cost, so I’d need to feel I’d have an additional 60 readers to make up the difference. Since anyone can get a Kindle app, I knew that some of those who would go to the iBookstore would just get it from Amazon, so it wouldn’t be cost-effective.
The book is up on Smashwords, so folks can get it from their website. This is important because Smashwords knows no international borders, unlike Amazon and B&N. But I eschewed premium distribution. So far, I’ve sold one book on Smashwords.
You do need a cover, and you should get a professional to do one. I am lucky that another woman I went to high school with, Karen Hallion, is a bitchin’ artist, and she designed my cover.
I am developing a business plan as I go along. My husband has an MBA, so he’s helping, but we’re treating this book as a learning experience. For example, I had thought it would only be an e-book. Then I realized that there’s a huge potential readership in farmers’ markets. So I’m creating a physical book with on-demand publishing. Added bonus is I get to spend the summer cruising farmers’ markets, which is about my favorite thing to do.
We’re winging it, here.
5) Did you have to develop a thick skin because the promoting of the book fell entirely onto your shoulders?
I’ll let you know if I ever develop a thick skin.
Women have a much, much harder time selling ourselves then men do. We’re taught it’s grabby to throw back our shoulders and say, “I’m the shit.†I can say, “My writing is good,†but I feel like I need to sit back and wait for people to notice. It’s a damned good thing I am fortunate enough to have so many lovely and supportive people around me.
6) Do you think our opinions on self-publishing are changing? How did you feel about self-publishing in the past? Did you see the content as “lesser?” Have you changed your views since then? Do you think that this is the wave of the future in publishing? Are you as proud of your writing as you would be if Random House published the book? Do you consider yourself a real “writer?” Do you think this project will help you get noticed by traditional publishers for your next project? Or would you prefer to continue self-publishing?
Great questions.
I used to think self-publishing was for narcissistic assholes. Mostly because my father self-published.
But, now, with e-publishing, we as writers are redefining the marketplace. It’s a heady time. It’s still a tiny market, and trust me when I say we’re not going to pay to fix my daughter’s teeth on what I’m making on this book. The majority of people still want a physical book. I agree, I have to say. Since I figure the Apocalypse is coming in the form of us destroying the planet we live on, the day will come when we may have to live off the grid. When that happens, I’ll be glad to have all my paper books.
I digress. No one knows the future of publishing, right? The agents and publishers are all scrambling. Right now, they still have a headlock on the channels of distribution. It’s awfully hard to get noticed as a self-publisher. I don’t see the content as lesser, but there’s still a stigma attached. Is that changing? Absolutely. To what degree? I’m not sure.
As to whether I’d prefer to continue self-publishing: I don’t know yet. You have to understand that I hate the nuts and bolts work. HATE IT. I like the writing and author appearances, but the rest is paralyzing for me. I fight that, but it’s painful. That said, you sure keep a lot more of the profits if you do it yourself.
7) Any insights or advice about the publishing world that you would give to someone writing their first project? How did you learn about the worlds of agents and publishing and e-books? From websites? Books? Conferences?
Mostly? I learned as I went. You need to build a platform, which means publishing other places. If you want to get published in magazines, which is a great way to build a platform, you need to start small. Send things places that don’t pay, just so you can say you’ve been published there. Then build your way up. It scaffolds.
The most important thing to do is read, and read things longer than 140 characters. I read so many magazines and books. It’s the only way to figure out where you want to publish.
And get a professionalish website.  Jennifer Schmitt (who introduced me to you, by the way) designed and maintains my website. She has saved my ass many a time. It’s an easy place to portal all my work, and it looks professional, so I can channel people through there.
8 ) Â How do you see your blog and your presence in social media as related to you as a writer? Are they separate entities or do you find yourself “branding yourself?” Do you find interaction with other writers helpful? Do you consider yourself a “mom blogger” or a “writer” or both?
For a long time, I couldn’t understand why my blog didn’t get noticed. I thought it was a reflection of me as a writer. I’ve been blogging for four years now, and I never get listed in those “top blog†things, even by magazines I write for.
I made peace with it last summer. I’m a writer who blogs, not a blogger who writes. The difference being that my blog is not my primary way of getting noticed. I use the blog to develop my voice, write about things that matter to me, etc. It has been a great way to connect with some amazing people. No matter what happens, Coco, and Magpie will keep coming back.
I hate the idea of branding myself. I’m not a brand. I’m a person. I won’t post pictures of my kids or talk about their genitalia or try to fit myself into some mold. Life is too short for that shit. I write. I sell writing. The minute I start branding myself, I’ll be caring more about the brand than I will about what I want to say. What’s the point of that?
I am so very lucky to have had so many people support me as a writer. I have a small following, but they’re there because they trust me to keep it real.
I have an idea that I think will re-energize personal blogging for many of us, but could also be controversial with the traditionalists, because the idea goes against the established rules. The concept is called “deleting posts.”
Here is what I visualize. Each of our blogs will consist of two very different types of posts. One is for the public record, linked on Google for all eternity. The other will be published, and then, because of the lesser content, deleted three days, disappearing into the fog.
The idea came to me while watching the royal wedding. It was a beautiful ceremony, but like many weddings, it seemed more emotionally satisfying to the onlookers than the marrying couple. The entire ceremony was precisely planned. Even the famous “kiss” was scheduled in at a specific minute. I don’t find that sexy. I find that a timed sporting event.
As blogging becomes more about ceremony, presenting ourselves as writers and businessmen for our “followers,” our writing becomes planned. We wear our military uniforms and our designer gowns in order to establish our reputations. We are told to write well, because it is our writing that represents us. It has taken me a long time to accept this philosophy. But it makes sense. We are judging each other on our words, not our character. We are writers. You don’t know whether I kick small dogs as a fun hobby. And if I did, I certainly wouldn’t tell you about it on the page, so it doesn’t exist.
The royal wedding was beautiful. The couple was happy. Or at least that is what we saw on TV. It was part of the script.
I want you to like me. I want you to see me as a future King in military uniform. But I don’t want to kiss on schedule. My favorite posts are where I write about feeling lonely or sad or that I got a boner while waiting in line at the bank, stuff that will never enhance my reputation as a writer or as a role model for today’s children. But I’m not sure that, in this current blogging environment, I want that shit on my blog forever, especially now that I’m dealing with trolls and judgemental readers coming out of the woodwork. I’d to share some nonsense, because this is first and foremost, my space, not yours, and then ERASE it from view. Is that so wrong?
I know a few of you will think this is a pussy approach to blogging. And that we should “own our words.” But is owning our words worth it if we have to turn our blog into a dull royal wedding, or use a fake name, hiding behind anonymity? Better to sometimes do a mob killing of an incriminating post, and then dump it into the East River. That’s how we do it in Queens.
I might delete this in three days. Or I might not.
There are chores that give me anxiety. Â Some that give me the most trouble are quite simple on the surface, like making a phone call or renewing a gym membership. Â But indecision creeps in and I end up procrastinating, finding actions that help me avoid doing my To Do list. Â I probably should go into therapy for help with this, but this week I needed a quick fix to help me get over a few hurdles. Â After giving the matter some thought, I pieced together a technique of my own creation that worked fairly well. Â The technique combines a bit of meditation and the old method of “counting to ten,” except in my idea, I count to 100.
In order to explain it better, let me use an real example of a stressful situation —
I need to write an email to a producer in LA. It is freaking me out. I am insecure. My internal “selves” are fighting with each other over the content of the email. Â One self says the email is too wimpy; another that it reads too arrogant. The nasty self, a perennial bully, calls me a loser and announces the situation as hopeless. My head is spinning and I am hyperventilating from thinking too much about all of the options available to me. Â There are too many voices and too many choices.
What do I do in this situation? Â Well, I might go onto Twitter, for one. Â I can chat with friendly women with smiling avatars. Â This will help me relax. Â Â Soon, I will forget all about the email until it is too late to send it, and I will make the executive decision of putting it off until tomorrow.
Now, let’s see an example of  Neilochka’s “100 Method” in action, helping me to stay on task:
First, I need to acknowledge to myself that I’m a cool guy with the minor problem of having a screwed up mind. Â That is why I want to procrastinate. Â My brain is fighting with me because I am neurotic, and this is painful, which causes me to avoid whatever task is at hand.
Since I have accepted myself as a cool, but screwed up, I choose to be nice to myself. Rather than berating myself, I will give myself the gift of procrastination.
But I will control it with a time limit of 100 counts.
So, I give myself permission to lie down on the bed or sit at my chair with my eyes closed and start counting to 100 in my head. Â The numbers are my internal mantra, so by the count of “25,” I have forgotten everything about my inner turmoil concerning the task. Â The voices have been silenced. Â My only focus is on the counting, like Zen meditation.
By number “50” I start thinking about my task again. Â Clearly, I’m not very good at meditation. Â But I know that already. Â And I accept that. Â But I feel the anxiety already returning. Â What should I do?
“Relax,” I tell myself. Â “You’re only at number “50.” There is plenty of time left to relax and procrastinate. Why worry when you are only half way there?”
This works surprisingly well, Â until I hit number “75.” Â Now, at 3/4 in, I am smart enough to know that my procrastination window is quickly getting closed shut. Â My brain reverts to that of an eight year old bratty child. Â I start crying, yelling and pounding the table, all in my head of course. Â I will do anything to keep my procrastination from ending.
But throughout this all, I continue counting. Â “76.” Â “77.”
I become Machivellian in my methods, dragging each syllable out, so the word “Seventy-seven” takes up to fives seconds in my head. I realize that I am cheating myself, but who’s going to know, other than myself?
By number “85” in the count, there is an all-out war raging in my brain, with tanks and hand grenades and atomic bombs. Â This is very different than the genteel neurotic indecision from earlier, where multiple selves debated in a civilized court. Â This is a knock-em, sock-em primal battle between two opposing forces. Â The choices are clear as good and evil —
1) Â Do I keep my promise of doing the task now that my procrastination time is over, like an honorable man —
2) — or do I blow it off like a lazy sloth?
By number “90,” this tough question stares at me, waiting for a reply. Â I can see nothing else but black and white, no shades of gray, no typical insecurities; the choices are “keep your own promise” or “be an asshole.”
By number “95” I realize that I have set myself up in a trap of my own making. Â I know that even if I was so devious to extend the count from 100 to 200 or even 1000, Â at a certain point, the bell will ring.
The Bell Always Rings. Â It is the fate of humanity.
By number “98” I am a man who has seen his own mortality. Â I live in a finite world and I must conquer it, despite my fears.
At number “99” I say goodbye to all of my procrastinating on this particular task, and as number “100” forms on my tongue and my eyes open, I can hear a marching band in my playing a personal fight song in my brain, inspiring me to act… and to act now.
“Now Get Up And Do That Task, You Motherf*cker!” the band plays hard, the trumpets blaring, the drums a-knocking, as I sit down to do the task.
Until the next task.
“I’m visiting Maryland next week” I emailed Laurie eight days before my trip. “You want to get together on Friday?”
“Sure. You want me to round up everyone who lives in the area?”
“Nah.”
I said “nah,” not because I didn’t want to see other people, but because I didn’t want to put Laurie out or appear rude to her, as if I was contacting her to be my social director.
But Laurie was insistent on inviting Sarah.
“She’d like to see you.”
“Sure! Â I love Sarah!”
Later that afternoon, it was Sarah who contacted me, this time on Facebook.
“I just want to make sure that it is OK that I come see you too. I don’t want to be a party crasher.”
“Of course. I always like to see you.”
“I just heard that you didn’t want to tell other people that you were in town.”
“That’s not true. Â “Please come!”
My message to Laurie was getting lost in translation. Â I was being perceived as a snooty anti-social scrooge who hates humanity.
“And can I bring my husband too?” asked Sarah.
“Yes!”
“I won’t tell anyone else about it.”
“No, go ahead. Tell anyone you want!”
My trip was already beginning to freak me out.
I emailed Kris and told her that I was coming to town. Â Â While on the bus to Maryland, I noticed Heather was on Gtalk.
“Where do you live now? Do you live in Washington?”
“Yeah. Why?”
I told her about our get-together.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me about this?” Heather wrote. I could sense her steaming on the other side.
“I forgot that you lived in Washington!”
“And why didn’t Laurie tell me?”
“I think I gave her the impression that I didn’t want her to tell anyone else.”
“So, are you saying that you DON’T want me there?”
“No. No. That’s not it at all.”
I quickly resolved the matter with Heather. I clicked onto Facebook to count how many other people I knew in the Washington D.C./Maryland area who I didn’t tell about my arrival in town, as if it was the second coming of Christ. I certainly couldn’t contact them NOW, only a few hours before the meet-up, because it would look like a last minute invitation, as if someone more important has cancelled and I was pulling out my “B-list.”
But this wasn’t a public meet-up! Â I was just hoping to have a cup of coffee with Laurie after I arrived in town. Now I was in the middle of an event that would be TWEETED for all to see. Devra and Amie and John and Amy and twenty other online people from Twitter and Facebook who lived in the immediate area were going to wonder why I didn’t invite them to this amazing shindig.
“But no one cares, right?” I asked myself. Â “How many times had there been blogger dinners in LA or NY where I haven’t been invited? Did I sit home and cry? (Don’t answer that)”
Anyway, the final group was small: Neil, Laurie, Kris, Sarah, her husband, Gabe, and Heather. The plan was to meet at Jaleo, a popular tapas bar in D.C. The restaurant didn’t take reservations, so whoever got there first, would make reservations for six.
I was the first to arrive, at 7PM. Â Â The restaurant was already jammed. The bar area was overflowing with young single Washingtonians.
“I’d like to make a reservation,” I said.
I was told that we couldn’t get a table until 10:30PM, three and a half hours away!
I texted the others and said that we would have to make other plans.
The others arrived. There was much hugging. Â I was ecstatic to meet the amazing Kris, who I have never met in person. Â As I talked with her, Sarah went into the restaurant. When she returned, she told us that it would only be fifteen minutes until we would get seated.
I was dumbfounded. Why did we get such a drastically different answer? Was it because I looked a little ragged and unshaven from my long day? Â Or was it because Sarah looked polished and upscale, someone who fit in with the restaurant’s demographic?
My thoughts quickly faded as I sat down with the others for an enjoyable meal, filled with great conversation and too much sangria. It was the perfect way to start my week long Maryland vacation, amongst friends (even thought I felt bad for Gabe, Sarah’s husband who was stuck there listening to bloggers gossip for several hours. Â Luckily there was a lot of sangria for him to drink and ease his pain.)
Later in the week, I would recall that experience making the restaurant reservation. Â While there is a good chance that Sarah got the table simply because one opened up, I also imagined the reason involving other issues such as class, gender, identity, pigeonholing, profiling, and our need to categorize each other (branding!), something that would be discussed over and over at the Theory of the Web conference at the University of Maryland. I would talk about this would Bon after the conference. I would also confront it — head on — particularly my own racial biases — as I switched buses several days later in Baltimore, home of some of the worst burnt-out, crime-ridden areas that I have ever seen.
More later.
Is there any cliche more annoying than “Life happens when you are making other plans? I hate this expression for the obvious reason – because it speaks the truth.
My father planned family vacations three years ahead of time. No joke. I have tried desperately to rid myself of this ignoble inheritance. But it is stuck in my brain like the writing on my father’s calendars hanging over his desk.
I recently took a trip to Maryland to visit some friends. I spent a week planning it out beforehand, like my father might have done, mapping it out as precisely as the storming of Normandy, or more accurately, a housewife on that Extreme Couponing show looking to buy $2000 worth of pasta and Ivory Soap for $1.59. I wanted to go as inexpensively as possible, another trait I inherited from my father; I splurge on others more than myself.
Using my advanced Google research skills, honed from years of looking up my own name on search engines, I accumulated the data that I needed and created the ultimate cheapskate’s road trip from New York to Maryland.
I would take the Bolt Bus from NYC, a bus line familiar more to college students than myself. I could go round-trip to the Washington D.C. area for a mere $30 round trip. While not the most glamorous methods of travel, seeing that it picked up passengers in New York a block away from Penn Station, in between a Sbarro pizza restaurant and a XXX Peep Store, it was only $30!
Next, I needed a nice hotel for two nights in the D.C./College Park, Maryland area. I found it in Greenbelt, Maryland, via Priceline bidding, for $50 a night.  After those two nights, I would head east towards the coast and stay with my friend Jennifer, which would cost me nothing.
My best deal connected with my trip was for the rental car. I discovered a weekend deal with a Maryland Enterprise Rental Car for only $9.99 a night! Woo-hoo. My father would have been proud.
The Bolt bus was surprising comfortable. I leaned back in my chair, proud of my perfect planning. I thought about applying for a job with Arthur Frommer Travel Guides as a consultant. I am a traveling God.
“Smooth sailing,” I said to the college dude sitting next to me in his Columbia University hoodie. “I went to Columbia, too, you know!” I added.
He didn’t seem to care. He was listening to music on his iPhone. But I didn’t mind his rudeness. I was in a good mood because of my perfect travel plans. I just wouldn’t donate to the alumni fund this year.
After two hours of traveling, we stopped in Wilmington, Delaware at a food court. I knew about this, as any seasoned travel expert would, from reading the Bolt Bus Forum online ahead of time.
The bus driver bellowed into his microphone, “If you need to use the restroom, go fast, because I’m leaving in ten minutes, with you or without you.”
On the Bolt bus forum, there were several stories of passengers left behind in the food court in Wilmington, Delaware.
But I was relaxed, even as I strolled into the food court to stretch my legs. Our affable bus driver, a middle-aged African-American with a deep voice like Isaac Hayes, would never leave anyone at the food court. He was just too nice of a guy.  I had read on the Bolt Bus Forum that the company had improved their hiring process ever since one of their passengers had videotaped a driver nodding off at the wheel, and promptly posted it on YouTube.  Yay, social media!  Our bus driver rocked!
Here is a photo I took in the food court and posted on Twitter, providing proof to the world, that yes, I have now peed in Delaware! Add it to my list.
After arriving in Maryland, exactly on schedule, as I expected, I called Enterprise Rental Car to pick me up at the station, just like I had pre-arranged with the office. Within ten minutes, an SUV appeared in the terminal pick-up area, driven by a young Enterprise employee wearing a snazzy green tie.
The rental office was a few minutes away. As he drove, we discussed Washington politics. He knew way more insider gossip than I did. I wondered if everyone in the DC area followed the latest federal government news, much like every supermarket checkout girl in Los Angeles knew the latest Hollywood box-office numbers.
“Let’s get you in and out,” he said as we stepped into the office, which was located behind a Cadillac dealership. “By the way, we have a few extra Cadillacs available to rent. If you want, I’ll give you one for the same price that you have now.”
$9.99 a day for a Cadillac?
“No, thank you,” I said. “It will be easier for me to park a smaller car.”
He seemed surprised by my refusal, even a little disappointed, but he shrugged it off.
My reason for not wanting the car was a white lie. I didn’t want the Cadillac because I had already ordered a compact car, not a Cadillac. The compact car was pre-ordained, like the visions of Nostradamus.  Everything was proceeding on schedule, and I worried that one slight change in the stacking of the dominos could cause them all to collapse. Since I ordered a compact car online, it would BE a compact car. There would be no dreaming big when I have a plan.
“Whatever you want,” he said, stepping behind his computer system. “I’m here to make your experience with Enterprise a superior one.”
I made a note to myself to commend this employee, even filling out one of those “How Did We Do?” cards before I left, giving him a “helpful” score of “10.”
I handed him my California Driver’s License and my Mastercard, even before he had the chance to ask me for them. I knew the rules. And I was on a schedule.  Soon, I would be relaxing in my non-smoking with a King bed and free wi-fi hotel room, taking a breather before I headed out to a tapas bar in D.C. to meet some friends.
“There’s a little problem,” said the Enterprise guy, as he handed me back my driver’s license.
My California driver’s license had expired on my birthday, a month ago. My new card was apparently 3000 miles away, on Sophia’s kitchen table in Los Angeles. I called her and she wasn’t home.  Enterprise wouldn’t allow me to rent me a car.
I didn’t know how to get to my hotel from the rental car office. Or into Washington D.C. for dinner that night. Or to the University of Maryland for a web conference the next day. I also knew that Jennifer was busy cleaning her house on the Maryland shore, awaiting my arrival in two days.  My perfect plan was crumbling like stale coffee cake.
Is there any cliche more annoying than “Life happens when you are making other plans? Yes! It is annoying.
But we have no choice but to accept this as reality.
After all, when we later sit down and tell our stories, it is never the planning that holds any interest to the listener. It is the life that seeps into the cracks. That is the story.  My Maryland trip ultimately became more interesting and fulfilling without a car as I scrambled from one location to the next, like a contestant on “The Amazing Race,” jumping from buses to taxis to shuttles to trains to subways to boats. It was only when I was rushing to catch a connection, frantically reaching it within seconds, that my heart would race and my mind would spin like a top, and I would understand, finally, in some metaphysical way, what absolutely unbridled passion must feel like when making love to a woman with complete abandon, not knowing where or why or when.
The whole week in Maryland was a gift to me. It became a lesson that I had never received from my dear father, as wonderful a man as he was, because he was so rooted in the planning the journey rather than the embracing it.
Life has very little to do with the plans.
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1) I have set up a date for when I am traveling to Los Angeles, and moving my stuff from Sophia’s place.
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2)Â Sat across from an available woman, for at least an hour in real life, and flirted with her.
3) Decided in which city I’m going to live.
4) Made a decision on my next writing project.
5) Exercised for at least three days in a row.
If you remember, in the beginning of March, I took at bus trip to the Berkshires to visit Jenn. The bus trip was like therapy, pushing me to change. It was the open road — the moving landscape, the assortment of characters sitting across from me. Who are they? Why are they taking the bus? What is their story? Are they in transition? Divorced? On the run? Starting a new life in another state? Is everyone in America escaping from someone or running toward something?
But I needed more. I wanted new insights into life. And there is even one journey better than a bus trip to Massachusetts. A bus trip to Maryland.
Bloggers I’ve known for years. Cyborgology conferences. A long-time online friend that I have never met.
Blue Crabs.
Baltimore Whores.





