When I moved to San Francisco in 2012, I lived out my first six months in a quirky, sublet apartment in Western Addition (North of Panhandle, colloquially), near the intersection of Clayton and Hayes Street. I met my roommate, Jim, on Craigslist, and some weeks later we were moving into the top-floor unit of a yellow, two-story, Arts & Crafts inspired house. Kitchen, two bedrooms, split bathroom and shower. No living room. A kook of a landlord (but we’ll save that for another story).

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I just don’t think I am. On the spectrum of “Can Write; Will Write” to “Is a Writer” I am currently flush against the low end, painstakingly fussing over my words to assemble a few paragraphs each night that manage to be coherent and include a strong concluding sentence. The strong concluding sentence is important because it provides the allusion that I have words and wisdom for days stored up inside of me.

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Tonight I went out to see some bluegrass. Honest-to-pete bluegrass, with mandolin, banjo, harmonica and bass fiddle ablaze and feet all around stomping to the beat. The bands played originals as well as traditional bluegrass, and some covered Bowie songs in honor of the late idol’s passing. They all played at a small joint called Driftwood on Folsom Street.

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In 1973, Kurt Vonnegut said this, in an interview with Playboy magazine:

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Tonight I watched Netflix’s debut feature-length, Beasts of No Nation. It’s a beautiful movie, and horrific to watch. There is little to spoil that isn’t made apparent in the film’s trailer, so I can state the obvious and say that any film about children robbed of their youth and forced to join a rebel militia is going to be indeed horrific.

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