I was on a panel at the first Bloggercon and led a session at the third. I missed number two, and I’m sorry to say I will miss number four, even though it is right here in my backyard, because my family is taking a long-planned vacation that week. (I seem to be an attendee of odd-numbered Bloggercons only.) Anyway, it sounds like it’s going to be a great event — sorry to miss it.
We’ll be off celebrating Father’s Day and a wedding anniversary and my birthday and the solstice, an abundant conjunction (or syzygy, a word I almost got to use in Scrabble recently!) of happy events; the week also marks the 20th anniversary of my move from the east coast to the Bay Area.
In 1986 I was a staff writer at the Boston Phoenix, writing movie and theater and book reviews. The prospect of moving to California had never been anywhere on my horizon. I thought of California the way Woody Allen’s character in “Annie Hall” did; it was a place inhabited by fecklessly superficial philistines who lived for their automobiles — a place where a native New Yorker like me could never thrive. I’d never been west of the Mississippi, and I had no idea that there might be some distinctions between Northern and Southern California. It was all new to me. San Francisco won me over on my first job-interview visit, and here I still am, unlikely to go anyplace else.
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