Updating, updating, updating. Well, I think I've proved myself lackadaisical about this blog/journal thing. I figured I would be. Although I certainly don't mind being self-referential and relating anecdotes, I haven't the stomach to sit down regularly and regurgitate everything in journal form. I don't even write in my private journals that extensively anymore. But there are reasons for that. And what are they? Oh, please. I am half-mad, ya know. Do not make me elucidate. I started several entries over the last couple of months for this thing, but I almost always got interrupted before I finished them. So. I did not finish them. And most of them seem far away and not worth finishing now. So, maybe, I'll just finish something else instead. However, I've been more recently embroiled in updates, some of which are worth pointing out here. Beginning of May, I helped to get a mini-update pulled together for the long-neglected Suffering is Hip. See SiH's NEWS for that. I added a new section to the Bat Cafe -- the "booklets" page. Threw a downloadable PDF of a booklet (it's about 75 pages long) of my old poetry on there. It's the online version of a booklet I made a few years back and printed out for the Marquis. Silly boy. He likes my poetry. Well, actually, quite a few people like it. I'm usually ambivalent about it. My poetry is often just my cerebellum leaking. Nothing well-crafted or anything, usually. But I guess it has its moments. Then I did a little maintenance redesign on SINS OF COFFEE, including the tribute page to Norman. I went to visit Norman's niche in the Columbarium in March and took a photo with the digital camera (such a handy gadget). I've been meaning to get a photo of his niche for a long time now. Note there's a French flag in his flower vase in this photo. That gave me a smile. Now, WHO put THAT there? Emmitt Watson, the caretaker of the Columbarium, told me the flag's been there for quite some time. I suspect someone who has read about Norman on Sepulchritude's/Sins of Coffee's pages might have placed it there -- as I can't quite figure out why someone else would put a French flag there. Unless one of Norman's other friends I wasn't so well-acquainted with had some sort of French in-joke with him .... But if my suspicions are near to the truth, I suppose here would be as good a place as any to say --okay, 'fess up. What amenable personage has been anointing Norman's niche with French flags??? (curiosity maimed the bat, ya know .....). The anniversary (nine years) of Norman's death is coming up next month. Sigh. I do still miss him terribly. I think he would have damn well enjoyed all we all have gotten up to these last nine years. But then, I think Norman's been damn well enjoying becoming a minorly notable landmark just where he is. (Cheers, Norman!) Speaking of where Norman is and as I did mention Emmitt Watson, the Columbarium's caretaker, I do have one particular unfinished entry I started in March that I think it's time to finally get around to posting. March was a rather peculiar month for me. Both the unexpected and synchronicity seemed to mark most of it. And my visit to see Norman in March (when I took the photo) turned into quite the unexpected little adventure. {And one that had been brought about by the synchronicity of the chairs -- but the story about the chairs is yet another unfinished entry I started in March -- but one I'll just have to save (or else I fear I'll never get THIS one finished)} So, on a Friday back in late March, Laszlo and I happened to be passing by the neighborhood of the Columbarium around 8 in the morning. I was pretty sure the Columbarium would probably not be open that early, but thought we might check the hours on the door, since I always forget them and I'd been meaning to pay Norman a visit. (Partially because of the chairs .... later, later ....) As I walked up towards the door, a friendly groundskeeper wandered over to find out what I was looking for. I told him I wanted to know the hours just so I could come back at a time when I could visit my friend inside. He told me what the hours were and then asked who my friend was. I told him my friend was the guy in the martini shaker. "Oh, don't tell me ..." he says. "Norman," I replied "Yes. Norman Whited." I smiled. "Yes, that's him. I've even had martinis from that shaker," I told him, adding: "Not lately, though, of course." With that, I was graciously and heartily welcomed by this friendly man, who turned out to be Mr. Emmitt Watson -- caretaker, groundskeeper, historian (and more) of the Columbarium. He's really, I think, the unofficial Prince of this Necropolis and rather a fascinating person to chat with and listen to. I realized later on that I'd heard of him before -- he gets the occasional write-up in the local papers and other friends of mine had met him before on visits to the Columbarium. Although I've been to visit Norman before, somehow, I'd not yet had the pleasure. (Although I also realized he was the one I'd written a letter to some years ago after reading one of the articles that mentioned how he enjoys collecting stories of the people who reside within the Columbarium's walls. Of course, upon reading that, I just had to send him a couple of Norman stories ....) Anyway, after exchanging these introductions, Emmitt Watson led us into the Columbarium (which was, as I had thought, not officially open that early in the morning) and showed us around, told us stories, and chatted with us. When we wound our way up to the floor to where Norman's niche is, he let us have time to say hello to Norman. Then, he continued to show us around. We ended up spending at least a couple of hours with Emmitt Watson, getting this delightful impromptu tour of the place. The man has stories. Lots of stories and history. And a reverence for the place and the people interred there that is just remarkable. Norman is being looked after quite well, I would say. As are all the others. Some of whom I know a little about now, thanks to the stories I heard from the unofficial Prince of that Necropolis. Emmitt Watson gives official tours, by the way, and many of the fascinating stories he told me that morning are the stories he tells on the official tours. This is one unique tour I think well worthwhile. (For Columbarium information, see this listing.) So, if you do happen to ever find yourself at the Columbarium, on the tour or perhaps visiting a friend of yours, don't forget to wave to Norman. You'll know who he is. He's one of the stories. And I don't doubt Norman is giggling in glee somewhere over that.

We had an earthquake last night. 5.2 on the Richter scale and the epicenter was about a hundred miles south of San Francisco. They say animals act weird right before an earthquake. I forget or haven't actually ever heard the definitive reason why this is, actually, but I know I have anecdotal proof of this in my own past. Including last night. About an hour before the earthquake, Alecto (our cat) was acting weird. For some reason, she was just sitting there with her tail poofed-out and bushy like cats do when they're pissed off. But she didn't seem to be particularly focused on anything while she just sat there in the room, her tail very very bushy. "What's her problem?" Laszlo and I asked each other and we tried to figure out what was freaking her out. But she calmed down and her tail returned to normal proportions. We shrugged and figured we had just missed seeing whatever it was that set her off. Then, an hour later, the house shook. Occasionally, people who have never been in an earthquake ask me what they're like. Well, they're interesting. They usually don't last very long. Generally, by the time you realize the shaking is an earthquake and you wonder if you should do something (the conventional advice is to stand in a doorway or get under something sturdy), the shaking stops. I've never personally experienced much damage in an earthquake -- luckily -- and I've been here during some of the nastier earthquakes. Such as the infamous 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake in San Francisco, which caused quite a bit of damage in the city and around. That was a scary earthquake and the shaking lasted longer than most I've experienced. I dived under my desk and had more than a few seconds to contemplate the possibility the walls might crumble. I live in the bottom floor apartment of a three-story building. I don't particularly like wondering if the building will collapse. I doubt standing in a doorway or diving under my desk would particularly help me much in such a situation. One of the other scariest earthquakes I remember wasn't actually a big earthquake. It happened sometime in the mid-80s, but the reason I found it scary is it happened when I was work, and at the time I worked in an office in a tall downtown building on an upper floor. I don't remember, offhand, which floor it was -- 30-something? I think. The taller downtown buildings in San Francisco are built to withstand earthquakes -- which they do by having "give" in their structure. This means that after an earthquake, the building just continues to sway for quite a few minutes afterward. Even if one realizes, logically, that the swaying is supposed to happen and is part of what is supposed to make a tall building able to withstand a quake, well, I will tell you, it is still extremely unnerving to be in a swaying tall building. Because they sway A LOT. The 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake knocked the power out, and it stayed out in my neighborhood for 3 or 4 days. Still, considering that we personally hadn't experienced much direct damage and there were plenty of people who had, that wasn't so much to put up with. After that one, they closed the freeway exit near my apartment and tore down part of the offramp as it had been deemed unstable after that earthquake. So, there's a broken freeway to nowhere at the end of my block that the pigeons have taken over. I wonder if the pigeons act weird before earthquakes, too. And if one would notice a pigeon acting weirder than usual. My cat was fine right after the earthquake last night, although she did look a bit annoyed with us. I'm sure she thinks we had something to do with it.