Well, gentle reader, be careful what you wish for, as they say. I wished for a professional copy editor to go over my book manuscript, someone with a real publishing background, and damned if I didn’t find a highly qualified specimen who works for the University of California Press. It was my assumption that this copyediting project was a bit like dry cleaning. You send your pullover out and voilà, it comes back without the gravy stains. In a plastic bag. Maybe a piece of tissue paper stuck between Read more [...]

On my iPhone, I stare at a small photo that was taken two days ago. It shows three kids. One is four years old, the other two years old, and the third two days old. The new baby, Luke, Jane’s latest grandson, is being held by the oldest brother, Mikey. The two-year-old Andrew is seated at the baby’s head and finds his finger in the automatic and determined grip of the newborn. The entire scene is wondrous to behold. It would be exaggerating to say that the two older boys know what to do. Read more [...]

I awoke to shooting stars. They were shooting inside my head. And they didn’t shoot for very long. Didn’t matter. This got the day off to an anxious start. Anything can get the day off to an anxious start. And this symptom, definite evidence of mortality in some manner, had to be addressed. Once Jane had helped me get my clothes on and hurtled upstairs to prepare for her day at church, I did a quick, furtive search of Messrs. Google. Turns out that seeing stars can be a sign of low blood pressure. Read more [...]

I set off for La Santaneca in the Mission District with the highest of hopes today. Brunch with my friend Stephen, the composer of an opera which opens in Washington DC, this May. After all, everything was right. The morning was bright with sun. Yes, a storm was gathering, the faintest hint of cloud appearing in the sky. Which is, after all, the sort of day one wants, sunny, spirit-boosting weather in the morning, followed by a highly efficient storm front rolling in from the Pacific that would Read more [...]

I have rolled out of the ramp from the van and have started up the ramp that leads to National Seating and Mobility in Santa Rosa’s Glorias industrial zone. “Mask,” Jane yells from the van. I ignore her. “Paul.” “I heard you,” I scream. Once inside, having made ourselves known to the wheelchair repair receptionist, Jane and I have a brief moment. She wants an apology. I find this very difficult. But I know Jane is British, that she has a family background the yelling. And Read more [...]