S.G. Browne

I’m sitting at a traffic signal, the light turned green, waiting to drive through the intersection as several teenagers who stepped into the crosswalk just before my light changed shuffle across the asphalt like zombies, their feet barely lifting off the ground, walking without purpose.

Slow. Indifferent. Annoying.

Are they conserving their energy for something? Is it a peer display of cool? A nonchalance to give the adult world the finger? The slower you move, the less you care?

All I know is that my light’s going to turn red before they clear the crosswalk.

Lack of courtesy is a major pet peeve for me and it’s something I touch on in the book I’m currently writing. (Not Fated, but Book #3, which I’ve titled Lucky Bastard). My main character is annoyed by a lot of things – cars that take up two parking spaces, neighbors with loud stereos, and cell phone etiquette, among others – so I thought I’d channel him for one of my blog posts.

So besides slow, indifferent teenagers, some of the other things that annoy me:

Street telemarketers.
Bad customer service.
Friends who answer their cell phones in restaurants.

Really, anyone who answers their cell phone in a restaurant. Or while standing in the checkout line at the grocery store. Or in any enclosed, public place. That’s why you have voice mail. You can call them back.

On second thought, maybe it would be more appropriate to think of this as People Who Annoy Me, since most of the things on my list are people.

People who litter.
People who don’t say please or thank you.
People who think movie theaters are interactive experiences.

Almost every time I go to the movies I end up sitting by some man or woman who insists on keeping a running commentary throughout the film. Or who is constantly asking questions. If you don’t understand what’s going on, stop asking your friend or your spouse to explain and figure it out for yourself. Take a class on critical thinking. Improve your ability to problem solve. Read more books instead of watching reality television or playing video games.

Bicyclists who don’t obey traffic laws.
Smokers who think their cigarette butts are biodegradable.
Drivers who don’t understand the concept of merging.

Sometimes I wish there were protocol police, officers of the social graces who would fine people for inappropriate behavior and arrest repeat offenders who would have to serve time at an Etiquette Rehabilitation Center.

Some people are under the impression that I’m comfortable around dead bodies because I wrote a book about zombies with a lot of detail about what happens to the human body when it decomposes. That if I ever came upon a fresh corpse, I’d study it for research. Well, here’s a little story.

A couple of years back, when I was doing property management for some apartment buildings here in San Francisco, I was performing apartment inspections and discovered that the tenant in one unit, a big, friendly guy in his 50s, had been dead for several days. After walking out of the bedroom and seeking the safety of the kitchen, I called the landlord. Then I called 911. This is pretty much how the conversation went.

“911. What is your emergency?”
“I’d like to report a dead body in my apartment building.”
(I then provide my name and the address.)
“How do you know the body is dead, sir?”
“Well, he’s on his back and he’s not breathing and his eyes are wide open.”
“Are you sure he’s not breathing?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Is the body cold?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t touch him.”
“Can you check to see if the body is cold, sir?”
“You want me to touch him?”
“Yes sir.”
“Do I have to touch him?”
“If you wouldn’t mind.”
(After a pause.) “Okay, fine. Hold on a second.”
(I walk back into the bedroom, bend down, then reach out a single index finger and poke him in the shoulder.)
“Yes, he’s cold.”
“Do you have a defibrillator?”
(A defibrillator? No, I don’t have a defibrillator. Who the hell carries around a defibrillator?)
“No. I don’t have a defibrillator. And I don’t know CPR, either, so if you want someone to try to resuscitate him, then I’m not the man for the job.”
“Are you alone, sir?”
“Yes. So if you could you please send someone over here who deals with dead bodies I’d appreciate it, because this isn’t really my forte.”
“We’ll send someone right over.”

I’m sitting on the balcony of my hotel room on the 20th floor looking south along the beach in Ft. Lauderdale and I hear an alarm going off somewhere on the street below, followed by an authoritative recorded female voice issuing some kind of instructions. The alarm and voice keep repeating, like an outdoor emergency warning system.

Alarm. Instructions. Repeat.

Either it’s a talking car alarm or else there’s a hurricane on the way and we have to evacuate.

This is my first full day in Ft. Lauderdale, having arrived here Sunday afternoon. Over the previous four days I’ve been in Ft. Lauderdale, Orlando, St. Petersburg, Sarasota, Siesta Key, St. Petersburg again, then back to Ft. Lauderdale. Tomorrow I’m heading down to South Beach for a couple of days, then to Islamorada in the Florida Keys.

The alarm is still going off, the woman issuing her warning. The skies look clear to me off the coast and I don’t see crowds of people evacuating on the streets twenty stories below, so I figure I’m okay.

That’s one of the things I noticed driving around Florida for the past few days. There are Evacuation Route signs posted everywhere. I don’t know what the process is like, but at least when they issue a hurricane warning, they have an evacuation plan. In California, we don’t get earthquake warnings, and as far as any kind of evacuation plans, as far as I know, there aren’t any. So we’re pretty much screwed.

The alarm and the warning have finally ended, which means one of the valet attendants at my hotel is probably trying to make sure he knows how to shut off the alarm next time.

As I sit here writing this, the sun moving across the sky from ocean to downtown Ft. Lauderdale, the palm tree-lined beach stretching south almost to the horizon, I’m thinking I could get used to this.

I like Florida. I think I’m going to move here. Maybe to the Keys. I’ve never been to the Keys, but right now, it sounds like a good idea.

There’s lots of water and boats here. Sure, there’s lots of water and boats in San Francisco, too, but it’s not 72 degrees in San Francisco on the first day of March. And the beaches aren’t lined with palm trees. And the water isn’t clear and blue, reflecting the endless sky.

The alarm has started up again. Either the valet needs to work on his learning curve or else I was wrong about having to evacuate.

Okay, I realize it’s been nearly two weeks since my last blog entry, Andy’s comments about breathers notwithstanding. Chalk it up to projects and trip planning and general distraction and attending to some personal matters like flying up to Portland and helping my mom pack and then driving her down to California, which is what I was doing when I was informed that Breathers had made it on to the final ballot for the 2009 Bram Stoker Awards for Achievement in a First Novel.

Woo hoo!

But that’s another blog post. Eventually.

This was going somewhere when I started it. Let me get my map. Hmm, let’s see…ah yes, there we are!

I’m aware that I seldom discuss what I’m working on, or not working on (which is often the case) because I don’t plot and I’m not really sure where it’s going and I’m easily distracted, so I’d have to be vague and stumble through some fragmented explanation that would try to deflect attention from the fact that I had spent the last three days playing spider solitaire and watching the last season of Weeds.

I do, however, sit my ass down in front of my computer at 8:00am every morning (or mostly every morning) and give myself the next 3-4 hours to compose my 1000 words for the day. Sometimes I see other authors posting on Twitter that they’ve finished their 2000 words by noon and will write another 2000 words that night. Or that the average person can write 500 words an hour (which is two, double-spaced pages in 12-point Times New Roman with one-inch margins), and I think, okay you gluttonous bastard, how about giving some of those words to me?

The most words I’ve ever written in one day is 2500, and I powered through 5000 words in two days back in February 2008 just before the Super Bowl when I had a bad cold and was finishing up Fated to give to my writer’s group. I have to say, I think that was probably some of the best writing I’ve done. I don’t think I edited much of that portion of the book. Maybe I should write when I’m sick and under deadline more often.

So that’s why I don’t tend to blog about my writing. But if anyone’s interested enough in knowing more about my process, I’ll be happy to occasionally blog about it. But be warned, there will be a lot of plot holes.

I also notice that some authors are perfectly capable of blogging about personal things that happen throughout the course of their existence – health issues, pets dying, interpersonal relationships. Which always amazes me when men can blog about relationships because we never talk to each other about them in real life. And yes, I firmly believe that the Internet is an alternate reality. Kind of like on LOST. Though I’m not really sure which reality is the real one there. The island now or the airplane landing in LAX three years earlier? Come to think of it, maybe I’m not sure about this reality, either.

Where was I? Ah yes, personal things…

While I’m perfectly happy sharing my love of Ben & Jerry’s and the fact that I have a lingering man crush on Kevin Costner, I’d prefer to leave the more personal details of my life to the tabloids. Who, fortunately, don’t give a damn about me.

So there you have it. A rambling discourse on not much of anything. Thank you for listening. Now, back to spider solitaire.

Sometimes I wish there were Protocol Police, Officers of the Social Graces who would fine people for inappropriate behavior and arrest repeat offenders who would have to serve time at an Etiquette Rehabilitation Center.

People who litter.
People who swear in public.
People who don’t say please and thank you.

Honestly, some of these people need to go back to Mom and Dad for a little refresher course in good manners.

I see it all the time. Men and women and teenagers who seem to have no interest in behaving properly. On any given day, I can walk out my front door and witness multiple acts of behavioral disobedience. Of people who seem to think the rules of common courtesy don’t apply to them.

Bicyclists disobeying traffic laws.
Owners failing to clean up after their dog.
Drivers refusing to merge.

If you ask me, the world would be a better place if everyone understood the concept of merging. And if people would learn to clean up their own messes.

But some of the worst public offenders of social etiquette are people on their cell phones. On their iPhones. On their Blackberries.

Answering their cell phone in a restaurant.
Shouting into their Blackberry on the bus.
Taking out their iPhone during a movie.

Your iPhone’s a flashlight, asshole. A bright, colorful, $300 flashlight.

Turn. It. Off.

The problem is, when using their cell phones, people often don’t bother to pay attention to those who exist around them. To how their actions affect others. To the inappropriateness of their behavior. They exist in a bubble of personal space that excludes anyone else. A cocoon of electronic communication that prevents them from interacting. Plugged into a world of applications and search engines and social networks.

It’s as if by discovering more ways to connect, we’ve lost the ability to interact with the people sitting next to us. It’s as if by improving communication, we’ve lost the ability to relate without the comfort of an electronic leash.

Everyone’s here but not really.
Everyone’s taking up space but someplace else.
Everyone’s connected but disconnected.