I’ve made thousands of dollars predicting the future. Some of my predictions came true while others failed – make enough of them and you’ll be able to say likewise.
I stopped doing most of it around the turn of the century, confining
my predictions to fictional portrayals of future Earth. I went through an alignment
change, from Chaotic Neutral to Lawful Neutral. I worked for trial lawyers in
the daytime, configuring the computers and training the staff and summarizing
the depositions. I’ve spent my career around trial lawyers, starting as a
secretary and bouncing around doing paralegal, IT, and clerical tasks. I was
director of technology at my last job, and now I do convoluted stuff involving
databases and marketing. Not bad for a kid with a disrupted education who never
graduated from anything.
I have noticed that the future prediction market has picked
up sufficiently since I made my exit, so I’ve been pondering a comeback. Most
of the predictions I wrote had to do with an astrology column that ran in alternative
newsweeklies back in the ‘90s. Lots of them, including the Voice, and as far
away as New Zealand. I dispensed standard boomer platitudes laced with Gen X sarcasm,
and occasionally went completely off the rails with coded messages and Simpsons
type jokes (I was a huge fan of early Simpsons).
Arcane forms of fortune telling were just part of my future
obsession. I also dig science fiction. Just not all of it. Star Trek never rang
my chimes, and superheroes do nothing for me but I could cheerfully live in the
Star Wars universe. I started listing SF novels and writers that I adore but
the list got long, so I’ll do that somewhere else.
And then there was the MBA form of fortune telling where I
made my daily bread: civil trials. Will the jury side with the small business
guy or the little old lady customer? Do they favor the truck driver or the pedestrian,
the doctor or the patient, the smooth corporate guy or the stammering laborer? Whether
they call it risk management or claims adjusting or dispute resolution, it’s
basically about number crunchers trying to solve a disagreement for cheap by
predicting the future, based on precedent data.
That’s basically what got us here, you understand. All those
consultants, shaving off a few pennies here and there. Number crunchers at the
top, figuring out how to run businesses lean and plunder their assets.
Predators at the bottom, figuring out novel ways to shave a few cents from each
of your paychecks, deny a few more claims, narrow those margins.
I stopped making predictions. I did make one last one, a
fairly significant yet private one, the most important prediction I’ll ever
make, a couple decades ago. In a way I feel strangely relieved and vindicated
by the Trump presidency. Yep, saw that coming. I’ve recently unfriended some relatives
over it, and I thought I’d do a longer blog post explaining why, among other
things.
I’m basically a wordy verbose hyperlexic woman who is
compelled to produce mountains of text, and I was born that way. After I quit
predicting the future I moved to multiplayer online for a while before starting
to crank out science fiction novels that were sort of doomed by virtue of being
written during a time when reading was at an all-time low, and the market was
dominated by big corporations selling books-as-furnishings next to their
espresso cafes.
I started out with a few YA stories and during the pandemic,
I wrote a couple of horror novels. None of it is terrible, but none of it succeeded,
although a few polite friends bought copies and left reviews. My goal was to
see if I could develop a small following as an indie writer before going for
corporate publishing, but I never got to that stage.
A lot of the blame has to do with me being commitment-phobic
with my own persona. It took me forever to figure out what I wanted to write in
public fiction with my real name on it. Astrology was kind of spooky but
science fiction is slightly more respectable, maybe a little bit goofy and
eccentric but acceptable, and my profile photos from those days have a Peter
Pan quality. My horror novel profile looks very prim and mournful, and I
remember feeling sad about being locked into that kind of appearance as long as
I keep writing horror. I like grim gothy stuff, but that’s only a small part of
me. I have a horror of being locked into some prior phase, like a band whose audiences
mostly want to hear that song they recorded when they were all teenagers. Or a
writer who is forever chained to the same genre as their breakthrough story.
After my last horror novel I had neck surgery, which is
slowly alleviating a chronic pain condition I had developed. It was the sort of
thing that built up slowly over the years, I was developing arthritis spurs
that were slicing into my discs, and by the time I went under the knife I was
fused. I’ve spent the last six months learning how to move my neck again,
undergoing physical therapy and burning off some of the fat that accumulated during
the period where I had difficulty moving around.
I spent basically the teens unable to do much on a physical
level besides type. That didn’t prevent me from getting things done, but it
limited the types of things. I pulled off all kinds of astonishing achievements
in World of Warcraft, wrote several novels, cultivated various social media
profiles.
Wrote, and deleted, so many blog entries. There was a period
where I was reviewing other media – movies, award nominees, watching all the
superhero movies back-to-back. I went through a K-Pop phase, and played with
the idea of bringing potential readers by writing about music.
I went through my identity politics phase where I was diagnosing
myself as various flavors of neurodiverse – while there may be something to
that theory, diagnosing me is problematic. I used to transcribe neuropsych
exams for lawyers relating to injury claims, and I am way too familiar with
most of the tests. So these days I’ll cop to being gifted, which is the only
one of my neurotypes that is documented; I have an IQ in the mid-160s (163 a
couple times, 165 a couple times). Although I definitely have a few traits that
fall within the autism/ADHD universe, I wouldn’t consider myself disabled
(pre-neck fusion anyway). Quite unusual, odd even, but not handicapped. I have
glaring deficits in some things (socializing) and I’m overpowered in other ways.
My biggest eccentricity has to do with retro sensibilities.
I like living in a walkable city where I don’t need a car. I like trains,
streetcars, buses, and the new robot cars currently cruising through my city. I
prefer live music to television. Even with my currently limited diet, I’m a
foodie and I enjoy having lots of culinary options. I subscribe to all those
theories about cities and sustainability. I probably would’ve been a lot
happier living my life someplace like London or Tokyo or even New York City,
but San Francisco suits me best and I’ve been here for thirty years, most of
them in the same apartment. Half my life.
I have a few other retro sensibilities related to food, since I’ve had chronic tummy issues most of my life and react to lots of things. Right now my diet is mostly Kind bars, yogurt and chicken following a year of assorted infections and reactions, not to mention having my neck anatomy rearranged. I also don’t like overly bright malls full of outgassing plastic products, preferring to buy my stuff at the neighborhood hardware store that’s been in business a hundred years. I don’t like cars. I can’t stand most Hollywood product and I'll leave a place that has a blaring TV.
When I was writing my science fiction trilogy that takes
place in 3749, it was tempting to blather about how humans would “evolve” to
become something other than what they are. I was not operating on that premise.
Rather, I had a list of what anthropologists call “cultural constants” –
features that are found in every human culture. Like music. Separate music for
children. Holidays. Courting. Religion. I projected all of that onto a future
where every forecasted disaster had already come true with regard to climate
change, but there were still people, celebrating holidays, flirting, and
listening to music (I did include churches but didn’t delve deeply into what
went on in them, other than implying yes, religion survived).
I remember watching a documentary about the ancient world, where archeologists were examining the apartment of someone who lived in a big city (can’t recall whether it was Egyptian or Babylonian or what), and had a job as a scribe. And lived in an apartment full of writing utensils and books, and ate takeout food. They didn’t know if the scribe was male or female, might have been either. The scribe probably became literate due to a privileged background, but there were also poor kids who learned from the church and rose to the socioeconomic class of “single people who live in the city doing bureaucratic jobs and eat takeout.” I immediately decided this was the lifestyle for me.
In fact, that’s the whole reason I’m here today. My second
computer, which is dedicated to running World of Warcraft, is refusing to
accept an external monitor today. My third computer will arrive Monday. My
first computer (this one) was deliberately purchased with a small hard drive,
so that I can’t play games on it – just writing, and music, and internettery. Since
I have a choice between peering at my laptop monitor to do my fishing dailies
or typing stuff on my blog, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.
I’ve had a few false starts at novels since the last horror
tale, and I’m a little ways into writing a “rock star in space” kind of novel,
but the creativity is really not flowing of late. I’ve thought of resurrecting
my astrology business, because a lot of people are feeling very fatalistic
about the future right now and I might as well separate them from their money
while they’re too depressed to have better judgment. But that’s dishonest, and
I’m lawful now, so I only tell lies when they’re explicitly marked as fiction.
Instead, I thought I’d just start a stream of consciousness blog about living in San Francisco after Donald Trump won his second term, during a time of intense upheaval. Because I am a person who lives in a city while ordering takeout and typing, and making words is what I do. And the novel-writing business has tanked, and the fortune-telling business just attracts superstitious clingy people – not something that interests me right now. My novel isn't flowing, and my therapist suggested journaling.
In a certain way, I feel like the Berlin Wall has fallen. A
month or so ago, I lived in a world where if you said something like “there are
an awful lot of misogynists, maybe we shouldn’t run a woman candidate during a
high stakes election again like we did that other time” you’d get shut down by
people screaming at you to shuddup and eat your broccoli. But I feel like I can
say a thing like that now. Or even more controversial things, like “maybe
focusing on individual expression in the form of identity politics led to an
erosion of interest in collective solutions.”
I’m not sure if I’m undergoing another alignment change, but
I am definitely undergoing some transformation, so I think I’ll keep track of
it here and keep everyone posted on how the Age of Aquarius transition (November
20th) is going in San Francisco, California. Since I don’t seem to be
in the mood to focus on fiction, or tell more lies for that matter.
I also have no interest in finger-wagging, blaming or
anything like that. If I, a liberal woman well-versed in feminist thought, find
that kind of tone grating, the misogynists among us must find it unbearably caustic.
I’ve pointedly avoided gathering with feminists for the last couple decades,
because I always get accused of thought crimes for things like fact-checking
statistics or watching the wrong TV shows (the most recent was “disagreeing
with Billie Eilish”). I tend to fail purity tests. So I’ve been sitting back on
the sidelines, watching the rest of them fight nonstop battles over naughty
words and unbecoming behavior.
(Right now I’ve got a couple of them denouncing me as a
republican in a Facebook group because I commented that the stern-scolding meme
they posted was unlikely to convert any misogynists.)
I haven’t been outside much since Election Day. Which I
spent at a K-Pop concert (Seventeen), getting bombarded with delightful rhythms
and lights. I’ve been wallowing in live music ever since it returned
post-pandemic, and I’ve even got an Instagram for the patch-encrusted coat I
wear to shows (@concertcommandocoat).
I adore K-Pop and have been listening to tons of it since
the pandemic. My music computer did an unrecoverable fail one month into
lockdown, and it was easier to just get into a whole new music genre rather
than replace all my moldy classic rock in yet another format. K-Pop is helping
alleviate a certain zero-representation problem in the American music industry,
and the best part is I can’t understand very much Korean, so I have no idea
what they’re saying. I have a few blank spots with popular music over the last
couple decades because I haven’t really liked American music (sorry Swifties,
Phish fans, etc.), and it’s nice to be interested in new releases again.
Normally when I come back from an Oakland show I get out at
Embarcadero BART and call a Lyft, but this time I was hungry and decided to be
a bad girl and stop by Bob’s Donuts. I try to avoid sugar. For a while I was
letting myself have a sugary treat every month, but then I got to the point
where I was skipping months, so now it’s a “whenever” kind of situation. So I hopped
on the 1 California and rode it to Polk Street, along with a few gloomy-looking
San Franciscans.
We all ride the bus here. It’s a small town, full of steep
hills. A lot of us have cars but don’t mind hopping on the city bus if we’re
just going a few blocks. I don’t, but I’m one of those low-carbon fanatics. It
makes up for refusing to sort out my recycling from my compost, or stop eating
meat.
A woman on the bus stood up to reassure us, at one point,
that Kamala still needed our happy thoughts. I had peeked at my phone a little
ways into the concert and saw Trump leading, which made me sad, but then later
I saw Kamala leading, which lifted my spirits. I was intending to avoid the
news until the morning, assuming it would be close.
I don’t know Kamala personally. When I worked for trial
lawyers, she was the DA, and occasionally she interacted with my co-workers. I voted
for her because she comes from my world, one that I understand: the San
Francisco legal community. If you can do well there, you’re the sort of person
who can think on your feet.
I’ve never liked Trump. I’m hoping he’ll earn my grudging
respect by not doing excessive damage to this country during his second round,
but I’m feeling pessimistic. Not as pessimistic as some of my social media
friends, who are assuming he’ll throw us all in camps by February. In fact, I’m
planning to travel to Chicago and New York in February, just to give myself
something to look forward to.
For the last several years I’ve been a one-issue voter. Universal
healthcare or GTFO. I was an Original Green but I couldn’t handle all the
eco-fascism basically, the complaints about overpopulation, and about brown
people hunting cute animals. So I moved to an all-or-nothing view on UHC,
assuming that if it ever passed, I would pick a new issue. Until then, I’ve
been considering everything else a distraction. My assumption was that once
everyone got their chronic pain and depression treated, they’d realize it’s a
good idea to move on to caring about the environment.
Kamala was the one candidate who finally promised it. She
got my vote. Hillary got my vote too, although I hated every broccoli-eating
minute of it. I remember having an epic argument with my asshole ex-husband
about whether her cigar-dipping Epstein-befriending husband was an asshole. I
remember other arguments about whether it was wise to inflict an unpopular
candidate like Hillary on the voters, and being told to shut up, she was too
popular, the real unpopular people are the ones who don’t agree she’s awesome.
And that was true, at that time. I was very unpopular because I disagreed with
her awesomeness. But I voted for her anyway, because she was more likely to
lead to UHC.
I got to Bob’s Donuts where I ordered a glazed buttermilk
bar, to go. It was still warm. As I walked out, I passed three young dudes in
their twenties. One had a GWAR shirt which I very nearly admired. They were talking
about Big Daddy Trump.
I got home, made myself a Keurig of pumpkin-spice coffee to
go with my buttermilk bar and sat down. I couldn’t finish the thing but it was
delicious, and as I was getting up to toss my leftovers out before I could
reconsider and eat them, I heard a loud wailing from outside.
I went to the window and saw a woman, across the street.
Long gray hair, sitting on the sidewalk. Wailing like an Irish banshee. My first thought was whether she
was injured, possibly mugged or hit by a car, and I would’ve called for help if
that had been the case. But then she began wailing about nooo, this was
terrible, for women, for everyone. So I fired up the computer and took a look
at the news. Yup, Trump victory. And I felt hollow, because it was something I
had bet on, years ago.
That was Tuesday night. Today is Saturday, and I’m feeling
ill. I wanted to go to the memorial service for Steve Silberman, author of a
terrific book called NeuroTribes, who was kind of a peripheral acquaintance,
neighbor, and fellow music fan. It happened earlier today, but the sniffle I
noticed when I was in the office on Thursday progressed to a fever yesterday,
and today I’m way under the weather. I haven’t done a covid test yet but
eventually I will. It feels more like your standard garden variety flu, and I
must have caught it at the concert. It’s not nice to give grieving people an
illness on top of their grief, so I stayed home.
Where my rotten lousy slacker computer is refusing to engage with my monitors. I just ran some updates to see if that makes it happy enough to do my fishing quest in Hallowfall. After ordering a new computer, and wondering if I should get a second before tariffs kick in.