The Broadway Hotel, December 2

I woke up early last Sunday, the day after being told I had to vacate my home of the past month. I had a craigslist catalog of a few other residential hotels to scout out and, hopefully, check in to before my 2pm kick-out time.

I was sick.

And it was raining.

I hopped a bus down Pacific Avenue to Polk where there was a hotel with free internet access. The problem was, that’s all it had. It didn’t even have managers.

I wandered in, up, and around the moldy old building. A note told me to call a phone number — which didn’t pick up. A flimsy plastic “For Rent” sign outside listed another useless number. A more official-looking “Broadway Hotel” sign finally had a number with a person on the other end.

He asked me when I wanted to see a room, I told him now, he told me 20 minutes. I took a seat in one of the brittle chairs outside the empty office.

Forty minutes later a heavy, foreign man emerged from one of the doors down the hallway. He showed me his cheapest room: a large, damp space on the third floor. It was bigger (and more expensive) than what I’d been used to. And it was dirty.

Really.

It hadn’t been cleaned since the last tenants left.

My throat hurt and my warm forehead was misted with sweat. I felt like I was getting sicker just breathing the wet, stale air in the place.

I said I’d take it.

The man told me he’d have to figure out what to do because “the guy who cleans the rooms” was off.

The Broadway Hotel, like all the highbrow digs I was checking out, accepts nothing less than cash. So I went downstairs to the ATM outside the bar on the corner.

It was out of order.

I walked down the block a bit to a deli with an ATM inside. It only spit out a hundred dollars before running out of money.

By this time, my sister — graciously cutting her holiday weekend short to drive here and help me move — was nearby. And I was miserable. I met the manager in front of the hotel. He tried to tell me where there were some other ATMs, and I told him I’d changed my mind.

My sister pulled up, I got in, and we were gone.

The CW Hotel, December 7

I knew of another hotel — it was actually the one I almost chose in the first place, five weeks ago, when I ended up in the Golden Eagle.

The CW Hotel claims to be in SOMA, SOuth of MArket Street. And technically, it is SOMA. But the artsy, industrial, dotcom-y atmosphere of Yerba Buena Gardens, the SF MOMA, and one of SF’s eight thousand art schools — which, with acronyms like SFAI, CAISF, CCAC, ACISF, SAIF, ISFA, and OMGWTF, I can never keep straight — doesn’t extend west beyond Fifth Street or south past Fulsome. The CW Hotel is on Fifth and Fulsome — the wrong side.

It’s a stark, white building, jutting up from the relative flatness of the gas station and bus lot at its sides. Across the street there’s another parking lot, and a bus stop, and a sleeping vagrant with his cardboard collection.

Fulsome — littered with tiny shops, dirty bars, and seemingly abandoned offices — extends towards the Bay, the arts, and more-promising culture. A few blocks north on Fifth is Market Street — the new Bloomingdales, cable cars, Macys, Union Square. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop being amazed and exhilarated by the mash of neighborhoods, classes, and cultures forced so near to each other by this peninsula.

The room is nice. And decorated. With weird crap. There’s a big, backlit mirror next to the bed. The backlights don’t work. Little, dangling, colored-glass candleholders are on two walls. Wedged between a sprinkler pipe and the wall, there’s a bright red tree branch. Then there are various brochure-sized prints on the walls: illustrations of Paris and other things you’d expect to see next to illustrations of Paris. And finally: a small, wooden letter “O” hanging next to the mirror, and, on the opposite wall, a four-foot-tall aluminum “V”.

At first I though the eclectic decor was just a quirk — a conglomeration of whatever could be salvaged from some burned-out old boutique/funhouse. But then it dawned on me. It had a purpose. This was the sex room! The Honeymoon Suite, if you will. The candles, the mirror, the Paris — it all made sense. The “O” is for orgasm. And the “V” — well, I don’t think I have to tell you what that stands for… Victory!

I’m almost certainly lying when I tell you this was used as a sex room, but the thought did cross my mind — and that should tell you something about the state of my mind.

The CW doesn’t have bugs. The CW doesn’t smell bad (as much). The bathrooms are still shared, but they’re actual rooms, rather than just closets with a toilet in them. And it costs the same as the Golden Eagle. Overall, I’d say it’s a step up.

But I don’t live there anymore.

The Process of Elimination, December 16

For the uninitiated, this is how it works in San Francisco: If you want to rent a room somewhere in a real apartment, you apply. It’s like job-hunting, complete with application, multiple interviews, background check. The difference, of course, is that in this process, it’s not illegal to ask candidates about their sexual habits, political leanings, and drug dealings. But none of those things even matter because, in the end, it’s all about intuition and instinct and snap decisions based on first impressions. And I keep thinking you have three chances to make a good first impression, but I’m confusing it with carnival ring-toss. Thus, I’ve had little luck room-hunting.

Three weeks ago, Saturday (the day I’m told to move the hell out of the Golden Eagle — actually, it’s at the very moment the nameless manager leaves me the evicting voicemail): I’m looking at a room in an apartment that I found on craigslist.

The apartment, or “flat” (as you’ll call it if you’re cool), is the basement level of a 120-year-old house in the Lower Haight neighborhood. It has two bedrooms and a living room, which is used as a bedroom. My room would be the one without windows.

Only one of the two roommates is there. She’s small and bubbly and altogether glad to be alive. She shows me the room and the rest of the place, and seems to not hate me (which I think is a good sign). A few other candidates are coming by, she says, and she’ll invite back those she likes, to meet the other roommate — a guy (strictly platonic). So I leave, feeling OK about the situation — better than I felt after leaving the other seven places I looked at over the past couple weeks.

Then I check my voicemail, and hilarity ensues.

The next day, Sunday: As I’m checking out of the ‘Eagle, I get a call from the girl. Her roommate is there now and would I like to come by and meet him? Yes, I would. So I do. And he seems cool, too.

So I leave again, feeling OKer about the situation (although a creeping unease makes me wonder if my hope might jinx the whole thing).

Then, Tuesday, an email: “We’re still considering you, but we’re going to post another ad on craigslist because finding another roommate is somethin we want to make sure we do right.”

Great.

This is death, I’m sure of it.

I reply, reaffirming my interest and expressing understanding of their desire for thoroughness, while silently cursing, reaffirming my hopelessness and expressing understanding at my worthlessness as a human being.

At least The CW doesn’t show signs of kicking me out yet.

Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday: The pickings on craigslist are sparse. I answer a few ads without enthusiasm, and receive equally tepid silence in response.

Saturday evening, a voicemail: “Hi, this is the girl from the place you thought you might get but then thought you wouldn’t. If you’re still looking for a room, we’d love to have you.”

As a matter of fact, I am still looking for a room. And they will love to have me.

If you’d like to read more true and untrue stories from me, consider giving me money.

Arrival, November 9

Between a tattoo parlor and an adult entertainment store (call 989-LUST), a dirty-white “Hotel” on a haggard blue awning invites me in, and up the carpeted steps. Like most San Francisco streets — if you pause a moment in your rush — the hotel’s fragrance is a soft mixture of B.O. and urine, with hints of dust and smoke. Where one scent stops and another begins, I defy you to identify.

The room, 10 by 10 feet — fifteen dollars more than the 8 by 8 — is more inviting than I’d hoped. I don’t know what color fuchsia is, but I’m tempted to say that is the color of the small dresser and nightstand. A thin comforter on the twin bed matches the burgundy freckles in the teal carpet. There’s a mirror on one wall, and a painting of an impressionist’s river on the other. Other artifacts complete the ambience: a lamp, a dining room chair, a small sink, and an indentation in the wall (meant as a closet).

And the smell! Oh, glory of glories! It smells like… a hotel room! A crisp, sanitary scent. This quickly wears off, of course, but it is enough to give me at least a moment’s illusion that this is not hell. I drop two bills for a week. This is my new home.

This particular stretch of Broadway, between Montgomery and Columbus, is known affectionately (my guide book assures me) as The Strip, and is saturated with “adult entertainment”: strip clubs, burlesque shows, peep shows, video and paraphernalia stores. This seems intimidating, but thankfully this strip is just that — a thin sliver, quickly bypassed. A block away begins my journey with the Beat writers and SF literati of the past. North Beach (which is not a beach, but a neighborhood) lies northwest, and creeps up Telegraph Hill’s sloping west side. This is where literature was born in the 50’s. It makes me wish wish I’d read something by Kerouac. And two blocks away, Washington Square spreads before Saints Peter and Paul Church, which towers briefly before being dwarfed by Coit Tower atop the hill to the east.

So here I am. I still don’t know how I got here.

Bugs, November 16

I was planning on growing my hair out — long and insulating, for all those cold, lonely winter nights. But I think I’ll buzz it all off instead, because I’m pretty sure I have fleas.

I feel I may have misled you by giving the impression that hotel life was better than horrible. Consider this my editorial correction.

I mentioned the smell that permeates the whole building, with my 10×10 square as the lone olfactory oasis. This conglomeration of foul odors seems to concentrate in the narrow hallway outside my room — what I’ve come to think of as… The Hall of Doom! Doors are staggered along both sides of this 20-foot stretch of carpet. From one door, there’s a steady hum-buzz, like a noisy air filter or maybe some kind of sulfur-mining equipment. Another door suggests my grandfather’s dirty-clothes hamper — he was a sweaty man, and, before he died, lacked convincing bladder control. The other doors, seldom open beyond a crack, hide untold and terrifying mysteries.

I must walk down this hallway every time I want to shower or use one of the three toilets I share with 30 neighbors on the second floor. Two of these toilets were seemingly installed during the crazy, low-flow, conservation days of the ‘80s, because they’re made of flimsy plastic and have a difficult time with what those in the plumbing industry refer to as “flushing.” So, four times out of five, I’ll enter the little toilet-closet to find that one of my overzealous neighbors (God bless ‘em!) has donated a few too many daffodils, gumdrops, and rainbows. The poor low-flows just can’t handle it. So with these two, I usually have to catch them right after the cleaning lady’s had at them (without a touch of sarcasm: God bless her). And even then it’s a bit dicey if I’ve got daffodils of my own.

Fortunately, there is one toilet — if you’re lucky enough to find it unoccupied — that offers relief: Peerless Brand, from Evansville, Indiana. It looks like it’s as old as the building — sturdy porcelain, with curves so inviting — and the water pressure! This sucker was built to handle the Kaiser’s cronies from the Great War and those Nazi scum. It don’t take crap from nobody! (ahem) However, there is one villain who can defeat it — a scoundrel not uncommon, I imagine, in the chemical-drenched trenches of WWI. Often I’ll enter this toilet-closet only to be assaulted with a veritable wall of gaseous villainy. The good news is, it doesn’t smell like smoke. No, there’s no scent of dust or B.O. here. It’s not even urine. No, what we have here is the stench of 100% Grade-A, all-natural, old-fashioned, heaping portions of p—

Oops! I almost forgot to mention my bug problem.

Early in my stay I noticed an uninvited mite scampering along the seam of the hotel-provided bed comforter. (I’d already planned on spreading my own sheet over the bed and using my own blankets.) No big deal, I thought. You know what they say: “You have to kiss a few frogs…” But then on laundry day, as I lie on my uncovered bed, there he was again — the flea that wouldn’t flee. To be fair, I’m not sure if they’re fleas. They might be ticks or some other manner of blood-sucking critter. After I squashed him between pieces of napkin, I found a bright red ooze — the telltale sign of the beating of that hideous heart! I hope and wonder if it was my own.

And — not a moment ago — I caught a glimpse — then another — of everyone’s favorite scurrying, scavenging, antennae-wiggling, Meet the Parents-directing, nuclear-holocaust-surviving bugger.

And yet, somehow the pastel pink nightstand makes it all seem not so bad.

Thanksgiving Reflections, November 29

I had to alter my plans for a caustic Thanksgiving blog. I’d planned on writing about how thankful I was that I had a nice place to live that was clean, and that I don’t get bitten by bugs and then attacked by bacteria resulting in a staph infection that makes me sick for a week. Then, I’d say, “Oh, wait. I’m not thankful for that. Because I do live in a dirty-gross hotel and I do get bitten by bugs and I did get a staph infection that made me sick for a week.” We all would have had a good, ironic laugh, and that would have been that.

But that’s not that.

I’m being evicted.

Yeah. I’m being kicked out of my $200 a week, 10×10, stinky, infected, roach-infested hotel room. I have 24 hours to get the hell out.

Why? you ask. Good question. Is it because I didn’t pay my rent? No. Hmm. Was I boisterous and disturbing to the other guests? Of course not. Well, maybe I left the front door unlocked at night, letting in strippers and bums? Unfortunately, no. Then what?

I haven’t been at my job long enough.

No, I didn’t just change the subject. That’s the answer. I had to fill out some bullshit rental application (already ridiculous for this prepay-by-the-week situation), and the rental gods deemed my one month on the job insufficient (and apparently they don’t care about my previous employment).

I find this entertaining — in a kick-me-in-groin, catch-22 kind of way — because of course the only reason I’m in this shithole is because I’ve only been in town one month and I haven’t established myself and found a permanent place to live. Why else would I be here?!

The manager seems like kind of an asshole, and this whole system they have here is just effed up. I really don’t believe I’m getting kicked out because I haven’t had a job long enough, although I can’t imagine what the real reason would be.

Whatever the case, it’s “So long, Stinktown” for me.

Come back later this week for the rest of the story. And to read even more, even less true stories from me, give me money.

By including those short snippets in my original essay, my intention wasn’t to garner sympathy or arouse indignation; I just wanted to give a snapshot of some situations in which my stuttering has come into play—and to convey the fact that it’s been an issue over many years of my life. I purposely didn’t flesh out the stories to their conclusions. It would have taken too long and detracted from the overall point I was making. But now—for the first time—all will be revealed!

The Bar

The bar is crowded. I rest my elbows on the counter as people press themselves around me. The surly bartender finally gets to me and asks what I’ll have. I stare at the beer taps behind him and open my mouth.*

He looks at me and says, “Spit it out!”

My brow furrows slightly. My mouth stays open. After half a second, he moves on to the next person waiting at the bar.*

I can’t speak for other stutterers (pun intended), but, for me, “spit it out” is pretty much the most frustrating thing anyone can say to me when I’m stuttering. Because that’s precisely what I’m trying to do. In fact, as someone who stutters, talking often feels as if I am trying to literally spit out the words that are trapped in my throat. Telling me to “spit it out” is like telling a depressed person, “just be happy!” Not only can they not “just be happy,” but reminding them of this inability just makes the condition worse.

The bartender, of course, didn’t know any of this. He didn’t even know I was stuttering. He just knew he had 20 other people waiting to buy a beer and I was standing there silently, holding him up. After he served another person, he came back to me and I was able to order my pale ale.

The Baccalaureate

It’s my high school baccalaureate ceremony. I stand at the podium in front of a crowd of parents and families. My fellow graduating seniors sit behind me. I’m introducing the ceremony’s main speaker, my favorite teacher. I read my brief remarks off a small notecard in my hands.

After the ceremony, a classmate comes up to me.

“That was really funny,” she says.

“What was?” I ask.

“During your introduction, when you sounded out the words like you didn’t know how to read.”

I said, “I wasn’t being funny. I was nervous.”

She said, “Oh,” and that was the end of the conversation.

Interestingly, my senior year in high school was the period of my life when I stuttered the least—to the point that I didn’t even really think about it.

Until then, I hadn’t been particularly involved or popular at my school. But, thanks to a fun class and some new friendships during my junior year, I was encouraged to become more involved the following year. I signed up for a leadership class (which helped organize all the extracurricular student events), and I even ended up co-hosting one of our annual talent shows. Looking back on it now, it seems ridiculous that I’d ever agree to do that, stutter or not.

I’m sure I still stuttered during this time, but it was definitely minimal and it wasn’t something that defined me. I’ve spoken to people who knew me then, and they say they had no idea I stuttered. I wasn’t trying to hide it; I simply wasn’t stuttering very much. And I don’t really know why. My hypothesis is that, at the time, I just felt comfortable and accepted. The insular world of high school—where, as far as I could tell, I was universally liked and considered funny and nice—provided a safe little cocoon where I could just be myself, which ended up relaxing my vocal chords somehow.

The interesting thing is, I can pinpoint the precise moment when that feeling of safety evaporated; it was during the baccalaureate ceremony introduction. If you want to get psychoanalytical—and I know you do—you could say that it was at that moment when reality really hit me: I was leaving the safe, comfortable world I’d constructed in high school, and now I had to start all over again in the much bigger, more complicated world of college (and the world in general). Or maybe it was just a coincidence. Whatever the reason, I started stuttering more, and more. Since then, the intensity of my stuttering has varied, but I haven’t yet experienced a period like that senior year, where my stuttering was such a non-issue.

The Substitute

I’m in third grade. Our class has a substitute teacher today. I’m getting hungry, so—during a few minutes of free time—I walk up to him.

“H-h-how long until lunch?” I ask.

“T-t-twenty minutes,” he mimics.

I walk back to my desk, embarrassed.

Throughout all my schooling, I wasn’t teased regularly about my stutter. I mean, I’m sure it happened a few times—because it seems impossible that it wouldn’t have—but no instances stick out in my memory. I was teased a few times for other things, but it’s safe to say that, with regard to my stuttering, I grew up in a generally supportive and understanding environment. Which is why the teasing from this substitute teacher, an adult in a position of authority, really caught me off guard.

I don’t remember if other classmates overheard the exchange or if I told them about it when they asked why I was upset, but some of them urged me to “tell on him” to the principal. I said no, because I didn’t want to make a big deal about it—my ego was bruised but not broken, and I just wanted to forget about it and move on.

Later, during recess, a girl in my class ran up to me. She explained that a group of my classmates had reported the incident to the front office on my behalf.

Twenty years later, I’ve come to appreciate how unbelievably caring their act was. These were third graders we’re talking about. When nine-year-olds gather in groups and are left to their own devices, they’re supposed to be—at best—up to no good, or—at worst—exceedingly selfish and devious. But here these third-graders were, showing compassion for a fellow kid, in direct opposition to an adult who should have known better.

My parents were called and, at the direction of my principal, the substitute apologized to me. He was young. (Of course, at the time, he seemed very grown up—as all adults seem to a nine-year-old—but I bet he was only in his mid-twenties.) He was inexperienced. And, just like my high school classmate and the bartender and all the others years later, he probably didn’t immediately realize that I was someone who actually stuttered.

The principal told my parents that the substitute would never teach at my school again. If that’s true, it’s a pretty harsh penalty—but I bet he never made the same mistake again.

1. No one has actually asked me about them.

When I think of my sister, I always think of this story because it captures so well our weird, shared sensibility. Retelling this anecdote to an outside observer, I wouldn’t expect them to understand why it seemed funny at all, let alone funny enough to reminisce about years later. It’s not just a matter of “you had to be there”; it’s that “you had to be there and be one of us.”

And that’s why I like the story so much. Caitlin didn’t need to explain to me why she started laughing. As soon as she did, I immediately realized why she found it so funny, and I knew that she understood why my distracted mind thought that “nice pigeon” would be a good thing to say at that moment. We understand each other implicitly, in a way that only happens after a quarter century of shared joy, pain, and growing up.

A Girl I’ve Known A Long Time

Caitlin was always my favorite audience. I was 5 years old when she was born, and as soon as she was able to giggle I made it my mission to make her laugh. I’d make funny faces at her while she sat in her highchair. I’d dance around and fall down. And whenever she was crying, I redoubled my efforts.

When I was 9 and she was 4, our parents separated and began a long, messy, ridiculous divorce that dragged on for years. I didn’t understand everything that was going on, but I knew that it wasn’t a healthy situation for me and my sister. Even as I sank further into my own preadolescent depression—lonely and confused and scared—one of my goals was always to shield Caitlin (as much as I could) from the insanity going on around us.

But this isn’t going to be a sad story.

Caitlin was also a constant companion. I remember hoisting up her six-year-old body to sit on the handlebars of my bike as we rode around the neighborhood. We’d ride to the Burger King near our house. I didn’t want to stutter when ordering, so I’d decide what we were going to get ahead of time, and then have Caitlin order it at the counter. If the cashier gave me a weird look, I’d shrug and pretend that she wanted to order for herself.

As we grew older, I brought Caitlin with me to movies and other events. I introduced her to my favorite music—we’d sing along together in my car—and TV shows like Mystery Science Theater—we’d watch it and laugh together. I wasn’t dragging along my little sister; I was hanging out with my friend.

And that’s what Caitlin is. She isn’t just a good sister; she’s a good person who also happens to be my little sister. That combination is probably why—even during periods when I didn’t love anyone else in the world—I’ve always loved her so damn much.

Caitlin got married last Saturday.

A Man I’ve Known for a Little While

She met Matthew in South Africa three years ago while studying abroad. For most of their relationship, he’s been on the other side of the world (and, for much of that time, she was too). Fortunately I’ve been able to spend a fair amount of time with him here in California, especially these last few months, and I know he’s a great guy.

Still, I don’t know him as well as a big brother would like to know the man who’s marrying his little sister. The truth is, there’s no way I could know him well enough. So instead I have to rely on the opinion of someone else who I trust: I trust Caitlin, and she chose him.

Like any brother, I have high expectations of my new brother-in-law. I expect him to live up to my trust—but not my trust in him. I expect him to live up to my trust in Caitlin. And that’s a lot deeper, and a lot more significant.

I believe he’ll live up to it.

Going Home

These were all the thoughts that rushed around inside my head, and up to the very edges of my tear ducts, as I watched on Saturday night as Caitlin and Matt danced their first dance as husband and wife.

Next month they’ll move to Belgium where Matt will begin a four-year Ph.D. program. On the other side of the world once again, my little sister—even though she stopped needing protection long ago—has someone new looking out for her now, and that’s as it should be. But no one else has seen her grow up in quite the same way I have. No one else shares quite the same bond. And no one else is quite as proud as I am of the woman she’s become.

Nice pigeon.

I really like the Ben Folds’s song “Give Judy My Notice”. It’s about a guy who has been pursuing this chick, Judy, for a long time and she finally gives in (“I knew if I made it easy for you, you’d settle for me. Yeah, eventually”). But the guy starts to see that “it’s way too hard, being loved by default”. The line that really sticks with me, though, is this:

But Judy,
I can’t be myself anymore.

This is a realization that I’ve come to more than once, and I’ll come to it again. It doesn’t just apply to relationships, either. The guy in the song—in his pandering to this woman—isn’t changing himself. He’s doing exactly what comes naturally. The clichéd advice, “just be yourself”, isn’t necessary here; he is being himself. It’s completely in character for him to behave this way: “I come running when you want me here, and when you want me to I disappear.” It’s his natural inclination to cater to someone else’s whims. (My mom would call this guy codependent.) So it’s a stark recognition when he discovers that being himself is his problem.

A lot of people, I think, are trying to be something they aren’t. And this causes problems. But I think a lot of other people are not trying to be something other than they are: shallow, self-defeating, perfectionistic, pessimistic, optimistic, masochistic, whatever. And this can cause problems, too. I know it does for me.

Ze Frank explores this further:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fLLz7O9Lf6k

“Make yours a good self.”

The bar is crowded. I rest my elbows on the counter as people press themselves around me. The surly bartender finally gets to me and asks what I’ll have. I stare at the beer taps behind him and open my mouth.

My brow furrows slightly. My mouth stays open. After half a second, he moves on to the next person waiting at the bar.

It’s my high school baccalaureate ceremony. I stand at the podium in front of a crowd of parents and families. My fellow graduating seniors sit behind me. I’m introducing the ceremony’s main speaker, my favorite teacher. I read my brief remarks off a small notecard in my hands.

“During your introduction, when you sounded out the words like you didn’t know how to read.”

I’m in third grade. Our class has a substitute teacher today. I’m getting hungry, so—during a few minutes of free time—I walk up to him.

I walk back to my desk, embarrassed.

I stutter.

I always have. My stutter—manifested most obviously in the verbal “blocks” I experience on various words and sounds when I speak (“block”, get it?)—has been a part of me for as long as I can remember. The intensity of it varies, from day to day and year to year. At times I hardly stutter at all. Other times I feel as if I’m stuttering on every word—as if I literally, physically, can’t speak.

Quiet, please

I’ve alluded to this part of my life here on the blog a few times, in deliberately ambiguous comments or opaque references. Stuttering isn’t something I talk about much online—mainly because I don’t stutter online.

But in my daily life, it’s not something I’ve tried to hide.

Not exactly.

Well, it kind of is.

Actually, it absolutely is something I’ve tried to hide. Just because I know I can’t hide it doesn’t mean I don’t try to.

For reasons of shame, frustration, or anxiety[1], I engage in tactics that anyone who stutters can relate to: feigning ignorance, replacing words with synonyms on the fly[2], and mostly just plain not talking.

Plus, stuttering is hard. Physically. In fact, physical tension and struggle is part of what defines it. Saying it’s “hard” isn’t just a metaphor. It’s like wrestling with your vocal cords (OK, the wrestling part is a metaphor, but the physicality of it isn’t).

I’ve become fairly adept at “passing” as fluent during short interactions, and even more adept at keeping most interactions short. Because of these avoidance techniques, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that many people I’m acquainted with (and certainly internet people who I’ve never met in person) don’t realize that I’m a person who stutters. But at the same time, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that they did know. The fact is, it’s nearly impossible to completely hide from someone over any extended period of conversation. (Although I recognize that I’m surely more aware of it than the people I’m talking to are.)

But I’ve never talked about stuttering like I’m doing right now. Even with people who know I stutter, around whom I stutter (relatively) openly, and who accept me (generally speaking), I still don’t talk about stuttering. And most people seem hesitant—if not outright afraid—to bring it up first.[3] And why would they?

What my stuttering isn’t

I keep relatively few “active” secrets about myself. By which I mean, there’s not much about myself that I wouldn’t tell someone, if they asked. But what I’ve learned is, people don’t usually ask. I’m pretty open here on my blog about how and why I think in certain ways about certain things. Most of it is told through a prism of comedy, because I think that’s a fun and appropriate response to serious things. (Comedian Rob Delaney wrote an interesting essay about the seriousness of comedy that you should check out.) But when I’m not being purely absurd (and sometimes especially when I am being purely absurd), I’m saying what I really think. I’m telling the truth—at least as I see it. Sometimes that comes in a satirical or ironic form where I actually say the opposite of what I mean, so I understand that it’s hard for readers to keep up, truthwise. I don’t expect you to completely understand everything I write. I just want you to know that, in my own head, I’m not trying to misrepresent who I am. I try very hard, in fact, to be as transparent and honest as possible.

That meandering paragraph was meant to introduce the notion that I’ve got a lot of issues, like most people, and I don’t mind if you know that I’ve struggled with depression, anxiety, and other annoying things like that throughout my life. And when I say “I don’t mind if you know”, I actually mean “I do kind of mind if you know.” It makes me uncomfortable. Part of me is afraid you’ll think I’m weak or crazy or really, really good-looking—even though science suggests it is much more complicated than that. Ultimately, I just don’t think it’s worth the energy to try to pretend that I’m different than I am.

Beyond the obviously negative stuff like depression, I’m also an introverted and shy person. And I don’t think either of those things is bad. A real psychologist—versus my armchair version (although I bet a lot of psychologists sit in armchairs)—can explain more about how our personalities are almost innate; no amount of nurture can completely override nature. It’s what makes us different, and interesting, and cool, and assholes.

My overlong point is, I’d still be very much the same person—depression, anxiety, introversion, itchy beard, hilarious twitterer—whether I stuttered or not. The stutter certainly interacts with, and complicates, those things (especially the beard), but it doesn’t cause them. Nor is it caused by them. Again, this isn’t just my opinion; the science backs it up.

The good stuff

That’s not to say stuttering hasn’t had any effect on who I am. When you have an impediment to something as fundamental as talking, it’s sure to have an impact. A lot of it sucks, but I hesitate to dismiss it as a total negative.

I believe my stutter has helped shape the way I think. And I generally like the way I think. I like my skepticism and my thoughtfulness and my ability to see an issue from multiple angles. After you’ve struggled—impossibly—to get your own mouth to produce the thoughts inside your own head, it’s not a far stretch to think, “Hey, maybe the stupid/mean/evil thing that other person said wasn’t really what they were trying to say. Let’s give them the benefit of the doubt and ask for clarification.”

I don’t know if I would have developed such inward thought processes if it had always been easy to say the first thing that came to mind. My stutter forced me to think more about what I actually wanted to say. Because, if I was going to struggle through the mental and physical contortions to actually say something, I wanted to be damn sure it was worth saying.

Struggling with stuttering every day continues to teach me empathy for others. It reminds me that we’re all dealing with our own issues, and that there’s often more to a person than what’s on the surface. I like my empathy.[4]

These are good qualities to have. They make me a better writer and, I think, a better person.

Why am I writing this?

I realized recently that I’ve been holding on to a hope that, even after almost three decades of stuttering, one day I’d become fluent. I thought that at some point—through psychology or chemistry or statistics—I wouldn’t have to deal with stuttering anymore. After all, most children who stutter grow out of it. And some adults who stutter seem to find ways to pass as fluent. Hell, there have even been periods in my own life where I stuttered so infrequently that it became almost a non-issue. So maybe—maybe next year, maybe when I get a good job, maybe when I’m married, maybe when I retire, maybe when I buy a new car, maybe when I lose 40 pounds—maybe it will just go away.

But guess what? (Spoiler alert.)

It won’t.

Science (by now you know how much I like science) suggests that my stutter is here to stay. It will likely vary in intensity, as it always has, but it won’t go away completely. And I’m not particularly interested in developing new and ever more convoluted ways to hide it. Like I said, it’s not worth the energy to pretend that I’m different than I am.

So instead I’m coming out of the stuttering closet, so to speak.

I’m not saying I’ve suddenly accepted and am completely comfortable with my stutter. But that is my goal. I want to give up my heart’s yearning to be “normal”, and hopefully accept that there’s really no such thing as “normal”.

That’s my goal. This is a first step.

What now?

Now, I stutter.

Sometimes naturally, and maybe sometimes on purpose, just to let myself know it’s OK.

To be honest (as ever), this is gonna be weird for me. Wondering who has read this. Worrying what people are thinking when I talk to them—if they’re wondering why I’m stuttering or why I’m not stuttering, why I’m talking or why I’m not talking. But here’s the thing: I worry about that shit anyway. My stuttering doesn’t create my social anxiety; it just adds to it. And I’m less anxious when I’m not pretending.

Also, I’ll just tell you now: you can talk to me about it. Online or off. But I don’t particularly plan on talking about it a lot, especially here on the blog or Twitter—mainly because I don’t think it fits my self-imposed criteria of entertaining, interesting, or original. I may just refer people back to this post. But it’s out there now for the world to see, and especially for me to know that the world can see it.

Well. Here we are.

1. None of which, as I’ll explain later, cause stuttering.
2. Great for vocabulary building!
3. In early 2011 an acquaintance approached me at a social gathering. “Now, don’t hate me,” she said cautiously. “But what did you think of The King’s Speech?” How many movie review requests do you suppose begin like that? (I thought the movie was a pretty accurate representation of what it’s like to stutter, and I liked it quite a lot.)
4. Usually. Sometimes the shitty ways people treat each other affects me so much that I have to make a conscious choice to “turn off” my empathy for a while. It’s weird. I already explained that I’ve got issues.

Hey, how about that? Not one.

1. Fulfill your potential. Stop not fulfilling your potential, and start fulfilling it.
2. Live life to the fullest. If you’ve been living life only part-way, stop it. Live it the full way.
3. Eliminate unhappiness. I know what you’re thinking: “But I need my unhappiness!” I don’t think you do. Get rid of it.
4. Give 111%. If you’ve only been giving 110%, quit being such an asshole! Give 111%.
5. Be smarter. Don’t be so stupid.
6. While you’re at it, quit being ugly. Nobody likes an uggo. Life will be more enjoyable once you become more attractive. 
7. Stop screwing up. It sure would be nice if you didn’t make so many boneheaded mistakes.
8. Succeed. If you’re tired of failing, try succeeding for a change.
9. Attain inner peace. Some people try to enjoy life without attaining inner peace, but I really think life is better with it.
10. Enjoy life more. Once you start enjoying life more, you’ll be enjoying life more in no time.

Put these ten quick and easy tips to work and you’ll see a difference right away. Now get out there and start Enjoying Life More!

Well, I have good news for those people: You should call it “fro-yo”.

Also, New Year’s is a good time to reevaluate your life because it is a time. It’s completely arbitrary, and that’s what makes it work. All the best, most effective stuff is arbitrary. Take the U.S. Congress… please!

You’re probably thinking, “OK, Conlan. You’ve convinced me that New Year’s resolutions are a good idea. But—I’m embarrassed to admit—I don’t know how to make a New Year’s resolution. Can you help me?”

The answer is no, of course. I don’t even know you. (Or, if I do know you, I probably don’t want to know you. So the answer is not so much “no, I can’t,” but more “no, I won’t.”) But I can help you help yourself. Here is your recipe for success:

Ingredients

• 1 pencil with eraser (everybody makes mistakes!)
• 1 spiral notebook, wide-ruled
• 1 pack of 3×5 notecards, blank (for “resolution-storming”)
• 1 cupcake (for ritual cupcake sacrifice)
• 1 roll of duct tape (just in case)
• 1 garbage bag
• 1 butcher knife (for chopping)
• 1 large bottle of bleach (for destroying the evidence)

Directions

1. Spread out all the ingredients on the drafting table in your bunker.
2. Take off your pants (leave your underwear on). You can resolve better when you are unencumbered.
3. Assume the “thinking pose”: clasp your hands together, but with your index fingers extended. Touch your fingers to your lips. Alternately, if you have a beard, stroke it gingerly. I said, GINGERLY.
4. Think. Consider the different areas of your life (work, family, TV, Facebook, and breakdancing) and think about how you suck in each area.
5. Write down all the ways you suck in your spiral notebook (henceforth known as your Life Inventory Journal).
6. Think about the ways you can suck less in each area of your life (fitness, bathroom etiquette, shoe size, Chinese finger traps, and healthy eating) and then—here is the tricky part—write down these resolutions on the notecards (one resolution per card, please).
7. Arrange each solution notecard in a circle on your table.
8. Place your Life Inventory Journal in the center of the circle, and then place your cupcake on top of your Life Inventory Journal.
9. Violently smash the cupcake with your hand or hoof.
10. Chop something with the butcher knife.
11. Brush everything on the table (notecards, journal, smashed cupcake, broken dreams) into the garbage bag, and set the bag aside.
12. Pour the entire bottle of bleach all over the table.
13. Bask in the cleansing destruction.
14. Put the garbage bag into your escape chute and blast it off into outerspace.
15. Live your BEST LIFE.

And that’s how I help you help yourself.

Happy New Year, everybody.

It’s true Steve Jobs was no hero. But he was a visionary. He didn’t save lives, but he changed many for the better. For anyone who’s ever been affected by a song or a piece of art, it shouldn’t be difficult to understand why others feel an emotional connection to something that is, essentially, a “product” of someone’s mind. And it’s not difficult to understand why we also feel an emotional connection to the person who poured his heart and soul into that product. Steve Jobs didn’t invent the technologies we use every day, but he humanized them and made them accessible for millions of people.

Almost by definition, artists and thinkers don’t perform heroic or world-changing acts. But if your own personal world has never been changed by the vision of someone like that, then you should consider rebooting your cyborg brain (because, see, you may not be fully human). Steve always recognized and appreciated this gut-level sense of inspiration, and that’s why so many of us feel a sense of loss right now. But it’s also why—like all great artists—Steve Jobs will live on.