I live in the heart of suburbia. The one question friends ask me when they read my books and articles and see how I work is, Why do you live where you live? Good question. I am often unsure. It did lead me of course to the book I am now writing on events in the Santa Clara Valley between 1969 and 1971, a twenty month period that saw several similiar homocides that were, at the time, blamed on Zodiac and on the Manson family. Neither individual or group were responsible. it's a good story.
On the other hand, I travel and I like to stay abroad. I am happy when I am leaving home and I am equally happy when returning home. I fall into a groove here too easily. This is a vast valley of emptiness. Too much money. Too few scholars. An abundance of blandness. And so I leave. And so I return.
Why do I live where I live? It is quiet. Well, it was quiet until several months ago. Quiet as a cemetery on a Thursday morning. So quiet that friends who stay here sometimes comment that they cannot sleep because it is too quiet. Go figure. When you get here, there is no here, here. This is a place where high-tech companies give their in-house techies the afternoon off so everyone can shuffle off together to the newest Indiana Jones or Star Wars movie. The hills around me are alive with McMansions inhabited by McPeople with lots and lots of McMoney. But quiet McPeople, all the same. McPeople who work, as the local news insists, "25 hours a day." No doubt, they also give 110 percent on the job. Quiet McPeople in frantic pursuit of a killer App. In the localspeak oxymoron: adult gamers!
Anyway, it is Tuesday. It is cool. It is quiet. Back to work. Now where was I?