Voices of youth

Last night I went again to the monthly Writers with Drinks reading at the Make Out Room. Continue to be astonished at the number of people who crowd into a bar and listen quietly and respectfully to literary readings -- there must have been 150 people there. And a huge majority of them are in their 20s and 30s, rather than old farts like me and my friends who gathered there. Best of all, it's close enough to my house that I can walk to it, and that's always a good idea.

Best reader was Myriam Gurba, who read from a (seemingly) autobiographical novel about growing up mixed-race Mexican and Asian in Southern California. Usually I am bored with memoirs of childhood and "how weird my family was," but this was beautifully written and truly rollicking.

Earlier in the day, which was a gorgeous 65 degree sunny fall day, I took a walk with my friend Sara around nearby Bernal Heights Park, just up the street from my house. We met when we were in Street Patrol together, back in the early 90s, after which she became my informal writing coach and also hosted a regular group of "Sopranos"-watching writers and journalists. A great friend.

OK, it's Sunday morning and I came in to work at the d.b.t.s. I better get to it.