The locks have been changed and we are officially out of our old place, leaving it to the realtor and keeping fingers crossed.  This week, we had a crew in to patch up all of the holes in the drywall from the various Ikea crap I installed and then ripped back out, and then had everything painted.  After that, a cleaning crew came in and scrubbed everything from top to bottom, and got the whole thing in like-new condition, smelling of fabuloso and shining.

I went back in the other day, just to make a final round of obsessive cleaning, wiping off little spots and scraping off tiny droplets of paint here and there that were left behind.  The whole thing hit me with a massive rush of deja-vu, thinking back to May of last year when we first got the keys and I spent a weekend assembling cabinets and listening to Rockies baseball on my then-new iPhone.  This was our first home, our first really big adult purchase, and there are so many memories behind the whole thing.

It seems like we’ve lived here forever, even though it’s been just shy of 18 months.  But I was thinking about the various places my cats have lived, and they have been at this place longer than anywhere else in their lives.  And then I thought about it, and I think the last place I’ve lived for a longer period was probably back in Astoria from 1999-2005.  I guess I lived at the Lower East Side place for just about as long, but it’s hard to figure out when I started living with Sarah, since I slowly moved things over a gym bag at a time over late summer/early fall 2005.

Anyway, the old place is for sale, and has an MLS number, and has percolated through all of the various online real estate sites.  I am mixed on posting a link here, as I doubt any of my four readers are actually interested in buying the place.  I am half expecting a sea of junk mail from the listing, more mortgage refinance offers and the whole nine yards.  I am still trying to figure out what to forward and what addresses to change, and that will take me forever.  (If you really need my actual physical mailing address, let me know.)

I have to go back to New York in December.  This will be my first trip back since I left in 2007.  It’s going to be a hurried affair - flying out on a Wednesday, getting in at like ten (getting to JFK at ten, which means probably getting to the hotel by midnight), and then flying out on Friday afternoon.  I will probably be doing company stuff the entire time, and won’t actually get to see anything.  I’m not sure I will bring my camera (the DSLR, anyway) or even my personal laptop - probably just the work laptop and two changes of clothes.  And the Kindle, of course - I will have to load up with plenty of reading material, since I’ll have the cross-country travel days, stuck in the Phoenix airport with CNN blaring from the TVs strapped to the ceiling.

I feel a great need to take a bunch of crap to the storage place, and maybe get a few things out, like a stereo for this office, but I really don’t want to do anything.  I wish I could write down the series of dreams I’ve had in the last few days - this morning, I had this vivid dream of reading this rough draft of Naked Lunch, the whole thing so colorful, this journey that Burroughs took as a kid through the southwest, exploded into pieces in a drug-fueled frenzy and carefully reassembled into this twisted, descriptive narrative.  Maybe I need to buy one of those lucid dreaming machines or get into a sensory deprivation tank or do something that will enable me to capture this stuff and turn it into books.

This is the 1000th post in Tell Me a Story About the Devil history. When I started this experiment in 1997, I never thought about how long it would be around or how many entries I would amass. But here I am, with a nice, round four-digit number to stare at, and maybe I feel some sense of accomplishment, but I mostly think that I still need to write more.

I was a bit curious about word count, so I did a dump of the posts from the database and found that from April 11, 1997 to yesterday, I’ve written about 950,000 words here, which makes sense, seeing as my goal is about a thousand words per entry.  If you divide that up into 400-word printed pages, that’s 2375 pages.  In comparison, the bible is just under 800,000 words, and War and Peace is about 560,000.  The longest book I ever wrote was Summer Rain, which was about 220,000 words.  The longest book I’ve ever read is probably Infinite Jest, which is something like 400 or 500,000 words.

When I started working on this journal, the word blog had not been invented yet. There were a few people doing online journals, and I vaguely remember scattered pieces of them in my mind, bits of peoples’ inner self.  Web rings were really big back then, and I spent some time wandering through those, trying to find like-minded writers.  The mommy blog was not big yet, and neither was the “I graduated from an Ivy League school and now I’m an office assistant” journal.  LiveJournal was a couple of years off, and wordpress wouldn’t be released for another half-decade.  When you did stumble upon a journal site, it usually belonged to a pretty hardcore, dedicated person writing, and the entries were usually longer and more meaningful.  You had to know how to write HTML by hand, and you had to have an account somewhere other than AOL, which eliminated 90% of the online population.  But that type of writing reminded me a lot of the personal zines that came out in the 80s and early 90s, the punks and artists who chronicled their life experiences in little xeroxed books. I always dug that kind of writing, the Cometbus type of zine, and I tried (and failed) to do that on paper.  That’s one of the reasons I started this thing.

I’ve gone through many iterations of the technology used here.  First it was individual posts in HTML, with a shell script that put together an index in a different frame.  (Remember frames?  Ugh.)  Bill Perry helped me with some elisp so I could sit down at emacs every day, do a C-c C-j, and enter my text into a buffer.  For the first few years, I actually telnetted to pair.com, who host 34.216.9.77/, in Pittsburgh, and entered the text there.  Then everything moved to my home machine, at some point when I was in New York.  And then I got rid of the shell script crap and went to PHP.  And after years of ragging on Wordpress, I finally broke down and switched over a couple of years ago.  So everything looks completely different, but all of the old entries remain.

I published a book that contains most of the first three years of this journal, located here. It’s a bit of a hard sell to convince people to buy the paper book for twenty bucks when you can read everything here, and I think the best writing I did was after those first years in Seattle.  But I really wanted a paper copy of all of it, so there it is.  I’ve gone back and forth on doing a second volume of the later stuff, but it’s a huge task, and I’d have to pare down things, as most print-on-demand book binding will only let you do about 800 pages, which is a few thousand less than all of this.

This project was never my life’s goal, and I never set out to make it my sole output for writing.  I never developed a gimmick, and I never thought that if I blogged enough, I would sell a movie idea or get a meeting with someone about a book deal.  None of that stuff existed in 1997, and by the time people were getting famous by blogging about their cooking adventures or their sexual escapades with government officials, I already got jaded on the whole thing.  I always wrote here as a way to warm up to my actual writing, the books, the zine stuff, the short stories.  And I have not been doing as much of it lately, but it’s still an important distinction to me.

I’ve recently started going back to my old entries, because none of the pre-wordpress writing had titles, and I feel a need to get everything titled and tagged, and maybe remove the absolutely dead stuff.  And I’m almost embarrassed by the earliest writing, but there’s some great entries from the mid-00s when I was really firing on all cylinders.  I wish I could write like that every day.  I wish I could write like that today; I feel like taking a nap instead of writing this up.  And I would, if I didn’t have half a kitchen in boxes right now.

So anyway, there you have it.  Thanks to everyone who has read regularly, left comments, and helped me keep things going here.  I always appreciate the input, and I’m glad someone out there does read this stuff.  One of the things that saddens me even more than the fact that the long journal entries of people’s inner conflict have been replaced with 140-character descriptions of people’s lunch and not much more is that people seem much less connected now than when I started this.  I mean, I remember a lot of detailed exchanges with the people I used to read, and it seems like that has all gone away.  I’m hoping it’s a cyclical thing, and someday people will want to respond to emails with more than five words again.  Who knows.

Anyway, thanks again, and here’s hoping the next thousand come easier.

I don’t remember learning BASIC - I think the start of my programming career just happened.  I mean, they’d herd us off in small groups to the grade school’s two Apple II’s and one of us would be the typist, and we’d enter 10 PRINT “HELLO” and someone would always type 10 PRINT HELLO and wonder why it would return 0.  And we’d eventually learn GOTO and a little math and maybe an INPUT or GOSUB, and after we finished a chapter per week, we got to play some crappy text-based game that made you run a lemonade stand and allegedly teach you some math.  And then I got my own computer, and got more time on those Apple computers, and pretty soon I knew most of the language, but only from a brute force perspective.  I was only interested in writing my own Zork, and had no idea about run-time complexity or how to sort something efficiently, or any of the stuff you were supposed to learn to really program.

And then I learned Pascal.  I think I may have dabbled in it a bit beforehand, but it all came out of a C201 class in my sophomore year, at IUSB, and we had to do all of the usual stuff, like fahrenheit to celsius or julian to gregorian converters.  The one pisser about this class was that IUSB had one shared computer, a Prime 9955, a mainframe the size of a dishwasher that had the computing power of a middle-of-the-road 386 at the time.  But the whole school was wired into it: payroll, registration, gradebooks, and this huge rube goldberg set of programs resided there, and did for years until they finally boat-anchored the thing and managed to get to some unix or NT system in place.  The teacher handed out slips of paper on the first day of class with logins for the Prime, and we all got some cryptic username, like NS837489, and a certain amount of funny money cash balance, because any time you logged out of the system, it told you how much money you “spent”.

This was insane to me, after a year at IU.  In Bloomington, they just started permanent student accounts, in which you paid a technology fee every semester, but in return you got accounts on any of the university machines operated by UCS.  That meant you could spend all day plunking around on a VAX, learning how to program or VAXPhoning strangers or just reading dirty chain mails.  But from a hacker ethics perspective, it meant you could stay up all night trying to hack the VAX C compiler, or learning obscure details about ULTRIX, or writing elisp crap for emacs.  You didn’t get a balance due every time you used a clock cycle, and you didn’t have to worry about your entire world vanishing at the end of the semester when they shuttered your temporary account.

Logins to the Prime only worked well on these TeleVideo terminals straight out of a 1970s bank, and logging in on a PC using Procomm tended to freak things out; you’d hit a cursor key and a stream of garbage would come across your screen, like someone picked up the other phone when you were on a modem.  Also, they used this thing called Sheffield Pascal, which wasn’t optimal, but was nowhere near as bad as the not-visual text editor you had to slog away with, which was roughly like using vi without an escape key.  After suffering through the first assignment, I asked the teacher if I could do my projects on a different system, since we only handed in a printout of our program listing, and he said fine.  I’d log into the VAX down in Bloomington, where I still had my accounts, and do my assignments there.  Okay, the TPU editor wasn’t that much more thrilling compared to working in Eclipse or something, and VAX Pascal had its own issues, but I got through the assignments with no problems.

Here’s the thing that astounds me: I managed to go from not knowing the difference between a function and a procedure to pretty much knowing the full nine yards of how to get around Pascal in a pretty short time.  I mean, a semester is only a few months, and by mid-fall, I was screwing around with my own stuff in Pascal, trying to write a game and messing with the starlet VAX libraries, which let you do cool stuff like ANSI graphics animations and .  It’s so surreal to think this, because now it takes me a month to find my checkbook, and back then I learned this language in not much more than that, and this was when I also took a calculus class and a philosophy class, and Spanish, and worked part-time, and commuted every day, and everything else.

But I knew Pascal wasn’t the be-all, end-all of languages.  Real men used C; I knew that already, and I knew I’d have to learn C to do really cool shit.  And I messed with it, I bought a copy of K&R, and I looked at it, but I didn’t commit.  For whatever reason, I took to Pascal faster, and I used it for whatever little stuff I needed to do.  I started writing crap for Sowder’s utility program, and Pascal was my go-to language at the point.  But I knew I had to learn C.  Unfortunately, they weren’t teaching it at IUSB.  When I took C202, the point where you usually learn C, they got this wise idea to teach us all about object-oriented programming in Modula-2, which was basically a rewarmed version of Pascal that glued enough crap on the side to make it look functionally as useful as C, but with none of the allure.

One of the good things was that the Prime did not have a Modula-2 compiler.  The CS department just got a couple of HPUX servers and a couple of X Workstations, and we all got accounts to shell into the unix machines and whittle away at our code there.  But the workstations were locked away in a different room, only available to people in some advanced class, and they all sat idle all of the time.  And the administrator of the CS machines was this shitheel that would routinely snoop around your home directory and read your email and sometimes delete files if he thought you shouldn’t have them.  He was some right-wing nutjob that got off on security and authority and probably later got a job in the Bush administration administering illegal wiretaps.  Granted, I was being a huge pain in the ass, spending all of my free time downloading games off of usenet and trying to get them to compile, but it always ticked me off that they had these giant-screened workstations that my tuition paid for, and I even worked there, and I had to spend my time plunking away on a Leading Edge Model D, which was like the Yugo of personal computers.

I don’t know when I had time to learn C, but I know that the Modula-2 class was in the spring of 1991, and by the fall of 1991, I was back in Bloomington, taking a 400-level class in C++ and Objective C, and don’t remember a period of time where I seemed entirely overwhelmed by the premise of learning C, at least like I was when I needed to take C311 and had never taken C201 in Scheme, and the thought of taking a class taught by the guy who literally wrote the book on Scheme with almost no knowledge of how it worked gave me panic attacks.  But Unix and C went together like alcohol and bravado, and I couldn’t imagine trying to write any stuff during the infancy of Linux with Pascal.

My last big hurrah for Pascal was this xinfo database I wrote for Sowder’s utils, which was basically a cheap relational database used to keep track of user address information.  Somewhere, I have a piece of lime and cream colored tractor-feed paper with a bunch of handwritten Pascal code, probably from the summer of 1991, from when I was working on that project.  I didn’t have a home computer, and then when a girlfriend loaned me her Mac so we could keep in touch without insane phone bills, I still didn’t have reliable access to the VAX machines because IUSB’s dialups were crap.  So I did a lot of coding on paper, by hand.  I remember a whole Christmas break in 90/91, stuck in Toledo with a different girlfriend at her parents’ place, bored out of my mind, trying to write a chess game on paper, then trying to write a tic-tac-toe game in the primitive BASIC included on my Casio-9000 graphic calculator, which I think had less RAM than a twitter message.  And that’s why I probably learned this stuff so fast - I spent every waking moment thinking of programming, and how I’d build a computer, and how I’d save up money to buy the cheapest Amiga possible, and how I’d get some shareware C compiler and write a ripoff Star Wars video game.

Now, all of this seems alien to me.  I can barely remember any Pascal, and if I had to learn a new language now, I’d hop onto Amazon, buy a couple of the hundreds of books published  on the topic, and read a bunch of tutorials or watch screencasts online.  But it would be nowhere near as fun, and the entire sport of it would be gone, which is probably why I don’t spent much spare time programming anymore.

We moved, sort of.  I mean, everything is in the new unit, but it’s going to take a while to get set up and running.  For one, we don’t have a fridge yet; they ordered it late, or there was a delay or something, and I have no estimate except for “maybe next week.”  I can still go down to the old unit and use the fridge there, but that’s a huge pain in the ass.  We also don’t have our washer/dryer, but once again, they are in the old unit.  (And moving the fridge is not an option; one, the new fridge is a different model, so I’m not paying more to keep the old one and give the more expensive one to the new people, and I’m not scratching both floors and throwing out my back times two and risking damage and breaking door jambs and cleaning out the fridge twice just to have a fridge for a couple of days.)

The big thing is the mountains of boxes and sea of cables and uninstalled equipment and everything else, and it’s going to take me some time to dig out of this.  We lost a closet in the move, and that closet (under the stairs) was a dumping ground for everything, and that dumping ground is now my office, so I’m going to be working out of a little hole I’ve carved among the boxes until further notice.

The move was very nerve-wracking for me.  The Comcast appointment was a comedy of errors involving us giving them our home number so they could get in the building and them disconnecting it that morning.  And then we have no cell coverage at our house, so I’d be hauling stuff back and forth and then realize I had a dozen missed calls from Comcast and never got a single ring.  (I need to get an AT&T microcell.  Better yet, I need to figure out how to complain to AT&T that we’re paying them whatever insane amount for no service at home so they just send me one for free, which I guess some people have done. And yeah, DOOD IPHONE SUX GET A VERIZON but they are just as bad here, plus I would have to deal with some Android phone that Verizon screwed up with their own stink.)  We also had a scheduling issue with the movers; they originally planned to send a team after they finished a move, then when they called to confirm, they said “we’ll be there at 8

AM”, and of course when I wake up early on a Sunday to get ready… no movers.  Call to confirm, and they’re at another job blah blah be there at two or three.  Of course.

The cats were a problem, or at least Squeak was.  Loca was very excited about the move, and we brought her over to see the new place on Saturday and she was very happy and running all around and quacking and checking out every corner and room.  Squeak… well, after getting her in the carrier, it looked like I went arms-first through one of those old pre-safety glass windshields.  When we got her to the new place, she basically went catatonic, then ran in a closet and hid all day.  By evening, she came out, walking all low with her tail down, sneaking around behind things and trying to figure out what the hell happened.  She was also hilarious with the new stairs - we have one of those metal staircases that’s just treads (the horizontal part) with no risers (the vertical part) and it took her like twenty minutes to climb up the stairs the first time.  She’s fine now, running around crazy.  The main problem is that both of them especially her, want to climb around the ledges, and that absolutely petrifies me to the problem of full-blown anxiety attacks, because nothing fuels anxiety more than waking up with blood everywhere like a slasher movie and finding a cat with a protruding bone sticking out of their leg, which was exactly the scenario with Squeak a year ago.  She is not the most nimble cat in the world, and is always doing stuff like falling off the couch when she rolls over asleep, so I am not thrilled about having her sleep on a ledge a dozen feet above a metal staircase.  My only choice here is to find a doctor that will prescribe me large amounts of Xanax.

I’ve spent the whole post bitching and haven’t even gotten to the part where I hit my head on the metal staircase, or that it’s a bad allergy day and I can barely see through the teargas effect the pollen’s having on my eyes.  But I am out of time and must go work now.

This is the first picture I took with my Fuji Finepix S3100 when I got it on March 13, 2005.  I bought the camera on a lark from a sale on Amazon, specifically to take on my second trip to Hawaii. It was my second digital camera, after having an Olympus for about four years.  It was a 4MP and was “SLR-inspired”, meaning the front lens stuck out a bit and it was impossible to put in a pocket easily.  It took some decent pictures, but also suffered in low-light.  I took 4329 pictures with it over the next two and a half years, but shortly after taking pictures at a Rockies-Giants game on 9/3/07, it completely died, and made a horrible glass rattling sound inside, so something was definitely wrong with it.

Some random things about this picture, in no particular order:

• It’s at my job in New York, and it’s at the job I recently re-started, so it’s weird to see my old desk again.
• I bought those noise-cancelling headphones at Tower, which is now gone.  They never really worked - I hoped I could wear them at night in my apartment to drown out the sound of the Jersey Shore-wannabe douches that always hung out on the sidewalks in Astoria, but they don’t really work like that.
• It’s strange to see the non-diet Coke cans on my desk.  They used to be a constant, but now that I only drink diet, the red cans seem alien to me.
• There’s some Arizona and Snapple bottles.  We used to always get lunch at Han’s Deli across the street, and I’d always get something like that to drink.
• There are a couple of horror movie action figures, also from Tower, sitting under the monitor.  I see the Freddy Krueger in particular.
• I switched to a flatscreen by that point at work.  I started with a huge CRT that did not seem huge at the time.  There’s actually an ancient CRT monitor sitting in my new cube in Palo Alto that I use when I’m there, and it’s astounding how colossal those things seem now that everyone uses LED for everything.
• I can’t be 100% sure, but it looks like Outlook is running on my screen.
• On the cube wall, I see a cheatsheet of Framemaker keystrokes, and a printed copy of a style guide I wrote.
• I also see part of a red “remove before flight” tag pinned to the wall.
• We got those translucents blue calculator for free as leftovers from some trade show.  They had this cover over them, where you clicked a button and it swung open like a Star Trek communicator, but the spring broke and it would take 39 seconds to open, so I tore off the cover.
• I don’t even remember that analog clock or where I got it; I don’t think I have it anymore.  I used to have this cool digital one that had a calendar and the time on it, also trade show swag, but the battery died and I think I threw it out.
• That grey cup in the foreground is an IU cup that I had in Seattle that followed me and is now here in my kitchen.  The IU logo is entirely worn off of it now.
• The “45” thing was a tag on an Ogio bag, which I used as a coaster.
• The picture in the frame is from a helicopter ride at Lake Mead, just outside of Vegas.

Here’s the last picture I took with the camera.  What I remember about it:

• I think I went to this game on a whim, and I went by myself.
• I got seats in left field, just because I never sat there.  They were cheap, but not that ideal - you really can’t see much of the action.
• I wanted to make an asterisk sign for Barry Bonds, but I didn’t get around to it.  He didn’t play that day, I think because it was a lefty on lefty situation.
• There was this crazy dude sitting next to me who had season tickets and was a die-hard fan who spent the whole game yelling and heckling every single player.

So that’s the life and the death of a camera.  It’s been Canon all the way since then, two point/shoots and a DSLR, with no regrets.