Martin Dressler: The Tale of an American Dreamer

It's been a minute since I hit you with some literary thoughts. My bad.

Ten days ago I wrote that I would read Philip Roth, David Ignatius, Stella Rimington or Daniel Silva next. Instead I ended up tackling Steven Millhauser's, "Martin Dressler: The Tale of an American Dreamer," which won the Pulitzer waaaaay back in 1997.

Remember 1997? Bill Clinton was in the White House. I was in college. Ish was lovely.

Anyway, I read the book last week but am just now getting around to writing about it. I haven't started reading anything else yet, and for awhile I probably won't. I'm engulfed with my writing these days, and I don't want to pick up a book when I'm this distracted. I might start reading Alison Lurie's "Foreign Affairs," but only because it looks like an easy breezy read, something you can plow through in a day or two. Plus it's been sitting on my table for days. Plus, unlike most of the other books I have in queue, this is one I could probably do without. Sounds like a compelling argument to read it, right?

Millhauser's book: Loved the main character, Martin Dressler, and I thought his terrible choice for a wife felt exceptionally authentic, even if the courtship was a bit odd. I think that last part had more to do with turn-of-the-century culture than anything you could ascribe to Millhauser, though.

Some of the writing felt choppy at times. Heavy use of colons. Awkward sentences. Et cetera. I had one particular example in mind, but I flipped through the book two or three times and couldn't find it. But it's not like you're going to read the book anyway, and hell, it's not like anyone reads this blog anyway, so I gave up and moved onto something else.

So there you have it. Good book, definitely not my favorite. Great descriptions of early 20th-century New York, especially Manhattan. Probably would never have guessed that it won the Pulitzer, but hey, Martin Dressler was inspiring nonetheless. Find your dream and do something about it, ya digg?!!

A quintessentially San Francisco moment

Last night after dinner in the Castro, Andrew, Bert and I walked northwest on Market Street, back toward Nob Hill and SOMA. Almost immediately we noticed maybe a half dozen helicopters and at least one small airplane.

Our first thought? MANHUNT.

What else could it be?

Then on two separate occasions, strangers noticing our curiosity took it upon themselves to inform us just why our city was under aerial assault.

"Grateful Dead concert," each of them said. The first guy looked like a homeless dude, so we thought maybe he was stuck in the '60s, '70s, '80s or even early '90s, but when we heard it again, and saw a bunch of hippies headed the other direction, it gave me pause:

• Isn't this a lot of firepower for a Dead show?
  
• Hasn't Jerry been dead for nearly 15 years?
• If you want to catch a hippie, isn't the best way still string, a stick, a box and a Sammy Smith's Oatmeal Stout?

A few minutes later we realized it was a San Francisco protest headed in our direction. Lots of people angry with Israel for its recent attack on Gaza. Lots of slogans shouted at an otherwise empty Market Street.

The most inflammatory things I saw? A dreidel that someone turned into a noose, and an Israeli flag with a swastika instead of its typical Star of David.

Hopefully during the New Year the whole world learns to chill out a bit, stop killing each other and acting like fools. No resolutions for me this year. All I want to do is stay true to myself and have more fun in 2009 than I did in 2008. Life is short. Enjoy it... and don't drink and drive!

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Rampagia the Cat

Last night I went to O's UFC 92 party in Fremont.

Where is Fremont exactly?

I'm not sure. About 45 minutes away from San Francisco. Somewhere in the East Bay. I wasn't really paying attention to where I was going, even though I was driving. As designated driver, I kicked it with Rampagia the Cat while everyone else drank Jagerbombs. Somebody felt great this morning.

Hint: That somebody was me.

Congratulations to underdogs Frank Mir and Sugar Evans for amazing victories. Begrudged congrats to Rampage Jackson, who knocked the Axe Murderer out cold.

Goodnight, Wanderlei.

Last night I had a chance to test out the new Beats By Dre earbud Monster headphones. As soon as I'm flush with extra scratch, I know what I'll be buying. They're awesome. I'm in love.

Today the Baltimore Ravens made the playoffs for the first time since 2006.

Beautiful weekend. Time to get back to my writing.

$2 PBRs

Last night my buddy and fellow writer Broke-Ass Stuart was soliciting friends for a night out in the Bay, and I figured why not. Yesterday had been productive: 4,000 words written and edited, somewhere between six and ten hours of creativity on full blast, enough to make my brain and eyes hurt. But a good hurt, one that comes from doing something well.

When you have no income, there is no better person to go drinking with than Broke-Ass Stuart.

Why? Because he publishes books on how to survive with only a shoestring budget.

We went to Bender's at 19th and South Van Ness, where we met Stuart's beautiful and hilarious friend, plus the mapmaker for his recently released New York edition of "Broke-Ass Stuart's Guide to Living Cheaply," and also some random dude who broke his arm two nights ago but still hasn't gone to the hospital. He was drunk and had that puppy in a makeshift sling. I cringed but did not bother chorusing the opinion that he should go see a doctor. He had heard it enough already.

How did said random dude break his arm?

Apparently he was being hassled by some cops when he told a female officer that she had a quote-unquote nice rack. So she snapped his arm. Sounds like a situation where nobody really traveled the path of righteousness.

Being in the Mission, we of course ended the night with Mexican food.



On the way home I passed by City Hall and took this photo.


City Hall is actually behind me in this shot, and that building off to the right is the Asian Art Museum. I used to walk through this spot daily when I lived on Van Ness and worked in the East Bay, commuting via the nearby Civic Center BART station.

That's enough of a history lesson for today, folks. I've got things to do, including a trip to Fremont to watch UFC 92 tonight: Sugar, Frank and Wanderlei!

PS: Buy Stuart's book!

KUNG PAO CHRISTMAS

Two things about this photo.

1) That's a smoke detector in between the duck sauce and egg rolls. I've got to disable that thing every time I want to turn the heat on in my apartment. Otherwise it goes off.

2) Yes, my delivery spot is called Ho's. Fifty-fifty chance that along with a knock at your door, you'll hear, "Ho with your food!" All white meat optional.

Merry Christmas from Dewey and Eddie Murray!

I hope y'all are all having a lovely holiday!

By now I've spoken with my brothers and parents and also Santa Claus, who dropped off some dope presents at my apartment: like Eddie Murray, courtesy of my bro and painted by Derek Erdman. The painting is on wood. It's pretty cool. I have no idea how I am going to hang it up, though. I gave away my drill last month. Plus I'm not particularly handy when it comes to tools and screws drills and whatever else it is that guys are supposed to have mastered by my age. Why do you think I gave away my drill? Because I'm a nice guy?



Mom gets points for this authentic Villanova hoops jersey.



I know what you're thinking: Regular guys should absolutely never under any circumstances wear sleeveless basketball jerseys. "How are you going to fit your massive guns into such a small jersey, Dewey?"

I don't know. I guess I'll have to stop lifting so many weights.

Despite having dropped a hint to Mom that said jersey would make quality March Madness wear, I will probably almost never wear this thing, but I'll sleep better knowing that it's in my closet, and when Villanova plays in the NCAA tournament, you'll find me and #33 at Greens on Polk Street.

My friend Rachel sent me this photo from Tahoe today...



...and it reminded me of a Chronicle photo I saw this morning, part of an article on San Francisco's weather history: sounds boring but there's some interesting stuff there, unless you're not from the Bay or living here, in which case it's probably, well, boring.


Snow in the city: Feb. 5, 1976

Not sure what I'll do now. I imagine the city will be mostly dead tonight. Maybe I'll read, write, take a nap, drink a Holiday beer, call some more friends and family, blah blah blah...

Enjoy the holidays, tell someone you love them, and please don't drink and drive.

FUNNY ENGLISH

It drives me crazy when those fluent in English use poor grammar or allow for lazy typos, but Asian shopkeepers will always have a special place in my heart. Such signs are commonplace here in the Bay. This one is from where I do my laundry, on Bush near Taylor.

Photo diary from an unemployed and sickly Internet gangsta

It is 1:11 p.m. and I'm about to start writing for the day. My goal today is 4,000 words.

Here is a recap of my day so far.


8:00 AM: I didn't even stage this photo. There are probably 11 different drugs there. Only a few of them are working, and those only marginally.

I better not get sick again for a while. It's an inefficient way to go through life: do something -- cough -- say something -- blow your nose -- think something only to have your thought interrupted by one of those automated phone calls from Walgreens letting you know that your prescription is ready...

Enough already!



10:30 AM: Breakfast on the house! Thank you, Andrew Machado!



11:00 AM: Andrew Machado with yours truly, drinking terribly overpriced but serviceable coffee from the Blue Bottle Cafe in San Francisco. I was up most of the night coughing, which is maybe why I look so terrible and pale. Either that or its my Irish blood.



Noon: Christmas present from the older bro. Picked it up at my old office. I'm curious. My best guess is that it's some sort of rare or autographed or custom LP having something to do with Guided By Voices or Bob Pollard. Please don't tell me if I'm correct, Doug, and no I did not do any research on the sender; I promise.

Dear Influenza, please go away

Tonight is my fourth night with the flu. At first I pegged it as a cold, but now I'm not so sure. I haven't felt this sick since leaving Arizona last year after the Super Bowl, when for a week straight I went to bed around 6:00 a.m. and woke up maybe 90 minutes later to start working. There was no question what made me sick then, but I can't really figure what got me this time. Not that it really matters, I suppose. Sick is sick.

I haven't been sitting around doing nothing, though, which is probably at least partly why I'm still not feeling well. I read a few books and wrote somewhere in the neighborhood of 14,000 words. That's about 56 pages of a paperback (~250 per page). Still a long way to go, though.

John Grishman: "The Appeal"
I mentioned this one a few weeks ago when I was halfway through: "It's not especially good, but I didn't really expect it to be." Eh, it got better. I enjoy a good legal thriller every now and then, and Grisham is the master, but it would be nice if every once in a while he wrote a book that didn't take place in Mississippi. I bought this title when I had five minutes to spare in an airport bookstore. I played it safe and was neither thrilled nor disappointed.

Stephen King: "Pet Sematary"
My friend Bubbleman gave me an old copy of "Pet Sematary" when I visited him in the East Bay months ago. Maybe I should go back more frequently. I hadn't remembered ever reading the book or seeing the movie, but it all seemed eerily familiar as I plowed through it. I've only read a few, but this is my favorite King novel to date.

Joe R. Landsdale: "The Bottoms"
Landsdale works wonders with the first-person narrative. The setting itself is a central character, the sign of a job well done. The plot is no slouch, either. Plus he makes the Ku Klux Klan look stupid, icing on the cake. Edgar Award Winner in 2001.

PS: I just counted -- being sick is boring! -- and I have 23 books that I've bought but haven't read yet. Not sure what I'll read next. Probably something by Philip Roth, David Ignatius, Stella Rimington or Daniel Silva. I guess I'll figure that out now. I was going to write some more, but I'm not feeling up for it. Maybe I'll just take some medicine and go to bed.

PepsiCo loves the environment

Last week, the day after I got laid off, I got an email from a coworker about a big box that had been delivered with my name. My brother had told me to keep an eye out for an 'awkward' package from him, so I figured this must be it.

Oh boy. How exciting.

The box was large and somewhat heavy. Maybe three feet long, 18 inches wide. Probably not quite that large, but no more than a few inches smaller in each direction. I lugged it across Market Street and up Nob Hill. To anyone who thinks I don't live in Nob Hill, try walking to my apartment without losing your breath. Yeah, that hill's big, ain't it?

I get home, open the box, and it's full of... GATORADE?!!



Six 20-ounce Gatorades and one 16.9-ounce bottle.

From a PR agency in Chicago, presumably because Gatorade has a superficial relevance to my past job at Yardbarker, but honestly, what did you want me to blog about, Mr. PR Man?

• The catchy new slogans?
• The fact that it tastes exactly the same as it always has?
• Your mailing less than 140 ounces of juice more than 2,000 miles?
  

What happened with the Yard?

Since yesterday I've gotten a lot of questions about my departure from Yardbarker. Instead of dozens of separate emails, phone calls and text messages, I'm going to write one blog post. How's that for efficiency.

Anyway, here is the skinny: I got laid off along with eight other colleagues, nearly half the company. I don't have any regrets, and I'm not sure that I could have done anything differently to save my job. Like any other start-up, we fell victim to mistakes made during an economic climate that isn't especially forgiving. On the other hand, life is too short to make excuses. We did not get the job done, end of story.

How are you doing?
Am I sad? No, disappointed maybe. I'm certainly not bitter. I've learned to not get emotional when there is no benefit to be had, and years of freelancing taught me to have think skin and not take business personally. The past is the past, and I'm less interested in why and more interested in what and also what's next. What exactly "next" means remains to be seen, but in the meantime I'll occasionally do part-time work with the Yard as a production consultant.

What about your blogs?
I killed Hard for the Yard but will continue with Blogimore Ravens. The Grill Project was buried a while ago, and if you were one of the 11 people who enjoyed it, I'm sorry, in more ways than one. I'll also write more frequently here on my namesake site. Probably not about sports, though. Maybe MMA occasionally.

What's in your immediate future?
I started a novel in December 2005, but I put the book on the shelf when I joined the Yard in 2007. I plan on finishing my novel and maybe writing a second one. I'll probably disappear while I focus on the manuscript, so please don't take it personally when I'm a ghost. My goal is to write 10,000 words a day, although 5,000 is probably more realistic. Most novels are somewhere between 80,000 and 120,000 words. You're smart. Do the math yourself.

After that, I'll find myself a new job. In the meantime, I'm going to get back to my daily workout routine, read a lot of books, network, and listen to the new Guns N' Roses album over and over and over again. I'm impressed, Axl. All these years and all that hate and ridicule directed toward you, and still you were able to put together an amazing album. Thank you.

What kind of job do you want?
Good question. I'm not really sure. I'm a professional mutt, meaning that my experience and skills are widespread. I'm open to many things, but my next job is going to be something about which I can be passionate. I'm too old and too experienced to take a job just to take it. Whatever is next I will enjoy. Otherwise it won't be next.

Thank you for all of the support! I love you all. Except for you. Ha ha.

Last day in the Yard

Today was my last day at Yardbarker. It was a wild ride. Unfortunately it could not last longer. All the best to the people with whom I worked, especially Andrew Machado. I've never seen anyone work as hard as that guy. Lots of great experiences, no regrets.

Books (not necessarily) worth reading

Below are the books that I read in November. Unfortunately none of them were all that great. Currently I'm halfway through John Grishman's, "The Appeal." It's not especially good, but I didn't really expect it to be. I picked it up at DFW when I had five minutes to kill at the airport. Five minutes that turned into delay after delay after delay. Sometimes I wish airports had better bookstores. Actually, the one at PDX is great. Powell's Books, I think it's called.

Michael Chabon: "The Yiddish Policeman's Union"
I've been a sucker for Chabon ever since reading "Kavalier & Clay," but I haven't found any of his other reads nearly as compelling. That's not entirely true. I enjoyed "The Mysteries of Pittsburgh," but even that's a huge drop-off from his Pulitzer-prize winner. The characters in "Yiddish Policeman" were OK, I guess, but the plot was slow and the story kinda blah.

Richard Morgan: "Th1rte3n"
Morgan creates an often fascinating landscape, but he relies too heavily on deus ex machina. I realize that it's science fiction, but c'mon, too much is still too much, regardless of genre. Also, the sexual relationships between woman and machine made me roll my eyes throughout.

Gillian Flynn: "Sharp Objects"
Critically acclaimed, I suppose, but entirely overrated. None of it was believable. The ending wasn't really all that surprising. It was also too short. The last criticism was a blessing in disguise.

Ian Rankin: "Fleshmarket Alley"
I was underwhelmed. It was entertaining, though. I'd probably read another Rankin novel. That having been blogged, if you're in the mood for a thriller from the United Kingdom, I'd recommend Tana French's, "In the Woods," or P.D. James', "The Murder Room," before I'd recommend Rankin.

Michael Crichton: "Prey"
Whaddya expect? It's Crichton. Readable but not overly impressive. Actually, that's not entirely fair. I loved Crichton's "Sphere" and "Jurassic Park" -- the key difference being that I read those about 15 years ago.