I admit it. I want an iPhone. And, there really isn’t anything to stop me from getting one.

Fact is, I have used a whole bunch of PDAs, cell phones, music players and convergence devices and all that over the years. I loves me my gadgets. I also tend to use all of the bells and whistles. I customize, set settings, use every kind of photo, contact list, notepad, alarm clock, calendar, wallpaper, ringtone function that can be keyed in or computer sync’ed.

Ultimately, I also get comfortable with limitations. I mean no gadget yet has replaced the battery-operated, Japanese vibrator.

One thing that has always blown when I’ve worked toward convergence, though, is that I favor the Macintosh computers and to date PC-syncing has been ahead. Even the universal Palm with it’s own language, and the old-school Handspring organizers, which I dug before Palm ditched everything but the Treo, all worked, as does my current (sickly) Sidekick. They just lacked that certain je ne c’est pas of native integration.

Shiny and new could be my gadget solution. Or another toy I will figure out, work through, use to its fullest for a couple of years and then figure something else out.

Whilst thinking through all of this hyper-rationalization for a consumer goods jones, I spotted one in the real world. The web is all sorts of full of rumors about folks eyeing them in the hands of testers littering Silicon Valley, mostly at restaurants.

Sure ‘nough, they’re in my neighborhood in the wild, just like the rumor sites claim. A tableful of people (well the dudes at the table not the womenfolk they were accompanying) were passing it about and surfing the web and pressing shiny virtual buttons.

Right there it was, two tables away as they waited for their gourmet burgers and fries in Palo Alto, as M. and I finished ours. I had to wipe the drool from my chin, straighten up and go home.

I admit it. I want an iPhone. And, there really isn’t anything to stop me from getting one.

Fact is, I have used a whole bunch of PDAs, cell phones, music players and convergence devices and all that over the years. I loves me my gadgets. I also tend to use all of the bells and whistles. I customize, set settings, use every kind of photo, contact list, notepad, alarm clock, calendar, wallpaper, ringtone function that can be keyed in or computer sync’ed.

Ultimately, I also get comfortable with limitations. I mean no gadget yet has replaced the battery-operated, Japanese vibrator.

One thing that has always blown when I’ve worked toward convergence, though, is that I favor the Macintosh computers and to date PC-syncing has been ahead. Even the universal Palm with it’s own language, and the old-school Handspring organizers, which I dug before Palm ditched everything but the Treo, all worked. They just lacked that certain je ne c’est pas of native integration.

Shiny and new could be my gadget solution. Or another toy I will figure out, work through, use to its fullest for a couple of years and then figure something else out.

Whilst thinking through all of this hyper-rationalization for a consumer goods jones, I spotted one in the real world. The web is all sorts of full of rumors about folks eyeing them in the hands of testers littering Silicon Valley, mostly at restaurants.

Sure ‘nough, they’re in my neighborhood in the wild, just like the rumor sites claim. A tableful of people (well the dudes at the table not the womenfolk they were accompanying) were passing it about and surfing the web and pressing shiny virtual buttons.

Right there it was, two tables away as they waited for their gourmet burgers and fries in Palo Alto, as M. and I finished ours. I had to wipe drool of my chin, straighten up and go home.

I’m not sure if they would want this announcement, but it is the web and this is how these things worth.

Please check out this newly born weblog and help its nascent self to beingness: http://campaign2008.wordpress.com/

The creators are largely responsible, hugely so really, for my left-slanted political self. It’s amazing the indoctrination powers one can have while reading a child Make Way for Ducklings and bringing her into the Public Garden.

Lately, I just have been considering myself a complete and total creative failure. I might be right, but I think in fairness, I should rationally think the jury’s not out yet.

The writing is slower, harder, lonlier than I want it to be. Which then, of course, begs the question, why the fuck bother? It’s a stupid kind of masochism, really. The sun is shining there are wonderful things to do, people to make fun of, diversions of a thousand score.

So, yeah, I’m just an asshole who thinks I have something more to contribute. Delusional, that’s what I’d call that.

My mood’s a bit more cheery though after one little trick, one small pathetic gesture, one desperate boost to despair or the sinking feeling of fraudulence. I re-formatted.

So where I once thought I had one half-assed, half-written, wholly crappy chapter coming in at 5 pages, lo and fucking behold it now stands at 11 double-spaced. Thank all dieties and powers in the universe for white space.

The words still suck. But the space in between, the air, the light, gorgeous.

Last night I figured something out that I don’t quite understand. I generally don’t write at all when M. is around. (Or anyone else for that matter, but he’s the obvious one to be around.)

I wait for him to go to bed or take a run or otherwise not be here. He doesn’t stop me or distract me. He’s happy to listen to music, watch TV, read a book, take a shit, any number of activities that don’t demand my attention. Still and all, I do all sorts of other stuff beside him but produce crappy prose.

Clearly, this entry is dedicated to his not being home yet.

I wonder if it’s my solo existence for so long. I’m accustomed to the thoughts in my head as company.

Or perhaps it’s the fantasy of a hunched over, grim typist, cigarettes and whiskey and a shotgun in the corner. Nothing makes American writing like the prospect of self-destruction and embodying an angry loner.

Of course, that fantasy suits serial killers as well as writers. Not sure if the verdict is in on me yet.

I wrote a whole thing about the Pope, his new “commandments,” marketing and all sorts of ranting goodness. Then the webserver hiccupped and my words were fucked and vaporized.

It must be the lord working in mysterious ways to prevent my blaspheming. Not to mention, jesus probably wants me in bed by now.

For fun, here’s the papal precedent for road rules from the “Guidelines for the Pastoral Care of the Road” with the top ten list.

. Back in 1956 Pope Pius XII exhorted motorists: “Do not forget to respect other road users, be courteous and fair with other drivers and pedestrians and show them your obliging nature. Pride yourselves in being able to master an often natural impatience, in sometimes sacrificing a little of your sense of honour so that the courteousness that is a sign of true charity may prevail. Not only will you thus be able to avoid unpleasant accidents, but you will also help to make the car a more useful tool for yourselves and others that is capable of giving you a more genuine pleasure”[17].

Didn’t know popes were into cars.

Here’s the list for easy reference:

Drivers’ “Ten Commandments”

In any case, with the request for motorists to exercise virtue, we have drawn up a special “decalogue” for them, in analogy with the Lord’s Ten Commandments. These are stated here below, as indications, considering that they may also be formulated differently.

I. You shall not kill.

II. The road shall be for you a means of communion between people and not of mortal harm.

III. Courtesy, uprightness and prudence will help you deal with unforeseen events.

IV. Be charitable and help your neighbour in need, especially victims of accidents.

V. Cars shall not be for you an expression of power and domination, and an occasion of sin.

VI. Charitably convince the young and not so young not to drive when they are not in a fitting condition to do so.

VII. Support the families of accident victims.

VIII. Bring guilty motorists and their victims together, at the appropriate time, so that they can undergo the liberating experience of forgiveness.

IX. On the road, protect the more vulnerable party.

X. Feel responsible towards others.

I think the pope could paraphrase, “Jesus doesn’t want you to be a huge dick.”

Oh, and I also wrote some shit about advertising on catholic.org and how I think I hate Steve Carell and probably won’t see in a million fucking years, expect on a flu-ridden couch moment, alone with cable, Evan Almighty.

I have that stupid poll thing over on the side over there. Look to your left.

Recently, there was an unexplained surge. (Are we allowed to even fucking say surge anymore, or did Bush fuck up that meaning, like he’s done with patriotism, mission accomplished, terror, etc., too?)

From a steady of like 11 voters, not even a dozen, I think, mostly voting for me to get fatter and bask more in the glory of Wal-Mart, suddenly 50 folks are telling me to perform.

Who the fuck are you people? Or who is the one person with OCD and a need to vote?

Leave me a comment. Say “hey.”

Maybe it’s what I need to get back on the trainwreck path of performance.

A friend of mine had an extra ticket to see Roger Waters tonight. Here I am, home, un-rocked out.

Besides it being Tuesday, and a bit of a drive to get to the Oracle Arena in Oakland, I just couldn’t jump on it for it’s own sake of promised fun. Is it because I’m old, or because Roger Waters is even older?

Truth be told, I was never that into Floyd. I mean, I chanted the lyrics of The Wall, especially this shit, alongside the rest of my high school, back when it was new and different.

We don’t need no education
We dont need no thought control
No dark sarcasm in the classroom
Teachers leave them kids alone
Hey! Teachers! Leave them kids alone!
All in all it’s just another brick in the wall.
All in all you’re just another brick in the wall.

But I ain’t never owned the album. I doubt I even stole it off a brother’s turntable.

Maybe it was the flying pigs, or the ringing telephones, cash registers and howling, barking dogs. At some level, I just didn’t give a fuck. (I gotta say I fucking hate listening to Pink Floyd and looking around to answer the phone or otherwise responding to auditory stimuli. Makes me goddamn jumpy, it does.)

I liked my pretentious art-rock, poetry, bullshit set to music more NYC-style, CBGBs, Cale and Reed, Patti Smith, punk rock baby.

Conceptual stadium drama seemed too Spinal Tap. Minimalism and fast guitars yanked my adolescent crank. Besides Waters always sounded like he was kind of a dick.

Or, maybe I would have gone tonight, if I hadn’t given up on smoking the weed 20 plus years ago.

I’m thinking about retirement twofold. First, there’s putting on my PJs and snoozing my night away. Definitely a worthwhile endeavor.

Then there’s the real retirement. The one where I don’t have to work anymore and I use Medicare and I live as frugally as I can off Social Security. Or maybe I get two, three bucks in the bank enough to eat gruel and thrill to the sounds of the oldies.

Yeah, that’s the retirement that keeps me dreaming.

Alternatively, I want all offices everywhere in America, all of the world, every fucking corner to get a special “fuck you” policy. It’s a magic idea. Simple. Easy to execute. No downside, just catharsis.

Here’s the plan. Every six months say, each employee in an office cubicle, maybe a few offices, but mainly the cubicle rats, they get a free, as in pain free, penalty free, giant FUCK YOU. You just get to tell someone who pisses you off enough, that one simple phrase.

But you only get the two a year, so you gotta fucking conserve. Gotta bide your time, wait to execute. When the moment comes, though, it’s poetry. It’s brevity. It’s the soul of wit and it’s fucking work hell salvation.

Today, I would have invoked mine. I actually probably could have done it, probably could have gotten away with it, escaped unscathed. Could have said my fuck you, and no one would have been the wiser, given the hearer was mobile.

It didn’t roll off the old tongue, though. Instead, I went the route of karma and kept it all civil.

But, if only the world would think of my plan. Fuck you and move on.

My two favorites from the weekend. A weekend in which apart from juggling, a lot of eating and some walking, I did nothing. (Click on any of the photos to get to the whole gallery.)

I also learned lizards have some more intense coloring than I had thought.