I've planned to blog in the grand old fashion tonight. Make up for sparse presence the past few weeks. I've been reading Tropic of Cancer and marveling and how little I knew about the history of American writing. Discovering Henry Millar years after falling in love with Hunter S. Thompson and Kerouac and Burroughs is a bit embarassing; like introducing yourself as a stranger to a party host, late into the night and drunk and having the time of your life, feeling indeed like you belong, like you own a bit of the place.

"So this is your house?" you'd probably exclaim with some measure of mock surprise, trying to make like you didn't feel like king of the joint and you hadn't been cutting loose all about the living room. "Oh, you mean Anias Nin over there, you mean that was the love of your life..." and so on.

But the thing is, we being kindred souls and all I don't think Henry would mind.

Kindred souls. If he were around these days he'd probably get that a lot. Damn annoying too, I'd imagine, all the half-assed punks who think they measure up just because they'd slept in rough places and written a few searing journal entries.

That's a thing about me though; more often than not I assume I'm on someone's level, no matter who they are. I tend not to revere people I meet or otherwise come to feel I know. I don't know whether this is a good thing or not. Could be confidence and a desire to relate equitably, a resistance to the cult of personality. Could be pure poison hubris. Certainly leaves one hurting for role models.

A lot's been going on the past week with work and not a lot else. What with the stress and all I've been getting short with some of my co-workers, my co-worker roommate Dan in particular; our joking reparte about whether or not signing Justin Timberlake on to Music For America would be a good thing or not taking on sharp edges at times. But we're out of the worst, and I've thankfully regained consciousness of my gruffness, so things should even out. It's hard sometimes when there's no Steve Wangh to tell me I'm being an asshole.

And so I want to tell you all about the place I'm living and what -- really -- is going on inside of me, but I need to have another burbon, peruse some more tawdry whoring genius parisian-themed prose and then sleep like the dead for six hours or more. It turns out to be more of a challange to meaningfully spit content when I work at something else all day and night; I think I can make this work in any case. Too much of a habit to break now.

Sleeping in the office tonight. I still set my own hours; go figure. Anyway, behold the fruits of my labor:

http://beta.musicforamerica.com

The real deal goes out sometime in the next 72 hours, but if you're so inclined go ahead and take a test drive. Check out what I'll be working on for the next year. It's going to be some exciting stuff.

Where have I been the past few days?

Probably at the office.

...details coming soon

Saturday sun here at the cafe next door to my place. Lovely spot with neighborly owners, good coffee and tea and wireless internet access. The hood is good.

Out late last night, the Zeitgeist, and had the whole Jungle household crashing in my barely furnished apartment. I felt guilty having a bed and everyone else sharing our one couch and the cushions and the thermarest. I'm up in the big house on the hill, a plush Serta bought off two friendly lesbiens from Oakland. It's all fine in the morning with coffee and biscuits and gravy at Als. Maybe we'll see Bubba Hotep later today; depends on how work goes.

At the bar trying to have converstaion, trying to look at women, hearing myself talk -- my voice repeating cracky high tones -- and wondering what it was all about. Shots of cheap Irish Whisky (Powers) and pints of Steam. Stopping off at the El Salvadoran joint for way more food than we could eat and a lovely hit of orchata before coming to rest. Frisco is a small town at heart, I think. It's got that feeling; friends and family and familiar faces.

Deep into my 11th hour today in the office and alone now at 6:45 on a friday, a creeping loneliness sweeps in with the dusk. Here I am on the run from things -- we all realized this was a contributing factor to my readyness to move across country -- and it's not quite working. My thoughts cling to lapsed times, deadening my soul, moments coming back into the minds eye; sometimes unbidden, sometimes dredged up on purpose for the sake of feeling. Or at least feeling what feeling was like, passion regrettably now residing in tenses past.

Don't get me wrong. It's not all desolation. There are sprouts, curious things emerging from the rich San Franciscan soil. But they're fits and flashes, a blurry moment of lust last weekend in the loft with the skate-ramp, but only a moment. Literally. Seconds: flash, eye contact, words, phone number, nothing. The rest is ashes and application, no phoenix yet, dig? Work and sleep and a (still) mostly empty apartment. The moments of coordinated unity are good, the click of teamwork, but when all the purpose falls away and it's just me and my life and my memories... well, the walls are pretty rickety.

And I'm reading Henry Miller and that's probably not helping.

So I'll trundle along. There's too much at stake to get kneecapped by something as banal and ubiquitous as catching a cold and missing your ex-girlfriend. Focus is the premium thing now.

I'm sick; some kind of cold. I think it might be stress related along with the fact that I've got pimples on my forehead for the first time in four years and my hair seems to be falling out. The good news is I've got a nice comfey bed, a kettle and some tea, and a couple good books to see me through. The bad news is that Ahnuld is now the governor; though I think he'll face a recall too -- probably at the same time as the presidential primary in March.

Working hard for the future... good conversation with Marcus tonight; good times at the office and after with co-workers. It's an adventure, moving to a new place. Lots of stimulation in lots of ways, and almost all of it positive.

Now time to knuckle, to bear down as my Father would say. A savage orgy of production is the only thing I will accept from myself over the next two weeks.

Out for a walk, window-shopping bikes and housewares, saw some dress shoes power-screwed to a plywood construction wall over the posters, highly reminiscent of where I got my painting last night. They had little typed messages on them.

"Who are we trying to impress?"

"Who do you watch?"

"Who watches you?"

It's beauty here in my new 'hood. Not a starbucks in sight, but a beautiful homey cafe just downstairs; nice Korean(?) couple, lots of regulars, classical music, wifi. Strolling along in the afternoon; sun; palm trees; it's fucking California, the street with a mexican feeling. Looks like I'll be trading my greasy pizza by the slice for tacos, a change of pace is nice.

And is it just me, or has the RIAA going after Kazaa users made Gnutella a much more lively place to swap files? The music industry is painfully clueless. Technology remains at least one step ahead of the law, and the gap is widening. Adapt or die, sucka.

I went on a more or less blind date tonight; girl who's phone number I got last weekend, more than a few drinks along. Here's what went down. Feeling free to be assholically honest because this young woman doesn't have a computer, prolly never see it.

She's a fit white republican/libertarian deadhead bartender and sales enthusiast, an aspiring writer from small-town Michigan with an intense marijuanna habbit and a lot of big ideas about a government who's only function is to patrol the borders. She's 21; started a think-tank with a friend. Yeah, welcome to San Francisco.

But she's cute; gap toothed, competative in wit and a player at the game of pool. We did some sushi and some pool at a dive bar -- only one game head to head, but a jovial time -- then crossed town to hit up a house party at one of these pot clubs they have around here. Lot's of sturdy older folks with grass. Lawyers and clean-up titans balancing out the flaky or over the top denizens.

He's got clippings of his victories posted to the wall. "I got this guy and freed that guy and won this one; and this one, this one I defended the right of this local artist to sell his paintings on the streets. I see him out there sometimes." He's the right kind of guy, throwing out welcoming arms even to the needy and un-listening attention hogs and cynics of the world.

But it was mostly dead, so we got dutifully high and shot the shit a bit, my best moment feeling kinship with the rugged guy taking charge of the garbage. On the walk home digging the vibe of the city and having a girl to stroll with. We endured some slight tension in the red light tenderloin, a crowd of frattish guys with no manners, but soon hopped a vintage trolly, one of the old authentic San Francisco models from the art-deco era. Gorgeous atmostphere.

On the walk from there we found an art gallery thrown up over the ubiquitous poster advertisements. It was budget gallery, one of their wild postings. I got a good little painting (a touch warped, presumably by fog) for $15, and a token of my first night living in San Fransisco.

So the story has a dull ending. We went back to her place and met the roommates. I had water and made funny with everyone, some more smoke to go around, until eventually it was time to come home. She walked me and we hugged; and now I sit on my sleeping pad with my hip-bottle of wild turkey and it's last two inches.

I'm not back like that yet, and I don't know how to talk to younger girls and her chemicality was a little offputting. I feel like I imagine Jeremy did the first night he went out with Stanton, a wild party uptown and her SLC emegre wild child chafing with his straightlaced New England Mayflower style. Back in August 2001, the place where I met yuliya. But tonight I couldn't get any real chemestry going, even though the conversation was pretty good and she's certainly an attractive woman. Perhaps another spin before judgement. Can't help but think of this as one of those awful television shows, but I guess that's just part of the culture.

So I recently discovered that outgoing mail from me sent between tuesday and thursday may not have gone out. If you're expecting to hear from me, ping me again please.