Once upon a time, a good writing session made me neurotic. If I pounded out a couple thousand words easily, then I inevitably got frustrated afterward. I’d drive myself mad trying to figure out how I had gotten into that tingly state of transcribing. These magical writing sessions were rare for me and I’d do anything to figure out how to beckon them at will. Wouldn’t that be swell? Do you have any idea how many novels I would have written by now if only I could have cracked that code? Gobs of them, I’m telling you.

Trying to solve this mystery always ended up seeming silly. When I should have just been happy for the occasional leap in progress, I’d push back from the keyboard and say, “How in the world did that happen?” I figured there had to be a formula. I’d analyze a hundred factors, including the time of day, how well I had slept the night before, what had been on my mind and even what I had eaten with the hope that I could set up circumstances the next day to repeat the easy flow of words. If you are a writer, smiling right now, can I get an amen?

Guess what? I’ve conquered it, so I’m cured—mostly. I eventually found my holy grail, or at least a visible edge of it. Ready?

[drum roll]

I call it “Scenery Deprivation”. That’s right. The less I see with my eyes, the more I see in my head. Weird, isn’t it? I know.

I understand that every writer is different. I happen to need quiet stillness or I’ll be distracted and can’t hear my thoughts. Other writers are inspired by writing in busy or scenic places. They excite their muses in crowded coffee shops, soaking in the sounds of sputtering espresso machines and competing conversations. They either integrate or ignore these stimuli while typing. That amazes me. In that situation, I quit writing to stare and listen. Yes, I’m a diagnosed gawker. I’ll take the memories home and write about them there, but I can’t work on my story amidst the chatter and visual busyness. And if I have a coffee, I’d be too worried about spilling it on my laptop to focus. I’m wound up tight like that and they really should make those tables bigger or add a cup holder, but anyway… See?

One day a blessed epiphany descended upon me when I realized that many of my best writing sessions occurred right after I had taken a shower. That’s really deep if you think about it. (You know, the whole cleansing thing?) I realized that in the shower I’m alone with my thoughts and there is absolutely nothing to see—uh—virtually nothing. This partial sense-deprivation works for me. My eyes see only tiles, my ears hear only the water’s hiss and without distractions, character issues get worked out, often snapping into place and new ideas aren’t so evasive. It’s fabulous. I can’t believe I didn’t realize this sooner. To be honest, each shower I take doesn’t cause thousands of words to jump from my fingers, but, in general, I exit loaded with new stuff to put down whether that stuff ultimately works or not. And, on top of it, I smell great.

Seems like a cliché writer’s fantasy to own a summer cottage with a private upstairs writing suite with big windows that overlook a beach, sailboats, birds, cyclers, shops and palm trees all under fluffy white clouds. I’d find a lot of pleasure in that, but wouldn’t get much writing done. I’d be busy trying to figure out which in the shifting string of low-flying pelicans was the leader. I’d wonder how the sailboat got that wacky name. (BTW – that kid’s kite crashed three times because he never untangles the string completely.) I’d probably order food and people-watch until dusk and then kick myself for lack of progress. Don’t get me wrong—I’d love to have the “cottage problem”, but if I were to design my ultimate writing room, it wouldn’t look like that. Instead, I’d gut a walk-in closet, remove the shelves and put in a light-dimmer. I’d add a firm, comfortable chair and a small table holding a laptop that can’t pull up email, Facebook or Twitter. Whew! Talk about a view! Boy, I could draft some serious content in there, couldn’t I? I don’t have a spare closet to convert into this now, but someday I will.

Oh, and it will have an adjoining shower.

Tell me how you’ve always wanted to write a book like I am doing, but that the goal has always been far too daunting for you. Slap me on the back and tell me how my discipline awes you. (Look closely and you’ll see me fighting a grin.) Wag your finger high in the air and say, “I knew that if anyone could complete a novel, you could!” and then shake your head, amazed.

If you want to plunge a dagger into the heart of my motivation, call me harmful names, like “prolific”. Then take my hands and examine my wrists and fingers for evidence of some unfair anatomical advantage. Then look at your own hands and shout, “Why can’t you produce like his!” Wow. I’ll be drinking that up and it will be yummy. (I’ll still be fighting the grin, but it might have cracked a couple of times.) To inflate my ego to the bursting point, call me the other sacred name. (You know the one—begins with “g” and rhymes with “mee-nee-us”.) Now, that’ll give me a satisfying buzz worth a month of writing-hiatus.

I hesitate to share this next tip because it’s deadly, but for the ultimate deathblow to my writing career, tell me that you absolutely cannot wait for my book to come out. Tell me it will be worth any price. Then get on your knees, clasp my pant cuffs and in your best star-struck voice beg me to let you be a beta-reader because it will fulfill your life’s dream. OMG – you might notice I look light headed, but leave me be. I’m good.

Yes, do all these things and you will have thoroughly hog-tied my ability to compose a new sentence until the terribly-potent delusion of my “greatness” wears off.

After completing two novels and in the process of drafting my third, I’ve learned to be careful about announcing my writing goals. Praise from loved ones comes easily to anyone who announces plans to write a book—particularly if it is the first. Unfortunately, for me, the praise I get ahead of time feels exactly the same as the praise contained in 5-star reviews after publication. It makes me relax. That’s bad. You’ve heard of book advances? Well, announcing your lofty writing goals too soon triggers a praise advance. Your ego will spend it before you’ve even typed, “Once upon a time.”

You might say, “No, Geoff, it’s just friendly ‘encouragement,’” but you will be wrong. “Sabotage” masquerades as “encouragement”. The well-meaning fluffy-gushy stuff is toxic. Don’t take more than a sip to heart or it’s gonna get ya! Trust me on this.

You’ll recognize the phenomenon I’m talking about in first-round American Idol contestants. The loved ones of these poor souls with no vocal talent have intoxicated them with so much praise that they show up on national TV drunker than a peach orchard boar. (It’s a real saying. I looked it up.) They’ve been spending that praise for years, well in advance of having it validated more objectively.

So, what do I suggest? You’ve heard it before: Successful people tell stories of rejection and ridicule early in their careers and now they are obscenely wealthy, gawked at and pedestalled for their accomplishments. Do you think that’s an accident? Of course not. They were challenged instead of coddled. Maybe that’s the right road.

I’m not masochistic, but here’s what you can do for me. If you want to help me, say, “Writing a book just like a bazillion other people, Geoffrey? Good luck, man. You’ve still got the day job, right?”

Sure, the skepticism will sting, but I can work with that. I’ll probably excuse myself. And as I walk away, I won’t fight the grin because you’ve given me some great motivational fuel for the heavy lifting that I know deep down is necessary. After I’m done then I’ll bring something to show you and then you can tell me what you think of it. Whether your opinion is positive, or “helpful”, I will have earned it.

My novel, Human Resources, has been optioned for film or television adaptation by Mace Neufeld Productions, Inc., the producers of: The Omen, No Way Out, Patriot Games, The Hunt for Red October, Clear and Present Danger, The Sum of All Fears, Invictus and a number of other titles.

I’m incredibly grateful. For more information about this deal, visit my Facebook Author Page.

I have decided to officially change the title of my third novel from Wanton Disregard to Wanton Regard. Although I own the domain name wantondisregard.com and I had hoped to write a story around that memorable title, Wanton Regard is more descriptive and, frankly, a pleasantly-creepier fit for this stalker story’s first draft.

To the left is a cover concept —which is likely to change again.

Approx 20,000 words done so far. Stay tuned for more on this book’s progress.

If  you’ve never heard of StoryBundle, go check out their web site because it will explain their system nicely. They support Indie authors and put you, the customer, in charge of how much you pay and who  gets what percent of it. Seriously.

The first bundle was called  the “Big Bang Bundle” and featured sci-fi titles and was a huge success, selling over 3,600 bundles. The current bundle is called the Second Degree Bundle and is a unique well-thought-out mix of crime thrillers with a wide range of protagonists. The books and authors are:

• Blood Red Turns Dollar Green, by Paul O’Brien
• Dire Means, by Geoffrey Neil
• Diary of a Small Fish, by Pete Morin
• The Marinara Murders, by Erik Hanberg
• Black Bird, by Greg Enslen

and two bonus titles (you get these if you pay at least $7 for the titles above):

• Project Moses, by Robert Lowe
• The Saints Go Dying, by Erik Hanberg

One thing  to keep in mind is that the bundles are offered for only a limited time so you need to hurry over and get yours. The “Second Degree Bundle” will expire on October 15, 2012.

You’re welcome!

It’s my birthday and my wife arranged a professional massage for me.

“Kit” was my masseuse. Some people you meet look friendly at first sight and you feel like you know them from somewhere. Kit is one of those people. And she is a master of her craft. A petite Asian woman with a warm smile and knot-homing hands that I can only describe as incredible. More on them later.

She led me to a dim room. I heard soft music and trickling water and mouthed, “Thank God,” when I remembered that I had already used the toilet.

Kit said, “You can hang your clothes there and then lay face-down there.” She pointed to a door hook and the bed.

“Wait, Kit -should I take off everything?”

“Yes. You’ve had a massage before, right?”

“Yes, a year ago, but… okay,” I said.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, and then closed the door behind her. The nakedness wasn’t a problem for me. It’s just that Kit couldn’t have known about my recurring nightmare of walking through the shopping mall only to realize that I forgot to dress. Getting naked anywhere except home has to be a very deliberate act for me -every time -ask my doctor.

So I stripped. Got on the table face down and put my head in that comfy padded hole that looks like a reshaped headrest. Through it I saw my hands dangling and noticed my wedding ring. Crap, she’s going to do my fingers too isn’t she? I think can make it… I leapt from the table, dislodging the tucked sheet and pulling it halfway off. Don’t cuss, she’ll hear you. Then I couldn’t decide where to put my ring so I tossed it into my shoe. I hope it’s inside -it’s so dim in here. I heard Kit’s footsteps. I jumped back on the bed. Kit opened the door just as I pulled the sheet over my waist. I don’t think she saw anything. At least she didn’t show any signs of having seen my stuff. Her facial expression would have been unmistakable. Naaa, no woman could play that off. I relaxed.

I gotta tell you the massage was amazing and thorough. Kit’s hands were strong, warm and she quickly found some pesky knots on my back that needed special attention. This introduced another concern of mine: While I wanted the knots worked out, I didn’t want to cry out. I’m a man. She couldn’t see my face so I clenched my teeth even though I know I’m supposed to be relaxing. You’re going to shut up and take this because you need it, I thought. Kit kept kneading. I knew her elbow + upper-body weight was coming and it did, but she didn’t hurt me. Only once, when Kit cornered a knot between her thumb and index knuckle, did my lips begin to form the phrase “Good Jesus in heaven have mercy…” And that wasn’t taking our Lord’s name in vain; it was a sincere, abbreviated prayer that was answered when Kit moved to my shoulders -which felt great.

Whew. She then pressed on the back of my neck and pushed my shoulder blade up at the same time. I felt it coming, but I couldn’t stop it -this weird fart sound that escaped my throat. Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, don’t laugh -she’ll see your ribs flex, I thought. It was a bizarre sound I had never heard come out of me and could not reproduce no matter how hard I tried while my wife drove me home. (Sorry, Honey.) It was not a burp. It had no smell. It was like this angry, demonic air that Kit exorcised from my trachea. I sensed Kit’s hands slow down for a moment. Oh no, did she hear it? Maybe not. But if she did will she mistakenly think it came from below not above? Wait—did she just sniff hard? Should I say excuse me? But that would be an admission of guilt -a stupid thing to do if she didn’t hear anything. Just be quiet -and don’t you dare start sweating.

I’ve got to cut this review short because of Yelp’s 1000 word limit. I’ll just say that after I got over myself, Kit had me so fully relaxed I felt like I’d had the best nap. She did a wonderful job and I think I’ll increase my massage frequency to something more often than birthdays.

And Kit, if you were aware of any of my issues, thanks for keeping me in the dark. Oh, and it was accidental and from above, I swear.

“Put it down, put your stuff down, it’s ready,” a woman yelled behind me. She had jolted me from my peaceful study of candy bars and gift cards. I turned to see. She was old, scarfed, hunched-over and white. (Her color is pertinent later.) Everyone within 30 feet turned to see.

The clerk had scanned a six-pack of Heineken from it for the guy at the front of the line triggering eight inches of new conveyor belt.

The woman pointed at the new eight-inch spot still wet with that long-gone shopper’s produce moisture that I always think is absolutely disgusting. in my basket I carried some milk, a head of lettuce, bread and a few other things that might fit on the skimpy conveyor belt spot -if I stacked them -carefully. What’s with her urgency? Why is she yelling at me? Does she think my fingers hurt from carrying the basket? Is she “special” -so that I should be sensitive to some cognitive challenge of hers? I considered all these possibilities before she chided me some more.

“Hurry up, would ya?” she said louder. More people looked to see what my problem was. I’ll be honest, my first inclination was to snuff her audacity by matching her volume with “No.” Or I could provoke her more by ignoring her. But my early home training about respect for the elderly forbade that. Plus, elderly women who are willing to yell at strangers in public can rarely be intimidated unless you are willing to cross a line that I won’t. Shock & awe simply doesn’t work with them.

“Go, go, go,” she pounded fist on the open strip of conveyor belt where I was failing to build a small grocery tower for her. I saw her other fingers tighten on her purse and, for a moment, I seriously thought she might take a swing at my disobedient backside.

“Hurry, he’s getting ready to quit,” she yelled. She “penguined”, leaning back and forth, trying to see the grocery-scanning progress.

I turned to face her at her and bit my lip, half trying not to laugh and half trying to resist cussing her crooked scarf off. Just a minute.” I said, holding up my hand. I hoped the conveyor belt would hurry and move so I could avoid the words my by tongue begged to share.

“NO! Hurry! Put your things down he’s going to quit and leave!” she hollered.

“Look—” I said, teeth clenched.

“Hey beautiful,” the clerk chimed in, interrupting me. He was young black man, maybe early thirties. “I’m not going anywhere until I help you, beautiful.” he leaned far forward to make eye contact with her.

She beamed. I got it. She was in love and/or strung out with jungle fever. Her object of affection/dealer had given her a sample of the longer fix she’d get when it was her turn to be face to face with him, gazing into his eyes over the grocery scanner. I imagined the stores light dimming and candles lighting. 

I caught the clerk’s eye and rolled my eyes as hard as I possibly could without dislodging a contact. My harassment ended while, behind me, the old lady basked in her buzz with the promise of being reunited with her Ralphs clerk.

“I thought I’d miss you darling,” she said to him. I shut the rest of the conversation out by focusing hard on the possible bacteria count in the water pooled on the conveyor belt.

I don’t care if you are drunk with infatuation, rudeness has no excuse.

Tact is magic. If she had simply said:

Excuse me, sir. Do you mind if I go ahead of you? You see, I’m crushing hard on that striking black clerk I see up there and I’m hopelessly strung out on his untrue compliments so I desperately need to get some of him before he leaves in two minutes.

I would have tipped my hat, swapped places with her and probably offered to help her stack her items on the tiny conveyor belt space -so she could make it in time.

I consider myself a rather uptight person. As I drove home, I considered that our most prominent fears and concerns often become exaggerated in us in old age. This thought didn’t make me feel any warm glow of future tolerance for the compliment-starved old lady in the supermarket. The thought didn’t console me at all. It made me scared for all who will have to deal with me if I’m fortunate enough to reach old age.

Just unfriended 6 people -some for useless political spewing and others for excruciating inanity on my news feed . And I’m only to letter “i”. Try it. Purge a few. I feel so much lighter.

I was surprised by the anxious responses I got to this. Most were from worried friends whom I wouldn’t consider unfriending. I felt both flattered and bad because the people who were concerned were never at risk. They made it seem like being my friend had become some sort of contest. Ha, I should be so lucky.

Eventually, my friend Curt Harris posted a reply, saying that because my criteria was vague, I risked dissuading people from being themselves. He suggested that my update might leave me with nothing but a bunch of “sycophantic followers”. My gut reaction was that Curt far overestimated my influence, but he did have a point. Was I swaying people? After more thought I wondered if my friends had misunderstood my reasons for reducing a friends list when most people only want to grow it. So I’ll explain. If you’re interested, read on. Otherwise, now is a good time to click out of here.

Donald Trump said, “Money was never a big motivation for me, except as a way to keep score.”
I think that for many Facebook users, actual, meaningful friendships aren’t a big motivation, but quantity of friends are a way to keep social score. Tell me I’m wrong.

My criteria for “friending” someone on Facebook is fairly lax. In general, I need to remember you, where we met and that we talked enough to establish some sort of familiarity with one another. If we’ve got that going for us, I’ve got no problem confirming or making a friend request. Maybe we’ll get to know each other more on screen – maybe not. I’m not a snob. I’d like to have as many friends as I can, but it’s got to be real. We all get our little equi-sized apartment of screen space on Facebook (you’re sitting in my Notes room right now) and I reserve the right to evict uncomfortable guests from my place. That’s all.

At the time of this posting I have 286 friends. I’d be well into the 300′s by now if I hadn’t had a bad day and… let’s just say my friends list was in the wrong place at the wrong time -more on that later. To some, my 286 friends is a big number and I seem like Mr. Social Butterfly. By comparison to others, I’m practically a loner. I get that; some people are terribly shy while others “friend” everybody and their brother’s girlfriend’s nephew who mowed the lawn once. Every click of Confirm is a point.

I was only about a month into my Facebook experience when I realized that my friend-count wasn’t so much a measurement of my popularity. It only appears that way. Facebook friends are more a function of how many places I’ve lived, schools I’ve attended, jobs I’ve had and, most of all, how long I’ve been on Facebook and how willing I am to confirm friend requests. Sure, friendliness factors in there somewhere, but it’s not always key in attaining a big score -er, I mean a long list!

A few weeks ago I was having that terrible day I mentioned earlier. Okay, I’ll admit it, I needed a hug. Fine. No, you don’t need the details, trust me. My wife eventually got home and cheered me up, but not before I had ceremoniously unfriended a dozen or so friends whose postings had become tiresome. Are you nodding? You’ve been there.

I know what you’re thinking: “Isn’t ‘unfriending’ a little overkill, Geoff?” I don’t think so. These people had it coming. I wasn’t reckless. This act was premeditated and I had patiently laid in wait for a strong enough reason to grab my Facebook pruning mouse. Be honest, you’ve had the urge, right? Maybe you’ve done it. Maybe you should.

Is unfriending someone cold-hearted? Naaaa. Actually, it can be a practical, harmless way to maintain your enjoyment of Facebook while preserving any remaining esteem for friends that have become annoying in their cyber-forms. Friends aren’t notified when you unfriend them. Your name and cute little avatar just go “poof” from their friends list. However, you might show up the next day in their Suggestions, so you have to be careful about that. If you get a 2nd friend request from someone you’ve escaped, you may want to get more extreme and block them. But to me, Facebook blocking is a more severe exile reserved for stalkers and ex’s (if there’s any difference for you). Anyway, most of my “unfriendeds” were loaded with friends so they weren’t likely to notice my exit -an inconspicuous downtick of 1 on their bloated friends list. Even if they did notice, they’d have to remember every friend they had yesterday to deduce who was missing today -tough if you have more than 20 friends. Kudos to Facebook for making desertion so covert! So, my point here is that I didn’t hurt anyone. I didn’t send a message saying, “I don’t want to be your friend anymore,” because that wouldn’t have been true. I was simply tired of their Facebook drivel. I just disappeared, that’s all. If they notice, maybe they’ll just rationalize that I left Facebook.

Q: But Geoff, why did you “friend” them in the first place?
A: Fair question. The truth is I didn’t know what I was in for when I clicked Confirm. They were, and are still my friends in the physical world, but I had no idea how they would behave on Facebook. They went nuts on my News Feed, posting all sorts of whatnot that made my eyes tired from rolling. You’re nodding again.

Now that I’ve explained the effect, I’ll tell you the causes (the sins). I’ve divided them into sections for easier reference. Although I use the pronoun “you”, I’m not talking about you -because, obviously, you haven’t been unfriended if you’re reading this. “You” means “them” in this case.

Geoff’s Facebook Friendship Manifesto

Offenses against Facebook humanity

Section 1: Political Rants and Sniping
99% of your happiness, health, prosperity and the health and prosperity of your children, their education and how comfortably you retire is determined directly by what YOU do or what YOUR PARENTS did, not what Barrack Obama does -okay? So why are you about to burst a blood vessel yelling about this man? Same goes for Bush, Pelosi and Palin. Why whine? That’s just my opinion. Say what you want, but I believe most people log onto Facebook with their politics solidified. A politically venomous status update isn’t going to change anyone’s political opinion. If you want some good like-minded company, turn on Fox News or MSNBC -whichever’s your preferred flavor. I’d much rather see your family vacation candids -if you’re willing to share. I want to see some new photos of your kids and smile at how much they look the way I remember you years ago.
Exceptions: If our friendship has been deep & lasting OR if you’ve ever saved my life, then I’ve probably only hidden you and imposed a quota on my visits to your wall. If you are a shallower, peripheral “acquaintance-type” friend, “political bitching” is an egregious sin and you shall be unfriended forthwith. *gavel slam *

Section 2: Inanity
Gosh, if I had a dime for every fragmented, unintelligible, cryptic Facebook status update that means nothing, I’d buy myself a really nice steak dinner. Here’s an actual example: “ops here I go.” (Yes, “oops” is misspelled.) What? Take that crap over to Twitter. I don’t get it and it frustrates me. I want to understand. Post something fun you did or achieved today -I’m so itching to click Like on something you posted -please help me scratch the itch. (Okay, it’s late and that was probably the 2nd worst metaphor I’ve ever used in my life, but it illustrates my yearning so I’m leaving it.) Your status update doesn’t have to be deep or profound, but please make sense. Otherwise, why not just private-message your weird codes to some of your sharper friends who understand the way you people talk?
Exceptions: If our kids enjoy playing together or if you’ve ever bought me a good gift, I’ve probably only hidden you for this sin. If you are a lighter, peripheral “acquaintance-type” friend, posting the mysterious and inane shows wanton disregard for my feelings and you shall be unfriended forthwith. *gavel slam *

Section 3: Applications
Browsing Facebook can be fun and almost always ends up being a real time-bandit. So I don’t need to spend half of it hiding Farmville, Yoville, Cafe World, Wild Ones, Mafia Wars, Fishville and a zillion other FB games. If you like these games, great, play on and have fun. But your game updates are hogging my News Feed and pushing my friends’ interesting personal status updates off my screen. This is totally unacceptable. Sure, I can hide individual games one at a time, but I resent the chore. Why not post a review of a book you liked?
Exceptions: If a song reminds me of you and an era when we shared fun times together OR if you’ve ever paid me a big compliment that I remember, I’ve probably only hidden you for over-stuffing my News Feed with your game updates. But if you are a lighter, peripheral “acquaintance-type” friend, game-status-encroachment on my feed is an avoidable tragedy and our Facebook friendship is the price. You shall be unfriended forthwith. *gavel slam *

Section 4: Religion
I’m going to be very gentle here because I believe in God. It’s His followers that get way out of hand. If you have the uncontrollable urge to extend your religious ministry to Facebook Status Updates, perhaps refine your messages a little so that they can be understood and appreciated by more than a sliver of the population that share your red-hot, religious zeal. I’m not suggesting that you hide it under a bushel, NO! Go ahead and let it shine, but I guarantee that your audience of receptive readers will quintuple if you say, “I’m happy God loves me,” instead of, “Jesus shed His blood for you.” (I looked at your friends list and at least 30% of our common friends are Jewish.) I believe people can be respectful of other beliefs without stifling enthusiasm for their own. It requires tact, and if you can nail it, it’s a beautiful thing.
Exceptions: Nobody gets unfriended for this because I know you mean well and it’s a reverent topic for me. I just hide you after 3-5 lapses in your evangelistic judgment. *soft gavel tap *

Section 5: “Facade-ing”
One of the beauties (or possible shortcomings) of Facebook is that you can make your life look however you want it to look to your friends. Did you know that at least 65% of status updates are completely untrue?* I’ll keep this brief because it will inevitably embarrass the guilty and that’s not my goal. Faking a spectacular overbooked life teeters on the cusp of “annoying” and “amusing”. I know you haven’t been living the life your wall portrays. (I saw your new vacation photos on Google Stock Images a few months ago.) Next time you type an update that’s unbelievable and have the nerve to click SHARE I want you to visualize my sympathetic smile while I read what you want me to believe.
Exceptions: If you ever loaned me money that you seem to have forgotten about OR If we’ve taken baths together (before we were age 5) I’ll probably tolerate most of your Facebook PR campaigns. For others, although it doesn’t warrant unfriending you, I just want you to know that I’m hip to your tactics. And if you go too far over the top, you shall be hidden forthwith. *gavel slam *

*65% is an unverified statistic that suddenly came to me really strong in the shower yesterday.

Well, that’s all I’ve got right now. If you have a bazillion friends, most of whom you really don’t know (C’mon, let’s be honest) you might consider lopping a few for whichever sins diminish your Facebook experience – I’m sure you have your own pet-peeves. My friend Curt is annoyed by lurkers who never post anything and he posted notice of his displeasure with them on his wall. That’s cool -it’s his rule, in his home. I hope this note buys me some time on his friends list!

Wow. If you’ve read this far, you must be a good friend of mine.

Now I think I’ll find and write someone I haven’t talked to in a long time. And as I browse my slimmer & trimmer friends list, whatever my score -it’s fine.

I was OK with our relationship. YOU were the one that got bored. I had really hoped things would get back to normal for us -honestly. I did my part by giving you at least a few minutes of undivided attention almost every day. On a few days we spent an entire afternoon just sharing, laughing, reconnecting and getting caught up. I bragged about you. I told people how lucky I was to have found you. I used to wish all my friends in the world could have what we had. Baby, I thought we were special.

To be fair, you warned me that you were changing. You said we needed something new -something different -something exciting that would stimulate our relationship. When you finally brought it, I went along, even though I immediately felt totally controlled. How can you pressure me to embrace the new you and participate in activities that were never part of our relationship when they make me feel so worthless? There are parts of you now that I can’t see and that you won’t share.

You don’t care what I want anymore. Since your change, when we’ve been together everything is your way and I end up logging off you, feeling hollow and manipulated. Since your change, you shove your constant status updates into my face and force other people’s applications onto me (No, I don’t care what kind of fish they would be!). Sometimes you share our secrets with other people, pasting my private wall posts on all my friends’ home pages. How could you? That is despicable and I feel so violated! I don’t like what you do to me, I never liked it and I told you to stop so no matter what you say, it is NOT consentual.

Facebook, I think I need space. (No, I didn’t say MySpace, calm down) I don’t want to see other social networking sites, but if this is how things are going to be, then you leave me no choice. I’d like to say it’s me not you, but in this case, it is all you. You changed and I’m not going to put up with your controlling, dysfunctional egomania anymore. Some of my friends who hadn’t even met you said you were a waste of my time. Maybe I should have heeded their warnings.

I used to feel so blissfully lost in the wonderful surprises and fun that you brought to “us.” Now whenever I’m with you, I’m just lost. I feel like I’m just another number to you -one of the millions that you tag every day.

Oh, you’re going to bring that up? Well then, yes, it WAS Twitter you saw my fingers tickling the other day. Why should I lie at this point? Yes, she IS very attractive. What? I know, Twitter will never be you, but that’s sort of the point, right? She doesn’t change and every time I see her she is true to herself and I know exactly what I’m going to get. Oh, don’t cry on me! Puleeeze. See? This is what I mean. You never used to break down like this. You’ve turned into a rigid, bullying nut that cracks under the slightest pressure and, no, you aren’t going to guilt me with tears this time. We’re finished and you brought this onto yourself.

I know it’s a bit awkward to get this news in writing rather than in person, but I’m giving it to you just as you like it these days -texty and Twitter-style. Oh, I didn’t mean it like that! Would you stop your blubbering again? Sheesh! Oversensitive! Don’t forget that YOU are the one that wanted change. The same old “me” suddenly sounds pretty good right now doesn’t it?

I realize that because of the length and depth of our relationship, our breakup might be hard to stick to. But based on what I’ve said, I think it would be best if we didn’t talk for a while. I wish you good luck and I hope you find new relationships that need you as much as you need them.

Finally, I’m getting rid of all your stuff you left in my Blackberry. That might be painful to hear, but I simply can’t have it laying around. Twitter doesn’t like clutter.

-geoff

I suppose a Bluetooth earpiece shouldn’t have emotional value, but mine did. My earpiece was special because I have unusually small ears. Friends in high school likened my ears to chocolate-covered-dried-apricots. They haven’t grown much since then (these friends nor my ears). This anatomical challenge makes it a chore to find an earpiece with “good cling” for my little listeners. I clicked through reviews on Amazon until my mouse-finger was exhausted -searching for an earpiece that wouldn’t dangle like a cheap, oversized, plastic, clip-on earring.
I finally found one by BlueAnt. I was a bit of a pain to put on, but once hooked, it clung to my little ear like it was in love. I named him Blinky.
When it’s time to put on Blinky, I’m usually in a hurry. If I don’t take the time to put him on carefully, even Blinky loosens from my ear. Unless I stop, put down my bag and invest 15-20 seconds to mount him to my head correctly, then he’ll fall off. If I’m impatient and I feel Blinky losing his grip, I just walk with my head tilted, and super-steady to keep him from taking a life-threatening, six-foot plunge. I know I must have looked like I had a neck cramp to everyone who watched me walk this way, but I didn’t care. No time. In a hurry.
Blinky had an unusually bright-blue LED that blinked when he was paired with my Blackberry and stayed lit when I was in a phone conversation. I often noticed people staring at my ear while they talked me. Sometimes I saw faint blue flash on their faces -that’s how spectacular Blinky’s “LED-Bling” was. I was self-conscious about his immodest strobing, so if I noticed him distracting anyone who was talking to me, I courteously pulled him off and shoved him into my pocket -even though it would be a pain to remount him to my ear later.
I had just finished a service call to a client who has a 9k square foot home that includes six bathrooms. My visits there are usually for several hours, and, over time, I have developed a preference for a certain bathroom. That’s only natural, right? I liked the bathroom beside the north foyer, nearest the door that leads to the side gate where I like to park my car. This end section of the house seems to get little traffic and the bathroom is sort of tucked away around a corner -so I’ve grown to think of this bathroom as my own.
The home has a full-time housekeeping staff so all rooms are constantly spotless and glistening -including my bathroom. I see the staff cleaning stuff that’s already clean and it makes me shake my head.
Well, I had finished a computer task in less than an hour that I had thought would take me about three hours. I was happy. I wanted to dance. On the way out, I announced my exit to my client and then to a housekeeper I saw in the hall.
“It’s raining hard,” she said. “You have an umbrella?”
Instantly, I had to pee. I’m not even going to lie -I had to go really bad -and I heard the rain as soon as she announced it. That worsened it.
“Nope. I don’t need an umbrella.” I assured her. I’ve noticed that Southern Californian’s freak out when so much as a light mist falls from the sky. I love rain; I ain’t from here.
Anyway, I told her that I would see myself out after using the bathroom and hurried down the hallway.
I entered the bathroom with Blinky loose so, naturally, my head was at full-tilt and I was in neck-cramp posture. I should have pulled Blinky off. Oh how I should have pulled him off and placed him on the safe, marble sink -but noooo.
As I lifted the toilet seat and lid, I remembered the song, “It Doesn’t Rain in Southern California,” and couldn’t help but get my groove on while I unzipped. I had snapped my fingers twice and swung my hips only a couple of times when it happened. Blinky lost grip. I can still see it in slow motion. I made this frantic, upward batting motion with my arms and succeeded in batting him up a couple of times before he slipped through my fingers and made that terrible “plunk” sound.
The toilet water was clear -I hadn’t done anything yet. My instinct was to grab Blinky out -but my stronger instinct was linked to my germophobia. I looked in the bowl and saw Blinky blinking. His blue LED flashed every two seconds from under the water and it looked, to me, like he was begging. I translated each blink to mean “Please, please, please…” I knew I had only milliseconds before Blinky was saturated and his circuits would short out.
I scanned the rim and inner edge of the bowl. It was spotless. In fact, it shined. There was no water ring and not even any evidence that the toilet had been used -ever. My rationale for a hand-dunk strengthened.
I thought of my client and his family. They seemed like clean people. They had no visible evidence of contagious disease or toilet-seat-borne illness. (I’m sure I’d know that that would look like) It’ll be fine, I thought.
I opted to be heroic for Blinky. I yanked my right sleeve up and plunged my hand into the cold water and felt around for Blinky with my eyes squeezed shut and an awful grimace on my face. I pulled him out and opened my eyes. He was soaked and my hand dripped. Yes, I felt bacteria crawling all over my hand and wrist even though the water had been “unused.”
I took Blinky and shook him really hard over the toilet. Some more water came out of him and actually splashed on the floor. That brought a new terror because now I thought the housekeepers would think that I peed all over the floor around the toilet. I wrapped Blinky in toilet paper and then pulled a more generous amount of toilet paper and then got on my knees and began wiping up the water around the toilet so my client and his staff wouldn’t think I was disgusting and that I had no aim. How would they know the drops all over the floor weren’t pee? After five minutes of wiping and checking the floor around the toilet from every angle to make sure I left no moisture, I washed my hands in water as hot as I could get it and left -having completely lost my need to really pee.
In my car I pulled out my antibacterial hand sanitizer and unfolded Blinky from his toilet paper mummification. I wiped a light layer of gel on him, careful to apply extra on the parts of him that would touch my ear. He wasn’t blinking anymore. I pulled out my Blackberry, called my voicemail and held my breath until I heard a voice come through Blinky. The sound was weak, but audible. I was ecstatic. It was short-lived. After two calls, during which Blinky worked, his bright blue LED came on and stayed on -like a final scream -and he fell totally silent. He was a trooper, but it was over.
“Nooo! Whyyyyyyyy?” I screamed in my car. Blinky was gone. I re-wrapped him and tucked him in my driver’s door compartment. I’ll leave him to dry out more and hope that he’ll revive.
I had an old, clunky Bluetooth earpiece in my office drawer. I charged it up and tried it. It works but it is ever so floppy on my undersized ears. It doesn’t matter how carefully I put it on -I’m walking like I got a neck cramp.

When faced with a misbehaving computer, many optimistic people have an overwhelming urge to play the odds to fix their computer. They try all sorts of random things on the screen – clicking through multiple dialog boxes and changing setting after setting all while hoping to discover some checkbox or button that makes the problem go away. This is called a reckless repair. If it works, luck was involved. The most frequent service request I get is from clients whose reckless repair not only failed, but it made the original problem worse. These are victims that “knew enough to be dangerous.”

The problem with reckless repair attempts is that multiple mouse clicks and setting changes add up quickly and can lead to an uncomfortable point of no return – unless your memory is fantastic. If you diagramed all the clicks and changes made to a computer during a frantic mouse-clicking repair attempt, you’d end up with a fairly complex flow chart of changes that could challenge even the best memory.
The urge to grab a mouse and just “go for it” is strong and I’m guilty of having it too. Taking written notes on each step that I take to fix a computer is as unbearable as reading the manual before playing with the cool new tech toy whose buttons seem so intuitive.

Fortunately, there is a simple safeguard that isn’t as excruciating as scrawling each troubleshooting step onto paper. It’s called a screen shot. PC’s have a button, usually on the top right side of the keyboard, that says PrtScn. Press it and the computer captures an image of whatever is on your screen. On a Mac, press the Command, Shift and 3 keys all at once and you’ll hear the sound of a camera saving your screen to memory. Open up your favorite image editing program and you can paste the image into the program and save it as a file.

If I have any concern about remembering the sequence of changes I’m about to make on a computer, I’ll grab and save screen shots along the way. I save each screen image as a numbered file. If I get stuck and want to undo my steps, I have a set of pictures that can lead me, like a trail of blessed crumbs, back to where I began. It keeps me happy with myself and keeps my reckless repairs reversible.

It was as though someone had taken a huge platter of giant black spaghetti, plopped it onto his desk and then pushed it off the back to wedge on the floor between his desk and wall. I reached in and tugged on one of the looser stray cables and the whole clump reacted. I half expected something to run out. I was happy that I only helped Joe on the keyboard side of his computer. Under every desk that has a computer, a Blackberry, a printer, a digital camera, a web cam, a scanner and any number of other devices, you’ll usually find a glob of cables that are unruly if not bound by brute force. Joe was sick of the mess.

Fortunately, he had a solution. His friend was beginning an office organization business with an emphasis on fixing such computer cabling messes. Joe was excited to give his friend a shot at the job. A few weeks later, I returned to Joe’s office to install a new printer for him and noticed that the cable clean up had been completed. I leaned over the desk to look behind it and could hardly believe my eyes. Not only was the giant cable hairball gone, but all the cables were straightened and tied every six inches. I saw no dust bunnies and for the first time I was certain that nothing was living behind Joe’s desk. Joe was happy as a clam and handed me his friend’s business card -in case I wanted to refer him.

I got to work installing a new printer. After only a few minutes, I discovered that I had a huge problem. Joe’s friend, the office organizer, had used permanent tensile cable ties -like the plastic strip cuffs you may have seen police use (on TV, of course). They don’t untie; you have to cut them loose. A bigger problem was that the cables were labeled on only one end so it was impossible to know where each terminated after it travelled through their many permanent ties. I showed Joe the dilemma. He understood and was not happy. He called his friend and they agreed that I could cut the ties and the job would be redone at no charge. I wriggled my needle nose pliers into the first tie and clamped down until it popped and the cables sprung apart as if they were glad to be free. I apologized to Joe for every snip until his big batch of spaghetti was almost reformed.

If you want to triumph over cable disarray without committing to never adding another device to your computer, always use thin,  Velcro ties. They are easily removed, yet look permanent. If you decide to tie up your cable mess, save yourself some future trouble: Don’t use handcuffs.

My credit report was something that I did actually check from time to time. Not often, but I did pull it up about once a year. It just so happens that between my check ups, someone managed to modify my name address information. I was completely unaware of the change until some damage had already been done.

After recovery, I signed up for a credit monitoring service that emails me any time my credit file is accessed. I regretted not having signed up for this service sooner. If I had known about the fraudulent activity on my credit file sooner, I could have spent a proportionately smaller amount of time fixing my mess. Now I’m thankful for each day that I receive no alerts. If something were to happen now, I’m on the case within a day rather than potentially weeks or months.

I also signed up for an online access to my checking account. The bank’s web site has an area for me to configure email alerts for any type of activity in my account for which I would like to be notified. I selected all types. My bank balance is important to me, but I don’t want to have to look it up every day. The alerts from my bank eliminate that chore. If I get an email that shows an unfamiliar transaction, I’m on it within minutes rather than days or weeks.

Obviously I’ve become a big fan of email alerts as a tool to protect my financial health, but alerts can also be used simply for your cyber-enjoyment. I’ve got a number of favorite web sites and not enough time to check them each day for updates and changes. Changedetect.com is a free service that you can use to monitor for changes to your favorite web sites. After creating a free account, you can designate which web sites you want to monitor. If it detects a change in the web site, you’ll receive an email and changedetect.com will highlight, with color coding, the changes in the web site.

I’m on an email alert spree. I want one for Super Lotto so I don’t have to go through the trouble and disappointment of checking my numbers. I want to just buy a batch of tickets and then receive that joyous email alert when I’ve won. I’ve searched, but I can’t find that service -yet.

It dawns on me that my sunglasses are in my car and I’m driving my wife’s car. I hate it when that happens. I’m annoyed by my forgetfulness -I meant to grab my shades from my car before I left. I’d turn around and get them, but the thought of gasoline prices and the time I would lose makes me pass on that urge. I should have simply bought two pairs of sunglasses, one for each car. But this pair was unique from my favorite discount sunglasses rack at Venice Beach and it was one-of-a-kind and a great deal.

My phone rang and I reached up to my ear. My wireless earpiece was missing. That’s right -I felt nothing but naked lobe. I remembered that I left the earpiece on my desk at the office. I hate it when I do that. “I should just buy two,” I mumbled.

The next day I had a comfortable drive to a client’s office while wearing my long lost ear piece and formerly-misplaced sunglasses. After I parked, I popped the trunk and reached in to grab a bottle of water. There was none. I remembered that the new case of water we bought is in my wife’s car’s trunk. I really hate it when that happens. And not having things where I need them is getting very old.

It would be fantastic if the things I need were constantly available everywhere I went. This is a tall order when it comes to physical things that we carry around, however, I’ve discovered that synchronizing my cyber, personal stuff is possible and even easy on the computer -with the Firefox browser.

Each week I work on between five and ten physically-separated computers. Most of my work on them is on the Internet. Google’s Browser Sync add-on lets me synchronize my browser bookmarks, passwords and cookies between as many computers as I wish. It has been a tremendous tool in keeping all my personal browser preferences and bookmarks identical on all of the computers I use.

The set up of Google Browser Sync is quick and the items that you want to synchronize are configurable. There’s even a PIN to protect the sensitive data that is synchronized. After the initial set up Google Browser Sync runs automatically -eliminating the limitations of my forgetfulness. Now if only a new version would sync wireless earpieces and sunglasses I would be all set.

My refusal seemed to deflate her normal bubbly personality. Her face drooped, but after a moment, a new idea to lure me seemed to bring back her excitement.

She approached and said, “I promise it will be OK. I swear neither one of us will regret it. I’ll write out a no-fault contract if it will make you comfortable!”

I laughed and my resolve caved in enough for me to compromise. “Look, if we’re going to do this then let’s be safe about it,” I said.

“No. There isn’t enough time,” she insisted, checking her watch.

“In that case, I’m afraid I have to turn you down.” I rotated Ashley’s chair toward her and she sat. I placed her hand on her mouse. Then I watched as she deleted an entire computer folder chock full of old files that she swore (with her right hand raised) that she no longer wanted and would never, ever need again.

Sure, she could have deleted the files on her own before I had arrived or after I left, but for some reason clients opt to computer-houseclean recklessly – if I’m with them. There must be an illusion that it is safer to delete files with an IT guy sitting beside you. After her folder disappeared, Ashley seemed contented and relieved for the time being.

Permanently deleting personal files because you feel that you’ll never need them is risky. I see the avoidable, subsequent regret all the time. Clients go on file-purging rampages to clean up their computers -forgetting, or not wanting to back up the “unneeded” files first. Weeks or months later I get a phone call that goes something like this: “Hey, uh, Geoff. Listen -funny thing -remember that day? When I nuked that folder? Well, I think I lost my ____ files. Is there anything you can do?”

I dread that phone call. That’s why I don’t participate in permanent file-destruction anymore. I carry computer backup supplies with me. When a client says, “Get rid of it all. I don’t need it,” I offer to back “Ëœem up and if they refuse then I back slowly away from the computer.

There isn’t a need to permanently annihilate old files if you consider the extraordinarily low cost of computer data storage these days. Hard drives are huge, CD’s, DVD’s, flash drives and external hard drives are cheap. Copy your old files elsewhere and then delete to your heart’s content!

It is still too soon for Ashley to have realized that she’s missing a file or files that she actually needs. I hope she never does. She promised we’d have no regrets.

I happen to prefer a trim Inbox -but maintaining one is hard work. I wish my bank account could accumulate money as quickly as my Inbox bloats with email. For five years or so, the number of messages in my Inbox has fluctuated between 25 and 200 -never reaching zero. For some reason, pruning my Inbox to below 20 messages was impossible for me. When the number approached 200 I made an earnest effort to delete or file away as many as possible. Inevitably, I got distracted from this chore when I got down below thirty. The 20 message barrier haunted me.

One day I went on a serious Inbox filing rampage. I created new folders for new categories of my archived email. I clicked and dragged my Inbox-loitering messages like a maniac. This happy day I whittled my Inbox to only 22. Then I got an email about an upgrade to one of my favorite software programs. I clicked the link and, of course, had to order it. A few minutes later I got an email confirmation of my order, and then another email with the serial number. I wrote a buddy of mine to tell him the upgrade was available and he replied to thank me. Next thing I know, I had climbed back to 26 messages and it was time for dinner. I put the rest of my e-housekeeping off until the next day and woke up to fifteen new emails. This raised my total to 42, zapped my enthusiasm and broke my filing streak.

I discovered a fantastic tool for Outlook users that has helped me regain at least an hour of time that I would have spent filing emails each week. It is called SimplyFile (TechHit.com). If you use Outlook for email, SimplyFile will scan folders you’ve created for your emails and then use an advanced algorithm to predict where you will want to file messages that come into your Inbox. There is no configuration wizard and you don’t need to create any rules for it to follow -it just works immediately after the install. When clicking a message in my Inbox, SimplyFile shows the folder in which it thinks you want to file it. One click and it is done. If it is wrong, you can file it manually. For me it has been over 90 percent accurate and I expect that to improve.

I finally broke my twenty message barrier and now I have an empty Inbox several times a week.

If you’ve never experienced this sort of “visual dissonance,” you may feel it if you ever see a Mac that is running Microsoft Windows. If you are familiar with either Mac or PC, the combination of both on one computer is, frankly, odd. The Microsoft Windows opening chime sounds strange coming from a laptop with a big glowing Apple logo on its lid. I accept it, but I each time I hear it I have to shake my finger and say, “That just don’t look right.”

I have a client who is crazy for his Mac. Many of his employees use PC’s and occasionally he’ll ask me to install software that his staff enjoys. Much of it is only compatible with PCs and he seems deflated each time I tell him this.

Last week I hooked him up with a product called VMware Fusion for his new MacBook. VMware is a company that specializes in computer virtualization, which means running one or more computer operating systems on one computer at the same time. Parallels, a competing company, also offers virtualization.

In my client’s case, I installed Windows XP as a second environment that runs like a program on his MacBook so he can use Outlook for his email instead of the Mac’s more limited email program, Entourage. The installation was easy and took only 45 minutes and a few mouse clicks prompted by simple instructions. Within a day, my client had installed several PC programs that were the perfect supplement to his beloved Mac -all thanks to virtualization software.

If you are shopping for a new computer and long for a Mac, but want the software options of a PC, then there isn’t much of a reason to buy two separate computers anymore. Get a computer that meets the minimum requirements (check vmware.com) to “virtualize” another computer and you can have the best of both worlds.

Mr. Gepford had given each of us an alphabetic chart of Morse code. After granting us a few excruciatingly-boring minutes to study it, he began to work the room, stopping by each student’s desk for the “fun” part. We were each to tap out a phrase in Morse code while the other students tried to decipher our phrase and call it out. On my turn I censored my hand from tapping out several phrases that described my opinion of the entire exercise and, instead, tapped an innocuous phrase like “I prefer talking.”

I’m not against codes. I respect the fact that Morse code was a communications breakthrough. Each of us must translate codes each day. Pedestrian crossing signals are codes and so is a dial tone or the beep of call waiting. There is a place for codes and two places I’ve never liked them are in seventh grade lesson exercises and on printers.

I’ve had countless, frustrated clients call me with a printer that is blinking instead of printing. They ask me what the flashing light means and I never know. I ask for the model number, and then I look up the user manual on the web. After some short, but intense research, I translate the printer code which usually says to add some paper. “Is that all it was?” they say.

For me, the only thing worse than a dealing with a stubborn printer is having to diagnose its problem by using a tiny light on top of it that blinks in a particular rhythm that could mean anything from a paper jam to out of toner to maintenance due or it could mean job in progress. It’s times like these that I wish the printer could talk.

While shopping for printers last week I saw two nearly identical models with a $100 price difference. The first featured the cryptic flashing light like the ones that have driven me to write this article. The other had an LCD screen that communicated with language. Now, I suppose that a shopper wanting to save a few bucks is admirable. But I’ve seen people threaten violence to a misbehaving, blinking printer! I think if they could redo the purchase, they’d go for the LCD upgrade. A printer that uses words and short sentences can make all the difference.