It started at work Friday, where there was cake. We do this for birthdays at work recently, but one of my co-workers made sure there was cake for me. It was supremely good cake, too.

Saturday started out a bit meh, as I had to go do schoolwork in the morning, but once I was done with that, I headed out to Folsom, stopping along the way to treat myself to In-and-Out for a hamburger as my celebratory birthday weekend. Yum.

Then, at Folsom, we had a party. It was supposedly for those not going to SF the following night to have fun, but they decided to let me come and celebrate my birthday. One of our Wrimos even baked me a cake. This was sweet.

And then to top it off, Saturday was also the 112th Big Game, which I was fairly certain Stanford was going to win. But my Bears somehow came out of nowhere, had the score close at halftime, and then proceeded to first pull away, and then let Stanford back into it before sealing the deal with an interception. It was Cal Cardiac Football at its finest, and so I got a nice surprise gift — an Axe. It was pretty funny because I was so not writing at the party, but listening to my game, and towards the end, the feed started cutting in and out, which made it hard to follow. The feed cut out just as Toby Gerhart tried to win the game for Stanford, and didn’t come back up until I heard the word “INTERCEPTION!” in my headphones and was trying to figure out what had just happened and whether that meant my Bears had won the game.

And then there was Sunday. Oh god, what can I say about Sunday? Besides the fact that San Francisco is probably my most favorite city on the planet and I love any chance I get to visit, the Night of Writing Dangerously was way more fun than I was expecting. It started simply:

It’s about 5:40 in the evening. The scene, a round table in a ballroom high above California Street in San Francisco. Seated there are seven people from Sacramento: myself, Richard, his wife Jennifer, Jenny, Candace, Temperance, and Stephanie. There’s some idle chitchatting about where people are and stuff like that. In front of the room, the bell is introduced — you come ring the bell when you’ve become a winner at NaNoWriMo (that is, hit the 50k mark). And that’s when the following happened:

Temperance: “So, Kat, you going to hit 50k tonight?”
me: “You’re kidding, right? I’m nowhere close.”
Temperance: “You’re in the forties, no?”
me: “Well, yeah, a bit over 43k.”
Temperance: “There you go. You can hit 50k tonight.”
me: “I’m not so sure about this idea.”
Temperance: “Look, how many words do you have?”
me: “About forty-three five.”
Temperance: “That’s about 6500 words. We’ll not count this hour. But six — we’ll not count seven — eight, nine, ten. That’s four hours. You only have to write about 1500 words an hour.”
Rest of table: “Yeah, c’mon, Kat, you can do it.”
me: “Okay, fine, you all. I’ll try.”
me (thought): This is going to be impossible and I’m going to fail and feel rotten at the end of it. Ah well, nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Table: *cheering*

So I spend most of the evening sitting and writing frantically, although there were several breaks to take advantage of the candy pile and the hosted bar (too bad I don’t drink, but there was plenty of ginger ale and soda) and eat something resembling dinner. Oh yeah, and there were the most crazy donuts I’ve ever had with toppings like Cocoa Puffs and Nilla Wafers and Oreo cookies and Butterfingers and …the list goes on and on. Also, I went and took my author photo.

But most of the time I was writing. It was a write-a-thon after all. And after frantically typing all evening, writing a grand total of 6,481 words — a personal NaNo daily best — this happened.

Later that evening, about 10:15 PM:
Jason (peering over my shoulder): “So did you make it?”
me: “Give me a second, I just put it in the wordcounter.”
NaNo website: *loading*
Everybody: *waits*
NaNo website: katster has 50,182 words.
me: “Wait, what, I made it? I made it!”
Table (and Jason): “Go ring that bell!”
me: “Give me a second to recover and bask in my glory.”
*moment*
me: “Alright, now I’m going to go find Sarah [the coordinator of this glorious event] and let her know that I made it before I ring the bell so she doesn’t have to come frantically running.” [Backstory: People had been ringing the bell all evening, leaving poor Sarah frantically running to the stage. I felt bad, so I wanted to make sure she didn't have to run.]
*By sheer random coincidence, Sarah walks by at just that moment*
me: “Hey Sarah! Just to warn you, I hit 50k!”

…and so I nicely followed Sarah to the podium where I grasped that bell and rung it just about as hard as anybody had that evening.

And the rest of the night I wore a crown on top of my Cal hat and a manic grin. Kinda like this:

me, after it’s all said and done. Photo by my friend Richard

All in all, the best birthday weekend ever. Thanks to everybody who helped me make it to the Night of Writing Dangerously — cards should go out next week.

And no, I don’t know how I’m going to top this next year.

There was a point in time where Tedford seriously considered bolting for another job. Those opportunities came early during the Tedford era, fresh off of Cal’s most impressive season to date in 2004. However, one of the main reasons why a lot of Old and Young Blues alike have an adoring respect for Tedford has been because of the coach’s loyalty to the program and his desire to not only win, but win at Cal.

So it turns out that Saturday will be Coach Tedford’s 100th game. This is a nice article about the change Tedford’s made at Cal — not only in terms of making the football program a winner, but for his part in turning boys into men.

My undergraduate career at Cal was the football seasons from 1996 to 1999. In those four seasons, Cal went a depressing 18-27. We made it to one bowl my freshman year (which we lost to Navy), we never won the Big Game, and we were pretty much the conference doormat. We also cheated, and rightfully got slapped for it, but it’s not like we could even cheat right — the point of cheating is to win, no?

Anyway, the highlights, which were few, were beating Oklahoma twice (although those OK teams weren’t very good) and taking three of four from USC — but they weren’t very good at the time either. Then, it culminated in the disaster of 2001, where my beloved Bears went 1-10. Okay, I admit, by the end of it, I was idly rooting for a “perfect” season, but we managed a win in the last game of the season, a postponed-by-9/11 game with Rutgers in New Jersey. I still maintain that if we’d played Rutgers when scheduled, we’d have won that game and gained the confidence to take a couple over the course of the year, but I can’t prove it, and if it had worked out that way, then it might not have lead to something good.

The good, in this case, was the fact that we managed to convince the offensive coordinator from an Oregon Ducks team that really should have played in the National Championship that year to come to Cal and be our head coach — a dude named Jeff Tedford.

Tedford said that from the beginning, he wanted to change the football culture at Cal. And when, that first season, my first year as a grad student at Cal, I was in the stadium to watch Cal completely blow the Baylor Bears out of the water 70-22, and when the first Cal play from scrimmage went for a touchdown, I began to believe again. When we went 7-5 with the same players that had gone 1-10 the year before, and would have gone to a bowl if it wasn’t for the aforementioned cheating, things got a bit better. Of course, the greatest thing was finally seeing a Big Game victory — the first Big Game victory for Cal since I was a junior in high school.

Being a Cal fan’s a hard thing. My Bears are pretty much the Chicago Cubs of college football. The last time we went to a Rose Bowl was in 1959, and Cal fans start every year with the high hopes that this will be the year in which we go to the fabled promised land of Pasadena, California for New Year’s Day. And year after year, the hopes turn frail and bitter as the Bears inevitably find ways to lose games they shouldn’t, or have the unfortunate luck to get good just as USC is putting together a dynasty for the ages.

This season’s been a really disappointing one — we thought we finally had all the tools into place to beat USC and take the Rose Bowl. Well, USC won’t be going this year, but Cal isn’t in position to take advantage of it. About the best we can do is play spoiler to Stanford’s Rose Bowl dreams, and, well, that ain’t looking overly good. (Did you see what Stanford did to Oregon and USC? Wow!)

But get rid of Tedford? Are you kidding me? He’s 66-33 overall. That’s a pretty good winning percentage — and he’s done it at Cal, where the institutional support is always going to be somewhat lacking. Sure, we haven’t made it to the Rose Bowl yet, but on the other hand, I actually believe that we will go someday. And we’ll go with Tedford as our coach.

I mean, I finally actually got to touch the Axe, right? I gotta believe.

Rally members who graduated from Cal without seeing a Big Game win finally get to hold the Axe for the first time. Note the huge smile on my face — I’m the one in the blue and gold rugby and Cal hat

The biggest thing I want to talk about, I’ve promised somebody I would wait until the right time, and the right time is not now. It will take patience, and some waiting. Waiting is.

Got my H1N1 flu shot today. One less worry. Also dropped a class. Also, one less worry.

Things have gotten a bit better since the implosion that was earlier this month, but I still get shaky every time I look at my precarious financial situation. I guess I ought to be happy I have a job, even if it’s only part-time and doesn’t pay overly well. But it’s hard to reconcile that with sitting down with budget numbers and wondering just where you’re going to come up with spare money for things like regular maintenance of the car and clothing and replacing the laptop and saving to move out. Add in the really stupid mistake, and yeah…it’s no wonder I end up in a minor panic when I look at my finances.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m thankful that I have enough of a job to mostly afford my bills and wonderful and outstanding parents, but … as the clock ticks down to the thirty-first rotation around the sun, I can’t help but think that it wasn’t supposed to be this way.

In the challenge to write a blog post every day, I’m on track (other than moving the one I posted to LJ over to the blog because my server was down for maintenance). The problem is that my life is boring and I’m stuck for things to write about.

So hey, if you’re reading this, say hey and give me some ideas for what you want to hear me say. I need help here.

But the news is, despite a bit of a rough start, the month’s on task. Now to just see if I can get some focus on my GIS project.

Anyway, I need eight more donations of ten dollars each to get to The Night of Writing Dangerously, thanks to a few awesome friends. Can you help by donating?

Also, since a picture’s worth a thousand words, here’s my wordcount per day for this year’s NaNoWriMo excitement:

The blue line is my wordcount per day, the red line is the rolling average. Yeah, it’s very choppy. But I’m writing! I just passed 22k! I keep trucking!

Anyway, to explain my topic, it comes from the children’s book Alexander and the Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day, in which the main character contemplates several times about moving to Australia. I’ve thought about it too, and so really shaky days are Alexander days. And today was just one of those days.

Part of it was triggered by getting money out of my bank account to pay for gas, and realizing I have ten dollars to get me through a week and a half after the gas was accounted for. That wasn’t happymaking at all. Of course, this is a common lament these days not just for me but for everybody. It means, at least for me, that once NaNoWriMo is over, I need to just start throwing resumes at anything that comes up that might even remotely have anything to do with what I do, even if it means relocating to a far away city. I’ve given up hope that the company I currently work for will offer me a full time job at all, and I’m just barely making it on what they pay me.

Of course, the long term cure for some of my big issues is to move out from my parents’ house, so I don’t have to justify half the stuff I do them. But that’s neither here nor there, and frankly, I’m just barely scraping by with the bills I have, and if I save anything, Social Security will crack down — they already have, which makes a tenuous situation that much worse. (It also makes it impossible for me to take on other part-time work to try and get a bit of spare change — health care. But I’ve been over that rant before.)

And then to top it off, Monday night is the night of my SQL class. Now, generally, computer classes don’t bug me, but this one for some reason does. And I think I figured it out. Not only do I shut down when faced with instructors I can’t stand, this guy’s teaching style and I don’t match well. He provides notes, but the notes aren’t helpful if you have trouble paying attention in lectures. And that’s how I learn — by seeing, and by doing. And well, really, we haven’t done much. So it puts me in a jam about studying for quizzes and tests. I think I’ve studied well enough and I get blown out of the water.

On today’s quiz, I guessed like heck and then spent the rest of the time doodling xkcd-esque stick figures all over my exam. When I handed it in, I offered a strange smile to the prof. Dunno what he’ll make of it.

Anyway, tomorrow’s gonna be a working day, so I’m trying to get some rest.

NaNo count holding steady at a bit over 18.5, but Monday and Tuesday != good writing days.

Help me get to the Night of Writing Dangerously! I only need about 16 more people to throw $10 at the pot!

Anyway, this is told from the point of view of a reporter character who is doing a series on a Congressman and would-be presidential candidate, and in this bit, goes to interview the Congressman’s son.

***

I meet up with Joey Breen at the bar of a well-known hotspot in the Castro here in San Francisco. He’s the bartender, and as he’s filling drinks, he’s answering the questions I put his way. Joey is Joseph Edmund Breen, the second son of Jack Breen, and he’s here in San Francisco not only because it’s where his job is, but it’s because it’s where his heart is.

“Dad wasn’t too happy when he found out I was gay,” Joey says as he wipes the bar in front of me. “But that’s a common story here. Parents are just kinda funny that way.”

The story he tells me is one similar to that of many other gay men and lesbians I’ve talked to over the year. Parents that weren’t too thrilled with the idea at first, but came to love them after some time had passed. In Joey’s case, it was when he brought Brandon home. Brandon is the man he is now married to, and Joey met him soon after he had moved to San Francisco. “My dad met Brandon, who grew up on a ranch in Northern California, and found they had a lot in common with each other.” He smiled. “Heck, Brandon was able to give him some tips on how to improve beef quality.”

But things changed when the Change happened. Joey found himself and Brandon both among the many victims of that day, and when they awoke, the world would never be the same. The two counted their blessings that they were in California, where the authorities did everything in their power to keep chaos from happening, but were concerned when they could get the news and saw the rioting happening in other parts of the countries. “That first six months was something else,” Joey says, after he serves a drink to another customer. “The phones weren’t working, so I couldn’t call Mom and Dad to see how they were doing. I couldn’t get to Colorado, obviously. I don’t know what to think. For six long months, even after we’d found that Brandon’s folks had made it through the Chaos, I didn’t know whether I was going to have to bury them or not.”

I asked him if this meant that he was psychic. He nods, somewhat shyly. “It actually helps in my job,” he said. “It’s a lot easier to see if somebody’s had one drink too many now. There’s something that’s just completely obvious about inebriation.” He smiles, and takes a moment to help another customer.

It’s easy to see that Joey Breen is obviously the most popular bartender in town. When he gets busy, other people come up and tell me how much they love coming here. A few even mention that, while this place once was a gay hangout, under Joey’s watchful eye it’s become a place for everybody. “People just don’t get upset at each other here,” one man tells me. “You ask somebody if they’re interested in you, and if they’re not your orientation, they just say that, and nobody gets mad or lays in wait. It’s kinda magical.”

Another person told me, “When Joey says you’ve had enough, then you’ve had enough. I think one guy tried arguing with him, and half the bar went and carried him out to the street. Didn’t rough him up or anything, just removed him from the bar.”

When Joey gets back to me, he brings me a drink. Ice tea, hint of lemon, slightly sweetened, and no alcohol. He laughs. “I know you like a bit of gin in it,” he says. “But I figured since you were working, you’d appreciate not being boozed up.” He has the same charm his father had, but without the malevolent edge.

I ask him about his father. He sighs. “I don’t know what to make of him now,” he says. “He changed when he got into politics, and I’m not sure how that happened. One minute, he was Dad. A Republican, but a lot of people in Colorado are. Wasn’t so sure about the gay thing, but he came to accept it.” Joey sighed. “I never told him about the psychic part. Somehow he found out. We got in a fight about it.”

Just at this point, somebody comes over. “Is he harassing you, Joey?” he asks.

“Naw,” Joey says to the newcomer. “He’s just asking me questions; we’re talking about hard subjects. It’s okay.”

The newcomer looks at me with a wary gaze. “Okay, Joey, but if he starts bugging you, let us know. We’ll take care of it.”

Joey laughs after the newcomer walks away. “This has really become my bar,” he says. “They all worry about me.” He then cleans a spot in front of me. “But you were asking about my father.” He stares down at the bar again, and rubs the same spot. I decide it’s a case of nerves. “This was after he got elected to Congress,” Joey said. “I didn’t exactly know that Dad had ambitions towards such a thing, but apparently he did. Anyway, Mom called me and said that her and Dad were having problems and she wasn’t sure how much longer the marriage was going to last. So I decided to go out there and have a chat. I took some time off from the bar, left Dookie in charge, and went to Colorado.”

I can tell this is obviously painful for him by all the sudden glances of concern coming our way. Joey takes a deep breath. “He wasn’t Dad,” he finally said. “He was some stranger I didn’t know. The father I had was a conservative; he believed in things I didn’t really believe in, but he never said that it was his way or the highway. He loved us. He might not have understood us, but he loved us. The man I found myself talking to? He wasn’t my father.”

He paused and then looked over his shoulder. “Hey, Dookie!” he said. The other bartender ambled up. “I’m going to take Patrick here in the back room. I think we’re getting a bit too much emotion in the air for people to have a good time.”

Dookie nodded, and with that, Joey picked up my drink and motioned for me to follow. We end up in a cozy little space nestled between kegs of beer where somebody had set up a little office. Joey looked around at the place. “It was a lot of hard work and sweat to get this place,” he said. “Brandon and I saved up for a while to be able to buy it. It helped that I’d worked for the guy who used to own it at another bar; this one was giving him problems and I think he wanted to get rid of it. It was a bad scene. Cops showed up once or twice a week. I’m proud to say, ever since it’s been my place, the cops haven’t been called out once. ” He laughs. “Of course, a lot of that’s me.”

I was amused that he knew just how much of a sway he had over his clientele. He nods. “I don’t make a big deal out of it because I know a lot of people don’t like psychics. It’s just, I feel protective about this place, and I guess it infects everybody that enters here.” He drums his fingers on one of the casks near him.

“Anyway, you were asking me about my father. I don’t know if I can call him that anymore, and it hurts. Mom’s moved out here now, she wanted to be closer to Sarah and I – Sarah’s my sister – and I think she wanted to be away from that thing that was my father.” He sighed. “I don’t know if you felt it when you went to interview him, but there’s something in him that wants to enslave every psychic he gets close to. I don’t know how I managed to escape, but I’m not exactly going to go back and find out why. One close call is more than enough.”

I wondered about that darkly malevolent presence I had felt when I had acknowledged my psychicness to Jack Breen. To have confirmation from his son that I hadn’t been the only one to feel it made me almost sorry I had decided to write a series on Breen. It would be several more months of being uncomfortably close to him before I could put down my pen and go onto other things.

I end my conversation with Joey on one last question. If his father ends up running for President, would he vote for him? Joey takes a moment to think. “Five years ago, my answer would have been an unequivocal yes. Blood is thick,” he said. “But after the fight, I started to look into his beliefs. I’ve read the Psychic Control Act he keeps pushing, and if that passes, it’s the end of my bartending career. And that’s the end of this place.” Joey sighs. “I’m not stupid. I know that my abilities are the only reason this bar has been such a great place to be. Nobody’s uncomfortable here, and that’s a hard thing to find in this world. But because it’s my ability…” He trails off, a tear in his eye.

He then gathers himself together. “It would have to go. And with it would go the special thing we have happening here. And that’s completely wrong.”

He takes a deep breath. “So no, even if he was still my father, I wouldn’t be able to vote for him simply because of that. I don’t know what to do about Somatics. I know they need to be protected somehow. But how do you protect some people from bad, and still keep the good? If I had an answer for that, I wouldn’t own a bar in the Castro – I’d be somewhere else, making a lot more money.” He laughs suddenly. “But on the other hand, there’s no place else I’d rather be other than behind my bar here in the Castro, making a safe place for everybody.”

Such places are rare in this world. I make a note to stop by Joey’s bar the next time I’m in San Francisco.

–Patrick Sullivan “A Simple Bartender” (as found in The Man Who Would Be King)

It’s November. It’s supposed to be my best month. And it isn’t. And nobody cares.

Why am I doing this again?

…yeah, shutting up now.

1. That’s the way LJ comments are handled, and I’ve liked being able to see them
2. It allows me a quick response if there’s a comment that needs to be handled in a particular fashion
3. It allows me to see when I’m getting whacked with a load of spam

In regards to point #3, it did that job well, as looking at my mailspool showed me that last night’s post had been hit by several spammers overnight. I don’t know why Akismet failed so badly, but it leaves me in a bit of a dilemma. I want to leave trackbacks on so that I can see when blogs are linking me, but most of the spam that gets through the defenses is trackback spam. And I really wasn’t overly happy clearing out that mess today.

Anyway, it’s just a point. Spammers are lower than scum and will be the first against the wall when the revolution comes.

***
If you haven’t guessed, it’s not only NaNoWriMo month, but because I am absolutely totally and completely out of my gourd, I’m also doing Blog Posting Month. So that means one a day of these things every day in November. Of course, I could cheat and give you my cumulative word count every day, but that hardly seems fair.

So I’ll guess I’ll turn this over to those of you that actually read this thing on a regular basis. What would you like me to address? I could use some ideas for days when I can’t come up with my own. Feel free to drop them in comments.

***

As I mentioned before, I’m doing NaNoWriMo this year, like I do every year. And the last couple years, they’ve been doing a fundraising event called the Night of Writing Dangerously over in the Bay Area. This year’s event is the night after my birthday (yep, November kid) and I’d kind of like to go this year. Especially since the other November event in the Bay Area I’d like to attend is at the Breadbox Stanford this year, and tickets will be impossible because Stanford’s capacity has shrunk majorly.

The problem with going to the Night of Writing Dangerously is that I need to come up with $200 as a donation. Now, I’m all for giving money to the folks at NaNo HQ, because they do some marvelous work at encouraging people to write (particularly kids – I love their Young Writers Program). Also, they make my life easier when it comes to organizing the region. But, $200 is out of my range this year.

So this is where I turn to y’all. If any of you wants to (note that you do not have to, these are hard times for everybody and I’m doing this as a longshot), I’d love for you to donate some money to NaNo so that I can go.

So if you want to help, you can donate here. If you do, I appreciate it. If you can’t, well, I understand. These are hard times.

It would be nice to go, though.

Anyway, word count is at 5703; am going to try to get to 6000 before I got to bed tonight. Other than that, nothing exciting is going on.

And then after work, I slog my way through the commute traffic to school. Let me get one thing straight. I hate my Monday night class. The only time I was happy tonight in that class was when I thought I might have a chance to slag the instructor in an evaluation. (Turns out, it was an eval for a different prof. When asked if we were doing it, he said something along the lines of ‘I’ve got tenure; I don’t have to do it.’) I’m seriously thinking of taking a withdraw in that class because (a) I don’t think I’m going to pass and (b) I really don’t want to take that class over. The teacher is disorganized and sometimes you’re lucky if you can find a hint to solving some of the labs in the notes. Today’s boiling point moment was when he decided that today we were going to have a quiz — on stuff he was introducing today. Somehow we talked him off that idea, but still. (And yes, for those who have been following my journal, this is my SQL class.)

But this adds into my feelings of inadequacy because I’m mainly taking classes as a way to keep from paying my student loans, because God knows I don’t have the money to cover that bill too. I’d really rather have a full time job where I’m paying down the loans and thus gain the ability to take a semester off. I could have really used it this year — my stress levels have been through the roof this fall. (And now it’s November and I must be completely frakking insane.)

Anyway, yeah, there’s this complete feeling of inadequacy that’s been eating at me and Mondays are just the night when it comes most to the forefront. I just keep slipping deeper and deeper into the hole, and I don’t know how to get out. This is not a happy feeling to deal with.

I mean, objectively, I know I’m not a failure. Emotionally, though, it’s hard to see beyond what appears to be crumbling ruins. There’s a bit of ‘I was supposed to be someone!’ in my head that plays into nights like this; Mondays just bring it a bit closer to the surface.

***

In happier news, the NaNo wordcount stands at 5564, and I wrote this paragraph, which I’m sorta proud of. It comes in the middle of a reporter’s puff-piece on my book’s major villain:

After some pleasantries, we sat down to business. The Congressman was pleasant but undeniably brusque about some parts of his life, such as the much-publicized divorce from his wife of thirty years during his first term in Congress. The mention of her brings an immediate frown to his face. “Rosalie and I had a difference of opinion,” he said. “That and the strains of my freshman year in the House led to an amicable split. There is no story here.” When pressed about comments his wife made about him ‘not being the man I married’, Breen just shrugs and says, “Well, isn’t that what most women say when they want a divorce? He’s not the man I married? What does that mean, anyway?”