Hey, happy turkey day to everyone who celebrates. I'm going to be taking it easy this weekend, working on some writing and probably watching a bunch of movies. Blogging may be light or may be heavy, depending.

Thought for the night: anyone who seems to be doing magic either has sufficently advanced technology or is praciticing the art of misdirection.

In the midst of all the hubbub, I missed out on the fact that I've been at this for more than two years now. The site started back in November of 2001. Anyone up for some Outlandish Classic?

...apparently I am. May of 2002 sure was an interesting month. Or what about back in september 2002, when I was freaking out about a lot of things.

To read through the archives is a strange experience being where I am now. Strange indeed.

A while back in Brooklyn I audio-recorded some of my performance text on a layabout morning. Recently I was talking with some of the heads at MfA, a little bull session about the Movement and my predilictions for poetry. It reminded me of some of the stuff I've done on stage, so I tried to modify things on the fly to specify the trip for them.

It got me thinking, and I had this song stuck in my head, so Friday night on my way home from work I stuck the song and the audio together and found the match to be tight. It needs some work, but maybe you'll dig it. Here's an Mp3 version of ...and I'm not Fucking Around with musical backup from Radar (which I picked up off a random comp CD from 2001).

This is the text that got me labelled "the Tony Robbins of Burning Man." I want to stick it into a subversive flash animation; kind of a blueprint for a revolution. Let me know if it hits.

Lots of sunday thoughts about life and everything. We rented a car to (work) drive to Santa Cruz, road trip with Dan and Brian, winding around hwy 17 -- steep, curvy, traffic -- then sitting around the show, cold little antichamber where the tables and concessions were; muffled music from inside, people milling. Some interest in our stuff, a little conversation with the guys, a couple, more than a couple, really pretty women, alluring in spite of their Dennis Kucinich leanings. Nothing doing though: no tao of Steve or even goofball bumbling introduction energy. I'm blocked up lately, flow impeded. The gut-eating stress is off, but even in absence of external pressures, my juice remains well and truly stoppered.

Not that there's no internal pressure -- no doubt about that, there's mojo built up a-plenty -- but it currently has no means of articulation, no focus, no room to maneuver, no way of becoming active. My chi, my desire, my heart, spirit and to some degree even my mind are all clown car cramped at the moment. Maybe it's an ego problem; not enough, too much, I don't really know. All's I'm saying is that there's a point at which bound energy is either liberated or begins the entropic dissipation the laws of thermodynamics demand. The sooner this not gets undone, the sooner we can get back to the dance.

The phenomena cuts across all aspects of the life. Work, friends, art, politics, sex -- you name it -- and what's more it can go on forever if I let it; that would be a bum trip for sure.

Long time ago, Mark told me that 2003 was going to be the Year of Getting Shit Done. He's been odly prophetic in some ways, but it's been a sad kind of journey. People are splitting up, the world is splitting up it seems, and instead of making me angry it's starting to just make me sad. I've been wondering when we will have a chance to get back to the fine art of living rather that sweating the future in such an enormous way. I look forward to that day, but I want it to be because we did something rather than because we turned our backs on the situation.

Had an engaging and inspiring visit from the Zacker, my cohort from the DeanSpace project. Also got fun random contact from some attractive girl in New York because she ran into two people who knew me, one through the Dean campaign and one through shakespeare. I'm working on something to send to my NYC crew for Axiom. My buddy Tom is down from Portland this weekend. And Dan and I managed to work out again. These trends are good.

Thanks to an invite from Buddy Brit and $45 disposable income, I got to rub elbows with some of the digerati last night, supping at Joi Ito's dinner at LuLu's in SoMa. I sat across from the Director of Business Development for Red Herring (which I thought was defunct but has been given new life), and between one of the directors of the EFF and the guy behind Tribe.net, a kind of next-gen Friendster. It was an interesting experience.

I was young and poor for the crowd, uneasy with the aristocratic air that occasionally wafted through. I'm still not free of classism. Not that these people are stuffy or victorian or even looked down their nose at me and my black hoodie. In fact, I got an email fishing for extra dollars; the booze went over budget. But there is a kind of insiderism that rears its head from time to time, something to do with ready capital, tastes and a specific strain of education I think. A few glasses of wine helped dull that sensation, and I spieled about my organization a little; listened to people talk about their Tivo habbits, attending film festivals, social software, and the like.

The most valuable connection I made was with Steven Clift, who's an old hand at e-politics in Minnesota, next week's research focus for MfA). The person I most wanted to talk to and didn't was Howard Rheingold, who's "paint your shoes!" meme-card I carry in my wallet. The most fun moment was having a jet-lagged and boozy Ito physically inquire as to why I was massaging the bridge of my nose. The most interesting thing was hearing Doc Searls talk: he sounds younger than most of the 30-somethings there, and gives off the enthusiastic energy of a big-wave surfer dude. Not what I expected.

Namedrop namedrop blah blah blah. The real lession I picked up is that people are planning on making tons of money off of social software. I don't know how I feel about that.

Pedaling down the mission on my way home it occurred to me that having 100,000 unique visitors to your blog every month must be as potentially corrupting as any other form of celebrity. At the very least it presents a distancing information asymmetry; people read your site and they feel like they've had an interaction with you, which is true from their perspective, but you haven't learned anything about them. I get that from my friends, so I imagine it must be a strange land indeed for these curve-busting trend-surfers. I'm happy to do my own thing in my own time; but I want MfA to be wildly successful. There's an angle here somewhere.

We got a weight set, and I took a zig-zag bicicle sojourn up to Twin Peaks. It was a good thing; pumping a little iron and then tearassing up those car chase worthy San Francisco hills. I was aiming for that giant radio tower that reminds me of the Burning Man -- Sutro Tower -- but I missed the access road by a couple miles. Got some altitude though, sweat and burn and then all those good free moments coming down as a payoff... passing a yuppie chick in an Acura coupe on her way to some hilly organinc market, blowing a stop sign with no hands, perfect unity with my headphones and then a roller-coaster lurch over the edge of the next downhill. Almost lost it there, and it was a real moment of zen frenzy excitement, the precious present.

Feeling righteously sore, wondering when, if ever, I'll have time to pursue the finer things in life. Lying down for a bit, just contemplating, wondering how long it will be until I stop missing things that are miles and months away. It occurs to me that I'm violating three out of four of my axioms of living with my current lifestyle. I'm struggling; I'm keeping a lot of things to myself; and I'm not being present. Don't really know what to do about it. Time and exercise and experience and work -- and possibly drinking -- are the only things I can think of in my bag of available tricks that might help.

Getting laid would probably be good, but that doesn't seem terribly likely given my schedule, unless I can meet some political prospects or something. Actually this should be possible, but there's still my attitude in general to be dealt with, matters of self-esteem and those pesky pesky standards. Maybe I could ask Molly for advice on trolling through Friendster. Something's got to give pretty soon here.

Spent last night getting the lay of the land in my 'hood. Checked out five bars and rode around a lot. The scene here in the mission tends to be a little older than me, a touch square. Maybe I got the wrong wires crossed, but it felt like the alienating aspects of the East Village and good old Billysburg got lumped together. I also don't remember how I got home.

Also, where do I get off labeling things square? What gives me that right? Am I not also a workaday Californian with an office down the peninsula? Should I say goodbye to bohemia? I don't want to, but perhaps it's not up to me.

On the other hand, I'm no David Brooks -- who I used to respect somewhat vis a vis his appearances on the PBS News Hour opposite Mark Shields -- writing in a snarky fashion about online dating and capitalizing Web. What a rube. Maybe that's the NYT making him do that, but he writes like someone who's belabored just trying to move his arms within his starchy outfit, who's never slummed around in the public sluce of desire and anguish that is last call. Thank God for my shaggy hair and stubble and ease with bodily functions and collection of ecclectic Mp3's; can't be long before I stumble into something sweet and sweaty. Irony or thinly veiled confession? You be the judge.

I'm feeling alittle overwhelmed. It's coming on hard and fast, too big to duck, too wide and formless to calculate a decent slice-through. It's afro-hatian dance class with a bad hangover. It's facing down a mean slate of traffic; four lanes oncoming, and not a beat to proj on to.

So I remember the beginning of this summer, taking a drive up 101 with my man Mark, talking about social prolematics, the little things that drive people crazy about each other. The golden fields rolling by on either side of us. Summer on the American road; strangers in a strange land. We had some good talk there in that pickup truck.

I don't even know why this memory is significant; too scattershot here writing on the commuter train to keep a thought on track. Too frazzed to push out any meaningful content.

Mark and Shannon -- his girlfriend of some seven years, lately fiance -- broke up a few months ago. A big shakup for the rest of us too; they were the template. This is public knowledge now so it's ok to write about, I think. I live in a certain fear of stepping on toes, a repressed and subliminal fear, one that my ego sometimes rebells against.

And so last weekend, Mark traveling down for the Halloween holiday, first time I'd seen him since August, and he showed up with these girls three in tow. Technically they showed up with him in tow, but the point is he was with one of them, and I didn't really know how to react. It made me tense and uncomfortable, because it was real friendly, the way they were, real reminiscent of the usual scene except one of the roles had been recast. And we were supposed to go on like nothing changed? Oh man. That brought out the unease, yeah.

And then the Saturday afternoon after, he happened by and we had to talk about it and I was high on tea and really let my mouth steal the show. It was a mistake because I was speaking partly (largely) out of frustration, not what you'd call constructive criticism. He'd kind of crapped up my movie, and I was pissed, fuck his situation. Selfish selfish selfish.

Can't stick two things together, can't carry a tune or hold a spot. Makes me want to beat on something for a time; focus with my fists. That's not a solution, but it's certainly a desire. I wish I were tired but instead I'm plain dog hungry.

It's a lot to try and handle, all this. Catch myself clenching my jaw a lot lately; bad suff. How are things? Things are essentially decent but I'm feeling buffetted by all the chaos, a surging tide of incompatible orders, and I want somebody to love, an out, even if temporary.

Take it seriously, but don't be fucking stogdy. Have a little fun and quick judging everyone.

Things are smoothing out a little bit here. I'm starting to take slightly better care of myself. Beter diet, a touch more exercise. Hadn't been doing that very well as of late; tons of impulse control, ears back against head, a constant state of cat-like readyness. It was getting to be a pain. I've yet to hang loose in California, but I feel it coming. I miss New York like hell, and as my man the Girth forced me to admit the other day, I'm plainly not yet over Sasha (science for grownups... holy shit was I in love!), but in spite of this, I've got to jump in to where I am with both feet. Should I ever go back to those things from my past, it will be on new terms. Progress must be made. Take it seriously. Now have fun.

And you know what? It's working. A soft hand is a better means of steering the live-wire Koenig. Got to have a little room to maneuver.