I took the streetcar home yesterday. I don’t always take the streetcar to and from work, like I did with BART when I worked at Glide in San Francisco. I often take the car, dropping Alex off on the way,…
Tag: Marching to New Orleans
The Unexpected Virtue of Mardi Gras
I’ve been trying to explain to people all week what I loved so much about Mardi Gras. For those who were here, or have been here, the explanation works a little better. I am here attempting to distill an explanation,…
The Sound of Silence
One of the great challenges of the modern age is finding sufficient solitude. By “modern age”, of course, I don’t mean the 1950s, which I guess took hold of that term a while back and didn’t let go. I mean…
My Life with (Ms.) Pac-Man (or 84,400 Points Can’t Be Wrong)
Ms. Pac-Man has played a major role in my existence. I think I first played the arcade classic in the early-mid 1980s, probably just after it had come out. My father was a big fan of the early Pac-Man tables…
It Doesn’t Really Snow Here
A quick click of the refresh button will show you some new imagery around here. To review, here was the old header: And here is the new: Of course the actual versions are much larger, trying to span the entire…
On Waiting
Yesterday I went to the DMV to become an official resident of Louisiana, changing over the car registration and getting a new driver’s license. (I was allowed to smile this time, unlike in New Jersey.) It’s interesting, perhaps, that driving…
City of Lost Causes
The city of New Orleans belongs to the trees. In the rollicking residential neighborhoods of gaslamps and pillars, porches and endlessly long thin houses, the trees grow big as the houses themselves, mighty roots the size of trees in other…
Elegy for AC
The first month I lived in New Jersey, Fish and I went to see Counting Crows play at the Borgata and then stayed up most all of the night playing poker. I wrote about it here, at the time. The…
Porch Storm
He sits out on the high rickety wood porch, consuming pages like nutrients long missing from his diet. The movers, the cleaners, the gas company, everybody’s late, everybody’s nice. Except the moving truck driver from Astoria, Queens. Of course. He’s…
Facing the Direction I am Bound
I’m overdue to head back north, racing for the direction where things should be wrapped up tight in a nice little bow, or at least packed up in cardboard and covered over with tape. Progress on the move has been…