The new content boom

Those ever-clever innovators at TODO Monthly now have launched eTODO, amonthly email newsletter with the same smart writing, beautiful images, and useful tips to life in my favorite city. They're holding their "heavy petting party" tonight; although I cannot attend, I wish them my best.




Congratulations, Kiri Henderson, designer Rhonda Rubinstein, editor Michael Phillips Moskowitz and team!







You can subscribe to this FREE newsletter at info@todomonthly.com .

PLUS, I am thrilled to see TODO is promoting my other favorite San Francisco content startup -- Weekend Sherpa .





My friend and I had the pleasure of a nice lunch at the Fairmount on this rainy Thursday with Founder Brad Day and marketing genius Holly Kulak. This extremely low-key little gem of a FREE newsletter arrives in my inbox every Thursday morning. It contains three or four brief, lively tips for things to do on the upcoming weekend.

Weekend Sherpa has the inestimable Don George onboard as a senior editorial consultant. Besides being one of the best travel editors in the business, as anyone in travel writing will testify, Don was always one of my favorite people back in our mutual Salon days.

I miss our lunches at Eddie Rickenbacker's!

***

Lest all of this seem like some sort of marketing blather, let me explain. Launching new magazines, newsletters and websites has long been my passion. But rarely have I had the courage or the resources to start anything of my own. Sure, I've been part of lots of startups at or near their launches.

But the idea was always someone else's, not mine.

SunDance magazine was the brainchild of two wacky journalists, Ken Kelley and Craig Pyes. Pacific News Service was Sandy Close's baby. Salon.com was all David Talbot. Wired was Louis Rossetto. 7x7 belongs to Tom Hartle. Mother Jones had a trio of grandfathers. Stanford was the brainchild of Leland Stanford.

You get the drift.

The company where I work now is run by its founder and CEO. We are all trying to help him achieve his dream for a content play.

***

As I consider applying for AARP, mainly so I can get the discounts that come with age, I remain frustrated with a career that in other people's eyes, probably looks just fine. Maybe this blog is as good as it gets.

After all, this is 100% me, probably way more than most people would want on any but an occasional basis. But, if I turn a bit promotional from time to time, it is not simply the media launches that attract me, or even the people behind them. It is their dreams.

Nobody pays me for these promotions. Sharing others' dreams is all the compensation I really need. That, and the occasional message encouraging me to continue this modest attempt to pursue my own.
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Language, Rising

So, here is a question for you:

What do these four common entries mean? "b4," "ur," "2" and "wata."

Okay, if you got them right, what about these? wit, da and dat (*)

If this is Greek to you (as it is to me), welcome to the world of text messaging. This form of communication is sweeping societies around the world (Japan, China, Europe, the U.S.) among young people raised in the age of the ubiquitous cell phone.

Never before in history has a communications technology like this one penetrated human societies so rapidly. While older folks are still getting the hang of email, or IM, these phrases from the compulsive IMers and text messagers are creeping into every day language.

If Shakespeare were alive today, he would be hard at work documenting these linguistic developments, and integrating them into his writings.

All too soon, I suspect, we in the west will find ourselves abandoning capital letters and spacing to indicate our names. Thus, I will be davidweir, for example, and you'll be whatever your given name may be, such as yomamafahatsalot. Whatever.

It was nice bumping into Tanya this morning and exchanging warm hugs. She told me she is struck by how sped up life has become just in the past few years. Friends send her a text message and get anxious if she doesn't answer quickly.

But she has a real job (teaching first and second graders) so she often cannot get to her friends' messages until after school ends for the day.

Another friend, Christine, tells me that she thinks IMing with your S.O. is dangerous, because it all too easily can degenerate into a fight.

After all, the biggest fallacy from our childhood was that old rhyme: "Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words can never hurt me!"

Bullshit. Words are like daggers. "You look fat." How much blood has that phrase drawn, here in the land of the idealism of anorexia?

Yes, a new language is emerging, yet many of our contemporaries will remain helplessly oblivious. But I'm sure of this much: The spellcheck program I try to always remember to run over my blog posts before you, dear reader, are subjected to them, will one day have to be overhauled to recognize the new "words" that will be as common as ants.

LOL!

(*)used in place of with, the and that.

Timeless

The exquisite pains and beauties of being alive churn inside me tonight. My eyes are hurting, and whole body is aching from the constant abuse I subject it to -- or maybe it was those two strenuous basketball games against the kids on Sunday. My 12-year-old can beat me hands-down at any version of 1:1 basketball I care to try. Who ever heard of a kid who can nail 50% of his shots beyond the 3-point line, which in our yard, means shooting from way back where the old 1880's privy used to reside.

(That patch of ground remains mysteriously devoid of clover or sour grass this winter, whilst the rest of the yard blooms like a tropical rainforest. I suspect the ghosts we unearthed to gather those old bottles unleashed some unhappy spirits, or at least, their excretions. "Don't go messin' with my shit," they probably are saying.)

Nonetheless, time waits for none of us, not even our ghosts. Thus, a few tiny, fearless clovers are seeding the refilled excavation square, and I bet by next winter (our greenest season here in the desert that is San Francisco), all traces of our intrusion into the history of this place will be invisible to the naked eye.

I'm happy to note that traffic to this pathetic little blog is up today, no doubt in response to my heart-felt post in homage to oral sex. While I'm on the subject, let me say I am a big fan of every type of pleasure people can give each other, and I do not quite understand why many pleasures are characterized as "fetishes."

Those Puritans back in the day really f'd this culture up. It is striking to be in Japan or China, or to date people from those cultures, and to see how unrepressed about sex they are. For that matter, even the British are less repressed than Americans, in my experience.

***

I hate it when that happens. I get distracted. I have other things to say tonight. First, life is short, and time races on. Already, do you realize, more than 10% of 2007 is over! And, what, exactly, have we accomplished? I was working by request earlier today on an acquaintance's tribute to her brother, who died prematurely and suddenly, recently.

Her advice in her tribute to anyone listening is to never miss an opportunity to tell those closest to you what they mean to you. This may sound like a cultural cliché, but it is sound advice. No matter how strained your relations may be with your close people, do not remain silent for long.

Otherwise, the echoes of your own lonely voice, mouthing phrases never uttered "in the living years" will continue to wash over you like soft, unforgiving waves on the edge of an ocean that never ceases to attack the sand you stand on.

***

I heard from my cousin Dan tonight, one of Gordon's big brothers, in the form of a comment on my post titled "Only the Lonely." Dan and I were the same age, so in our growing up years, we shared the most among all the Anderson cousins. I have always admired him greatly, even though we chose separate paths in life. My respect for him and his choices remains intact. He's a strong, dependable, decent man whose values, at the end of the day, remain consistent with my own, though we might quibble a bit over the details. :-)

***

So, time waits on no man and no woman. You know what I enjoy? Watching a lovely woman enjoy her food. Eating is so incredibly sensuous, and due to the irrational pressure on women to be as slender as an exclamation mark, I notice how much pressure my female friends feel under re: food.

Thus, whenever I enjoy the company of someone who savors, say, her Brussels sprouts or her Beijing Duck, my heart feels happy. I truly enjoy the way my own kids, all of whom sport hearty appetites, react when I order Indian food from Spicy Bite or Chinese food from Yum Yum, or Mexican food from El Matate.

Tonight, worrying about the large question of Time, I have lost sight of the small question of time, which includes an obligation to make myself dinner. Hmmm, where shall we begin?

-30-

He's got my vote!

So our mayor, here in San Francisco, had a brief affair a year and a half ago, while he was going through his divorce. Now, he has said he is an alcoholic, and he's going to seek treatment.

I can't speak for other residents of Barbary Coast Village, but these revelations only increase my loyalty to my mayor. To be truthful, I didn't vote for him in the last election; instead, I supported the upstart, Matt Gonzalez.

I fell for the anti-Pac Heights rhetoric the Left was hurling at him. But I should have known better. I'd met him the year before, spent some time with him, in the owner's box at Candlestick Park during a 49ers game, and I liked him. He was impossible not to like. He's sincere, funny, self-deprecating -- nice to be around, although perhaps not if he's your boss.

But I got swept up in the passionate movement behind Gonzalez, who seemed to be leading a populist uprising against the downtown business interests who'd held sway throughout Willie Brown's reign.

Newsom got to me when he took his stand in support of gay marriage. Then, he solidified my support by his constant attention to kids in some of the city's most dangerous housing projects. He sealed the deal when he joined striking hotel workers on the picket line -- against those same downtown business types I'd imagined as his allies.

Clearly, this guy has a reckless streak, much like most great politicians -- JFK, Clinton, maybe Obama.

I just feel better toward him knowing he can admit to some of the same mistakes almost every living, breathing person makes. Since when do our politicians have to be different from the rest of us?

I enjoyed watching Newsom work the room at the big Democratic Party fundraiser just before last November's election. He exuded charisma, and attracted every bit as much attention as did Nancy Pelosi, soon to be Speaker of the House.

Clinton, on the other hand, is in a whole different category: He's a rock star.

Gavin could learn a few things from Bill. Or, he could be like Dubya and become an evangelist for the ex-drinker community -- an ever-growing constituency all across the nation.

But if he listens to Bill, maybe he can figure out a way to (sorry, cliché-haters) have his wine and drink it too. Either way, he's such a hunk that attracting the ladies will never be an issue for him.

Nor will attracting votes, at least in San Francisco. I can't speak for the rest of the state or the union. Given that we have a trash-talking groper at Governor, and an outright idiot as President, I'm not sure which "family values" exactly these Republicans represent.

Nope, Gavin's my guy. And p.s., Mr. Mayor, thank you for that thank you note you sent me after I met you. This post is my way of writing back, hopefully at a moment when you can use some support.

-30-

Oral Sex is Great but Reality Just Sucks

Many times, I am so overwhelmed by the various information resources that have come to my attention recently that I don't even know where to start.

But, tonight, I want to alert readers to:

* a great story list about post-Katrina Louisiana and Mississippi.
* an incredible watchdog site on the trial in Washington, D.C., that could bring down the Bush administration.
* an informed person's guide to oral sex.

***

Okay, I am kidding about the third one. But, you have to admit it's a pretty good keyword phrase (oral sex), which is one of the ways websites attract audiences from the vast, restless audience out there searching for...something or another.

You know, I think I owe those who may follow these keywords some insights. So, I'll do my best. My only sexual experiences are heterosexual, so I suppose I am no use to gay men. But for those (men or women) who want to service their girlfriends or wives in this way better, I do have a few suggestions.

First, the environment matters. If you know your woman, you'll know that she feels safest letting go in either the dark (likely) or the light, outside or inside (probably), with music on (likely) or in the quiet. Maybe drugs or alcohol or maybe not. Maybe naked (probably) or maybe with clothes simply rearranged. Maybe whispering fantasies or maybe keeping utterly quiet (likely).

Whatever her preferences are, remember this, tweaking a woman's nipples is closely related to the birth-like contractions that approximate orgasms, so do not neglect these places as you lick, bite, blow, and otherwise stimulate her most private places.

As for men, we're easy, right? I don't pretend to speak for my brothers, but for me, I also have to feel safe to enjoy getting a nice blowjob. In fact, it can take me a long time to climax, because my background convinced me women don't really like to do this. It appears this has changed recently, but I wouldn't know too much about that, since I try to date women only within my own demographic, i.e., the Baby Boom, rather generously interpreted.

So if you are a woman and you want to please your man, learning how to take as much of him in is a really good idea. Think about it. Men enter and thrust, but whatever is left outside the warm, wet environment we are seeking is rather, how to say, unattended.

It must be very hard to deep-throat a man, because you have to suppress any gagging impulse. But this can be done, and I have the experience to prove it. In fact, according to my partner on that memorable occasion, my shot went straight down her throat without her even feeling it! Maybe that was our greatest moment, as a couple? We were in Greenwich Village, a place where such things have often, no doubt, occurred.



***

I do apologize for the digression. Maybe that was my bold reach for new readers, or maybe I just have a tendency now and again to issue TMI. Whatever, it's done now. (Oral Sex searchers can depart now. Have a nice night.)

Meanwhile, to return to my main purpose tonight, there is an excellent collection of good articles about the post-Katrina Gulf coast here: New Yorker archive .

***

Have you been following the perjury trial of "Scooter" Libby in Washington, D.C. Some incredible evidence has been introduced into the record. Here are a couple explosive exhibits:




To fully appreciate what these hand-written notes by Dick Cheney mean, please follow this link: Truthout. org. (Thanks, Kelsey.)

***

What, say you, does this serious political commentary have to do with oral sex? I ask you, dear reader, to think back one President, and you'll see what I am suggesting. Who's worse, a brilliant and well-meaning man who succumbs to sexual temptation; or a rich guy over his head, "morally" pure but very possibly a war criminal in history, should any of those who have brought us to this juncture ever be brought before the World Court.

-30-

Being Super

Where do I start? That is always the hardest decision. Maybe, tonight, I'll start with books, even as music is pounding in my head.

Books are brain food; music is heart food. Art, your own art, is soul food.

One of the nice parts of living in San Francisco is the opportunity to get to know many artists. In the early '70s, a cultural revolution was raging in this town. Psychedelic posters, political photographs, plus primordial products proactively penetrated practically, potentially, potently popular places, positively.

Where was I? I hate it when this happens. Alliteration slips out of my lips, or my fingertips, and there's no way for me to stop it. I think I was looking for a synonym for "market."

Back then, leftists activists like me considered market economics to be the enemy of all we held dear. We looked to Che Guevara, Mao Tse Tung, V. I. Lenin, and many others to lead us in a different direction, a much more utopian vision, one based, quite frankly on our hearts, even if it ostensibly was intellectual.

Nope, it was emotional. The intellectual integrity of Communism turned out to be deeply flawed. But it was a nice try.

Anyway, in the '60s, the old Commies were still active, more or less like beneficent uncles guarding their wayward nephews and nieces -- those of us on what was termed the "New Left."

No doubt about it, I was there at the center of the New Left. Somehow, I obtained an original copy of the Port Huron Statement that launched SDS (Students for a Democratic Society), and I've kept it to this day.

Its key author, Tom Hayden, and the leftist professor Staughton Lynd wrote books about American imperialism in Vietnam that influenced me greatly. As a high school contemporary of my big sister's in Royal Oak, he and I happened to share some history that I did not discover until many years later.

But I was lucky to edit some of Tom's excellent essays about the Vietnam War in Rolling Stone, and later, to work on a film with him and Jane Fonda, called Rollover.

These days, Tom and I are both members of the Editorial Board of The Nation magazine in New York. Headed there again soon.

***

Tomorrow is my grandson James's one-month birthday! He is smiling now, alert, and, according to his mom, anxious to be able to get moving and explore his world. I'll go back up to see him very soon.

***

My 12-year-old has entered puberty. He also is growing like Jack's Beanstalk. He is already about 5'2", and looking down on his friends' heads for the first time ever. He also has developed such an amazingly active jump shot in basketball that watching him play is a pleasure others, not just his doting father, are commenting on.

He is growing so fast, with his 8.5 shoe size anchoring his height, I wonder of he will not overtake his oldest sister when she marries this summer? After all, she is only 5'3".

***

We had some friends over today for a Super Bowl party, just like Americans did all over the country. But our party might be a bit Left Coast for mainstream taste. I served pickles, olives, baby carrots, chips, cucumber, fresh basil, red pepper, cherry tomatoes, lettuce with a dressing of Ume Plum Vinegar/Olive Oil/Garlic Powder/Balsamic Vinegar.

It was, shall we say, redolent.

Just to safe, we also had pizza and diet Coke.

***
My serious rearranging of my flat continues unabated. All sorts of memories are being resurfaced around here. My eight-year-old daughter rediscovered her favorite reading books today, and the boys found lost toys.

As for me, I found some old photographs of my parents with their new little grandson, some 12+ years ago, now the emerging basketball star. Both have since died, but if I choose the two people I would most love to talk to about his athleticism, it would be them, my mom and my dad.

They look so nice in this photo, and they were nice. I have no idea how they ever put up with the likes of me -- a mutant, of sorts, as I (and my generation) challenged everything they held dear.

Well, not everything. We connected again as loving parents, doting grandparents, and survivors of life storms. Blood runs thicker than ideology, and may it always be so!

-30-

Candle Night

Tonight I am thinking about romance in my 50s, as opposed to my 40s, 30s, 20s, and teen years. Going back further gets into childhood, of course. Something very confusing to me as a boy was how I got erections thinking about or looking at girls. I'm not sure how common this is, but it most definitely was the case with me.

When you are uninformed and naive about sex, as I was, getting an erection is extremely confusing. You feel as if you are not in control of your own body, never a good feeling (until it is).

Not to mention the embarrassment of trying to keep it from showing in your tight pants. Throughout my boyhood, I was anxious about this problem. I never talked to anyone about it; somehow I knew it was among the unmentionables.

As a young teen, I had my first crushes. One of the girls who was the object of my yearning was a couple years younger. In fact, most of the girls I adored throughout my teen years were younger. This pattern continued throughout my adulthood. (Note to angry commenters -- I am just being honest here.)

I married my first girlfriend at roughly the halfway point between our birthdays. Thus, I was freshly 22, and she was a mature 21. We stayed married a long time -- 20 years, before our relationship broke into pieces. It took three more years to finish our divorce; three months later, I married for the second time.

That marriage ended in early 2003, so we were together 11 years. But the last year and a half was a sexless marriage, and by the time we broke up, we were both ready to move on.

So, this is the starting point of my story. Whatever I did or did not do until the age of 55, my life was defined by the central fact that I was married.

These past four years have been my first real experience as a single man, and you know what? It's not so bad. I was thinking about the relationships I've had over this time, and they have been marvelous, each in its own way. Some of the best parts of dating involve that period where you sense something is possible but you don't yet know what will happen.

There have been around 7 or 8 women who I've hung out with in my 50s in this state of potentially sexualization. This has been my learning period, what most people do when they are teenagers or in their 20s.

I never had that opportunity, and much of my older life has been defined as much by that gap in my education as anything else. Now, when I contemplate getting married ever again, I wonder: Why?

It is fun to be entirely free to meet new people, and allow mutual attractions to work themselves out, as they may. I am again reminded of that song, "The Inside of Love," by Nada Surf.

Making out with someone you don't really know -- it happens. Yearning for a deeper connection -- it is the perpetual state of being alone and single.

Meeting new people -- that can happen, guilt-free.

Without exception, the women I like who appear to also find me attractive have been about 15+ years younger than me. Is it possible that our emotional ages -- men and women -- are roughly calibrated at that kind of gap?

Since time waits on none of us, I wonder what my peers, women in their late 50s, know about this that I have not yet discovered. Need I reach the age of 70 before I am their equal, emotionally?

***

Today had some special moments. My 25-year-old son came by for lunch. He is in town visiting his girlfriend, and so is not staying with me. But he looks great, and is thriving, I think, at Cal Tech.

My good friend who runs the lifelong learning program where I teach memoir, and I took a long walk. She had a serious health scare this fall. It looks now that she is in the clear.

I'm rearranging furniture in my house, making things more comfortable, I hope, and more functional. Today was partly a day of repairing things. Spring is in the air (the temperature hit the high 60s), so of course I am into spring-cleaning.

Believe me, this place could use a large dose of that!

I am waiting to talk with a girl I like a lot. That may happen tonight as well.

My first dinner was brown mushrooms cooked in olive oil, with fresh basil, garlic, and onion slices. Then I ate a small piece of steak. Later I will have some warm shrimp and a salad of fresh greens, cherry tomatoes, and red pepper.

Out back, my little candle house glows with the light from a red candle. This is not exactly a red light house I am running here, but you get the general idea...

I am happy to be a man who loves women.

-30-