Today, I decided to pay attention to the input from my vision.
Most men are very vision oriented. I'm much more into sound.
So in an effort to just have a different take on things, I decided to stop listening and to stop thinking for a while so I could just look at stuff around me. It was very interesting. And quiet. I saw some cool things.
The maroon turban on the head of an Indian Cook on La Brea.
The strung, multi-colored Christmas lights above my head at the great neighborhood health restaurant.
The Easter Egg Blue paint of my bathroom, the line of the paint somewhat jagged at the white ceiling.
The silver and black dread lock hanging off my dog's ear.
The green and yellow colors of the icons of the software I used at my accounting job in Venice.
My State-of-California-Recognized-Domestic Partner, Adam's long blond hair.
The green of my sofa.
The best was the stark light at 7PM along Sycamore. The leaves of the trees are really dried out and yellowish-brown and the air has no moisture in it because of the Santa Anna thing going on. The light was not at all diffused, just sharp and brilliant.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Bush and his Picks
I got to thinking today.
Maybe George Bush really only played to the extreme Right all these years.
Or maybe he had to pick Moderates because his approval rating is so low.
But whatever he's up to, his plans to change the world have failed.
"Word on the street is, Bush is going down."
The George W. Drop Game
Maybe George Bush really only played to the extreme Right all these years.
Or maybe he had to pick Moderates because his approval rating is so low.
But whatever he's up to, his plans to change the world have failed.
"Word on the street is, Bush is going down."
The George W. Drop Game
Monday, October 03, 2005
The Gut Doctor
Somehow, my blog posts are getting quite personal...
I will keep this brief, blog a bit differently in the future or maybe even take a little blog vacation:
1) I went to the Cedars-Sinai Tower today to see a gut genie, a very respected and very affable gastroenterologist. He listened to me for a very long while, took notes, and spent some time pressing all around my gut. We went back into his office and he looked deep into my eyes and told me, "You are very healthy. There is nothing wrong with you. I doubt you even have GERD. You just have sensitive body issues. Try these pills and call me in three weeks. But really, you are perfectly healthy."
When I started to talk about every single thing you can talk about in relation to gall bladder, GERD, and everything else, he would calmly look at me and just say, "You are perfectly healthy."
I went home and ate a huge meal, had a glass of wine and had absolutely no negative reactions to the food. That fucker hypnotized me into health. He's a genius. For most people, the gut is this reactive emotional place so this gut doctor must see stress case nuts like me every single day. And how does he do his healing? By convincing you that you are totally fine.
2) I spoke with my mother. She thinks I have become addicted to the computer and that I need to get out of the house. I think she might be right.
I will keep this brief, blog a bit differently in the future or maybe even take a little blog vacation:
1) I went to the Cedars-Sinai Tower today to see a gut genie, a very respected and very affable gastroenterologist. He listened to me for a very long while, took notes, and spent some time pressing all around my gut. We went back into his office and he looked deep into my eyes and told me, "You are very healthy. There is nothing wrong with you. I doubt you even have GERD. You just have sensitive body issues. Try these pills and call me in three weeks. But really, you are perfectly healthy."
When I started to talk about every single thing you can talk about in relation to gall bladder, GERD, and everything else, he would calmly look at me and just say, "You are perfectly healthy."
I went home and ate a huge meal, had a glass of wine and had absolutely no negative reactions to the food. That fucker hypnotized me into health. He's a genius. For most people, the gut is this reactive emotional place so this gut doctor must see stress case nuts like me every single day. And how does he do his healing? By convincing you that you are totally fine.
2) I spoke with my mother. She thinks I have become addicted to the computer and that I need to get out of the house. I think she might be right.
This Blog is Brought to You by Mylanta
Recently, while still in a weekly partying mode, it became very clear to me that I was suffering from some sort of nastiness. I ignored the smaller signs over the last two years. But a monster attack sent me to the doctor upon which it was revealed that I have Acid Reflux. No big deal, right?
Oddly, my mind, instead of handling this quietly and calmly, turned this into the worst thing that could have ever happened and I became quite anxious which eventually lead to actual panic attacks in the backyard, followed by howling and crying. Lucky for me, my State-of-California-Recognized-Domestic-Partner, Adam, was quite lovely about the whole thing and didn’t have me hauled off.
During one other period in my life I suffered from panic attacks. It was when I was nineteen and I was dealing with coming out of the closet. The change, stress and revelation were too much for my adolescent mind to handle. I grew terrified and it took me quite a few years of therapy to calm the hell down.
So, I got to wondering, at 43 years old, with a very solid understanding of who I am, why would I be panicking so much? And after many hours of restful meditation, the pieces started coming together...I am probably going to die at 86. So I am facing the downward slide into the grave, with no guarantee of anything. I recently visited my parents and though they look pretty much the same, they are more fragile. My favorite Great Aunt Helen is 81 and in the final stages. And then there was that whole Katrina thing. Plus, I am just about finished with my book and this is terrifying. We are in the middle of a real estate deal that has been dragging on for four months. And lastly, being diagnosed with something as stupid as Acid Reflux, I assigned to it the marker of, “Last stop for a good slice of cheese before you die.” It also didn’t help my anxiety that the strong pills they make for this affliction totally disagreed with every single organ system in my body not to mention my complete aversion to the idea of a lifetime of medication.
Not being shy, I told everyone about my plight who would listen and I would like to thank everyone who had the patience to endure my repetitive, hypochondriacal woes.
Dan and Leslie listened to me cry. Jeff took me for a walk. John, Adam’s brother-in-law, assured me there is great surgery if I want it. Megan told me I’d get totally better. Todd was completely supportive. My mother was actually very helpful, “You have always had an urgency about everything that you do. It’s your wiring. Try to slow down.” Mary and John held my hand. Claudia looked into my eyes with love. Margot told me hilarious stories about spitting up her own acid into the street. The whole thing was just one big festival of goodness. And though I risk a very corny blog entry, I am very thankful for such friends and family and so in some weird way I kind of have to say, “Thank you Acid Reflux for making me panic and then showing me how cool and supportive and funny people are.”
And lastly, I have to thank my very high wired friend Sarah in Minneapolis whom I always call with affairs of the panicked soul, who, as it turns out, also has wretched reflux and cannot handle the medication and has also been known to have a little panic of her own. And she said, “Listen to me. This is what you do. Get yourself some Mylanta. It’s the only one that works that doesn’t make you crazy. And get yourself some Atavan. You don’t always need to use them...but knowing they’re there in the closet is the only way you’re going to manage this shit.”
Oddly, my mind, instead of handling this quietly and calmly, turned this into the worst thing that could have ever happened and I became quite anxious which eventually lead to actual panic attacks in the backyard, followed by howling and crying. Lucky for me, my State-of-California-Recognized-Domestic-Partner, Adam, was quite lovely about the whole thing and didn’t have me hauled off.
During one other period in my life I suffered from panic attacks. It was when I was nineteen and I was dealing with coming out of the closet. The change, stress and revelation were too much for my adolescent mind to handle. I grew terrified and it took me quite a few years of therapy to calm the hell down.
So, I got to wondering, at 43 years old, with a very solid understanding of who I am, why would I be panicking so much? And after many hours of restful meditation, the pieces started coming together...I am probably going to die at 86. So I am facing the downward slide into the grave, with no guarantee of anything. I recently visited my parents and though they look pretty much the same, they are more fragile. My favorite Great Aunt Helen is 81 and in the final stages. And then there was that whole Katrina thing. Plus, I am just about finished with my book and this is terrifying. We are in the middle of a real estate deal that has been dragging on for four months. And lastly, being diagnosed with something as stupid as Acid Reflux, I assigned to it the marker of, “Last stop for a good slice of cheese before you die.” It also didn’t help my anxiety that the strong pills they make for this affliction totally disagreed with every single organ system in my body not to mention my complete aversion to the idea of a lifetime of medication.
Not being shy, I told everyone about my plight who would listen and I would like to thank everyone who had the patience to endure my repetitive, hypochondriacal woes.
Dan and Leslie listened to me cry. Jeff took me for a walk. John, Adam’s brother-in-law, assured me there is great surgery if I want it. Megan told me I’d get totally better. Todd was completely supportive. My mother was actually very helpful, “You have always had an urgency about everything that you do. It’s your wiring. Try to slow down.” Mary and John held my hand. Claudia looked into my eyes with love. Margot told me hilarious stories about spitting up her own acid into the street. The whole thing was just one big festival of goodness. And though I risk a very corny blog entry, I am very thankful for such friends and family and so in some weird way I kind of have to say, “Thank you Acid Reflux for making me panic and then showing me how cool and supportive and funny people are.”
And lastly, I have to thank my very high wired friend Sarah in Minneapolis whom I always call with affairs of the panicked soul, who, as it turns out, also has wretched reflux and cannot handle the medication and has also been known to have a little panic of her own. And she said, “Listen to me. This is what you do. Get yourself some Mylanta. It’s the only one that works that doesn’t make you crazy. And get yourself some Atavan. You don’t always need to use them...but knowing they’re there in the closet is the only way you’re going to manage this shit.”
Friday, September 30, 2005
Bushy Dreams
Back in the good old days, I had dreams about Bill Clinton. And I have to admit, they had a bit of a sex tone to them.
He was my rogue, my president, my gray fox smartypants in the White House.
Yesterday, I took a day off from reading the newspapers, etc. It was very interesting and something happened in my dream state that would have never happened had I been completely soured toward the world because I had spent the day filling my head with the newspaper.
This is the truth. I had a dream about George Bush last night. It was on a beach that seemed like Eastern Long Island. He weighed about forty more pounds than he does in real life. He was quite bloated in the face, tired and beaten down in a sack-like black outfit. He had the skin texture of a man who spends a lot of time drinking. Upon the beach were revelers walking in many different directions up and down and across the beach. Most of them were young or middle aged. They were all white, smart, aimless Democrats. George felt out of place on the beach (for a while, he was even riding a pokey horse). He had no where to turn, except he saw me and decided, somehow, that I was the bridge between the Left and the Right and he wanted to speak with me in confidence and ultimately talk me into his side of things and then have me go to all these people on the beach and recruit them for his cause, to let them know that he was an okay guy. I didn’t retreat from his interacting with me. Being a people-pleasing type actor person, I went along with what he had to say, trying to pay attention to whatever humanity he was showing me in his very vulnerable state.
I listened courteously and even felt oddly flattered that he asked me to help him out. And interestingly, I had more pity for him than anger. It was apparent that he knew his reign was over and he was also sorely aware that he would go down in history as one of the biggest losers of all time. His current situation on the beach and as president of the country was that of an alienated bully who was sad to have realized that everyone else had graduated from High School and matured into nice people and he somehow missed the boat. His fat, red, frowning face had the look of someone who was thinking, "I'm always a loser. My mother hates me. Why do I always screw everything up? Where's the bar?"
He was my rogue, my president, my gray fox smartypants in the White House.
Yesterday, I took a day off from reading the newspapers, etc. It was very interesting and something happened in my dream state that would have never happened had I been completely soured toward the world because I had spent the day filling my head with the newspaper.
This is the truth. I had a dream about George Bush last night. It was on a beach that seemed like Eastern Long Island. He weighed about forty more pounds than he does in real life. He was quite bloated in the face, tired and beaten down in a sack-like black outfit. He had the skin texture of a man who spends a lot of time drinking. Upon the beach were revelers walking in many different directions up and down and across the beach. Most of them were young or middle aged. They were all white, smart, aimless Democrats. George felt out of place on the beach (for a while, he was even riding a pokey horse). He had no where to turn, except he saw me and decided, somehow, that I was the bridge between the Left and the Right and he wanted to speak with me in confidence and ultimately talk me into his side of things and then have me go to all these people on the beach and recruit them for his cause, to let them know that he was an okay guy. I didn’t retreat from his interacting with me. Being a people-pleasing type actor person, I went along with what he had to say, trying to pay attention to whatever humanity he was showing me in his very vulnerable state.
I listened courteously and even felt oddly flattered that he asked me to help him out. And interestingly, I had more pity for him than anger. It was apparent that he knew his reign was over and he was also sorely aware that he would go down in history as one of the biggest losers of all time. His current situation on the beach and as president of the country was that of an alienated bully who was sad to have realized that everyone else had graduated from High School and matured into nice people and he somehow missed the boat. His fat, red, frowning face had the look of someone who was thinking, "I'm always a loser. My mother hates me. Why do I always screw everything up? Where's the bar?"
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
O.C.D. and The New Yorker
While I wasn't looking, I became Obsessive-Compulsive about my New Yorker subscription.
Why?
1) Because I HATE to have ordered something made from all that paper and then have it come to the house only to throw it in the recycling bin.
2) And more importantly, WHAT WOULD I MISS IF I TOSSED ONE?
It's insane. Why be so focused on this one magazine? I can oddly forgive myself for feeling guilty about number one...since the planet is the planet and we have to have to have to conserve, but number 2? Because I'll miss something? I dont' get Mother Jones, Harper's or Atlantic. Nor do I subscribe to Popular Mechanics, National Beaver or Aging Queers with GERD. Clearly, I am missing tons of great articles written by tons of brilliant writers. And I don't pine.
Frankly, the idee fixe is an ugly thing and something I need to eschew.
New Yorkers...you got two weeks...or you're tossed. I can't become one of those sad stackers.
Why?
1) Because I HATE to have ordered something made from all that paper and then have it come to the house only to throw it in the recycling bin.
2) And more importantly, WHAT WOULD I MISS IF I TOSSED ONE?
It's insane. Why be so focused on this one magazine? I can oddly forgive myself for feeling guilty about number one...since the planet is the planet and we have to have to have to conserve, but number 2? Because I'll miss something? I dont' get Mother Jones, Harper's or Atlantic. Nor do I subscribe to Popular Mechanics, National Beaver or Aging Queers with GERD. Clearly, I am missing tons of great articles written by tons of brilliant writers. And I don't pine.
Frankly, the idee fixe is an ugly thing and something I need to eschew.
New Yorkers...you got two weeks...or you're tossed. I can't become one of those sad stackers.
Happy Hump Day
Today:
1) I am not going to think about storms and floods.
2) I am not going to read the newspaper.
3) I am not going to talk about our president.
4) I am not going to look at the cost of gas.
5) I am not going to worry about the future of the world.
6) I am not going to think about death or disease.
I am going to put on my Pollyanna hat and I'm going to walk down the street and imagine everything is truly good.
I need the break.
1) I am not going to think about storms and floods.
2) I am not going to read the newspaper.
3) I am not going to talk about our president.
4) I am not going to look at the cost of gas.
5) I am not going to worry about the future of the world.
6) I am not going to think about death or disease.
I am going to put on my Pollyanna hat and I'm going to walk down the street and imagine everything is truly good.
I need the break.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Ode to a Puss
Today's blog is in memoriam for Mary McBride's and John Marzilli's old cat, Jake, who passed away just a few days ago at the hands of a caring veterinarian. The cause of death was related to failing kidneys. Jake, we hardly knew ye...you were 19 years young and an awesome, stringy old cat with a world view we all respected.
Jake meowed loudly when the Berlin wall came down.
Jake didn't mind when Bill Clinton spooged.
Jake laughed mildly at the threat of Y2K.
Jake disapproved of the First Gulf War and as far as the latest Bush family corporate takeover of Iraq is concerned, Jake couldn't even talk about it.
Jake was given to John from a box of little kittens while he was working on a television show. Happy to be out of show biz, Jake spent most of his life doing what most cats do and he did it for a very long time.
Jake, you were fabulously charcoal with a few good stripes. You were loyal. You were loved. Everyone marveled at your pussy greatness.
Jake is survived by Mary, John, Daisy and Lilly. Mary and John, as you may have guessed, are humans. Daisy and Lilly are pussycats.
To Jake!
Jake meowed loudly when the Berlin wall came down.
Jake didn't mind when Bill Clinton spooged.
Jake laughed mildly at the threat of Y2K.
Jake disapproved of the First Gulf War and as far as the latest Bush family corporate takeover of Iraq is concerned, Jake couldn't even talk about it.
Jake was given to John from a box of little kittens while he was working on a television show. Happy to be out of show biz, Jake spent most of his life doing what most cats do and he did it for a very long time.
Jake, you were fabulously charcoal with a few good stripes. You were loyal. You were loved. Everyone marveled at your pussy greatness.
Jake is survived by Mary, John, Daisy and Lilly. Mary and John, as you may have guessed, are humans. Daisy and Lilly are pussycats.
To Jake!
Sunday, September 25, 2005
Thursday, September 22, 2005
BiCoastal Chronicles: Transition
I am returning to the West Coast on Saturday and I would like to thank all of you who have tuned in extra hard and special during these BiCoastal Chronicles. Your comments have made the reporting worthwhile.
Simply enough...today was about getting ready to leave.
I purchased a Shark Upright for the future floors and a 44 piece dish set at Bed, Bath & Beyonce. My sister had mountains of 20% off coupons and I grabbed 'em.
I took a local bus along the edge of New Jersey into Manhattan. We drove through at least twenty towns. When you get to JFK Drive on the high Palisades just west of the Upper WestSide of Manhattan, on a gorgeous fall day, you know it's a rare and amazing view.
After riding the 1 train to the end, I took the Staten Island Ferry to have dinner with my friend Marian in Snug Harbor. The ferry, friends, is pretty much one of the most fun things you can do for free in the entire United States of America.
I wonder when some terrorist is going to blow up the Statue of Liberty?
Having happily purchased my ticket to return to California to see my State-Of-California-Recognized-Domestic-Partner, Adam and my fur dog, Louise, I look forward to my return to New York for the closing sometime in early October. Stay tuned for BiCoastal Chronicles II.
Please forgive my straight up entry...my visiting ass is toast.
Simply enough...today was about getting ready to leave.
I purchased a Shark Upright for the future floors and a 44 piece dish set at Bed, Bath & Beyonce. My sister had mountains of 20% off coupons and I grabbed 'em.
I took a local bus along the edge of New Jersey into Manhattan. We drove through at least twenty towns. When you get to JFK Drive on the high Palisades just west of the Upper WestSide of Manhattan, on a gorgeous fall day, you know it's a rare and amazing view.
After riding the 1 train to the end, I took the Staten Island Ferry to have dinner with my friend Marian in Snug Harbor. The ferry, friends, is pretty much one of the most fun things you can do for free in the entire United States of America.
I wonder when some terrorist is going to blow up the Statue of Liberty?
Having happily purchased my ticket to return to California to see my State-Of-California-Recognized-Domestic-Partner, Adam and my fur dog, Louise, I look forward to my return to New York for the closing sometime in early October. Stay tuned for BiCoastal Chronicles II.
Please forgive my straight up entry...my visiting ass is toast.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
BiCoastal Chronicles: Exit 91
To break up the week in New Jersey, I visited my Aunt Helen in Brick Township. She lives in Greenbriar, a tidy retirement community with its entrance on Burnt Tavern Road, Exit 91 off the Garden State Parkway. The closest shore point is Point Pleasant.
Auntie is 81 and is actually the sister of my mother's mother. Aunt Helen raised my mother for a couple of years in Kansas while my mother's parents were busy trying to kill each other. Thus, Aunt Helen is more of a grandmother figure in our family than merely a Great Aunt.
Aunt Helen just returned from the hospital. She has succumbed to cancer in her abdomen after a few years of a livable disease detente. I arrived at her house before she did as she was with her daughter, Michelle, over at the state housing complex making sure all the papers were in order for Michelle’s disabled-friendly apartment. A few minutes before they returned home, a Hospice truck arrived and hauled out oxygen machines and showed me, in the entryway of the portico over by the stone statue of the blessed mother, how to operate the hulking things. I wrote it all down. When Aunt Helen and Michelle arrived, they were both upset by these machines so we moved them to a corner of a bedroom where they would not be in the way. "Why is hospice moving so quickly? I'm not dying tomorrow!" I helped bring in the groceries from the trunk of the car. Apparently, there was a sale on Barilla pasta. Aunt Helen is a very practical woman and I have always felt very close to her. She is my Godmother and has also given me her ceramic rabbit collection.
Aunt Helen truly will not die tomorrow. Though she is a bit green-gray, the fact is, she has sported this hue for quite some time and she still manages to eat pizza, to talk a little dirty and to attend her daily church services. She’s a good story teller and often has eye twinkles. She told me she had a dream that she was visiting her friend Dorothy, who is deceased, and in the dream Dorothy lived in a big house on top of a mountain range. She was visiting Dorothy in this house and decided, after having visited for a while, to come down the stairs which ended on the top of a mountain. She looked down and picked up a curved object made out of stone and the center of it was dug out like a canoe. And when she looked into the depression of this little stone canoe, there was the face of Jesus. "I think this is a good omen," she told me.
I did not press for further meaning. I have read that people often dream of traveling at the end of their lives. Also, I am not a huge fan of Jesus visitations, but my Aunt loves the guy and so I couldn't possibly have a conversation with her about this. We changed the subject and talked about my sexuality. We talked about the obituary she received about her old antiques business partner, Kitty, who tried to kill her mother by giving her too many pills and letting her lay on the floor without calling an ambulance and how Aunt Helen came over and made her call. “She was a witch,” she said. Michelle sang the refrain, “A witch.” Sitting at the kitchen table with the plastic coated tablecloth, we ate very tasty Jersey pizza. Honestly, the best I've had in years. And after that, Aunt Helen had to go to bed because she was so tired.
I stayed a while longer. I installed a new toilet paper dispenser, brackets first, then the two side pieces screwed onto the brackets. I helped Michelle work the messaging options on her cell phone. Michelle is a lovely and distressed woman who has had a very rough life. In 1969, she lived with us in Spring Valley, New York for a few months, went to the famous Woodstock concert, blew her mind on drugs, fell off the back of a truck and returned to our house days later, strung out and covered
with mud. Since then, she's often repeated that performance in some form, with or without Creedence Clearwater Revival. Michelle really works at being sober. She walks with a cane. Her warmth is the size of Trenton. She does not shut up.
I got back on the Garden State Parkway, drove up to Exit 163, took Route 17 North to Mahwah to my brother's house and I sat in the new great room and watched a Val Kilmer movie with my brother, Greg and his wife, Deb, on HBO, followed by Fox News. I then drove across Bergen County back to my sister's house and went down to the basement and I gave my mother the two OxyContin pills that Michelle gave me to give to her for the pain in her legs.
Auntie is 81 and is actually the sister of my mother's mother. Aunt Helen raised my mother for a couple of years in Kansas while my mother's parents were busy trying to kill each other. Thus, Aunt Helen is more of a grandmother figure in our family than merely a Great Aunt.
Aunt Helen just returned from the hospital. She has succumbed to cancer in her abdomen after a few years of a livable disease detente. I arrived at her house before she did as she was with her daughter, Michelle, over at the state housing complex making sure all the papers were in order for Michelle’s disabled-friendly apartment. A few minutes before they returned home, a Hospice truck arrived and hauled out oxygen machines and showed me, in the entryway of the portico over by the stone statue of the blessed mother, how to operate the hulking things. I wrote it all down. When Aunt Helen and Michelle arrived, they were both upset by these machines so we moved them to a corner of a bedroom where they would not be in the way. "Why is hospice moving so quickly? I'm not dying tomorrow!" I helped bring in the groceries from the trunk of the car. Apparently, there was a sale on Barilla pasta. Aunt Helen is a very practical woman and I have always felt very close to her. She is my Godmother and has also given me her ceramic rabbit collection.
Aunt Helen truly will not die tomorrow. Though she is a bit green-gray, the fact is, she has sported this hue for quite some time and she still manages to eat pizza, to talk a little dirty and to attend her daily church services. She’s a good story teller and often has eye twinkles. She told me she had a dream that she was visiting her friend Dorothy, who is deceased, and in the dream Dorothy lived in a big house on top of a mountain range. She was visiting Dorothy in this house and decided, after having visited for a while, to come down the stairs which ended on the top of a mountain. She looked down and picked up a curved object made out of stone and the center of it was dug out like a canoe. And when she looked into the depression of this little stone canoe, there was the face of Jesus. "I think this is a good omen," she told me.
I did not press for further meaning. I have read that people often dream of traveling at the end of their lives. Also, I am not a huge fan of Jesus visitations, but my Aunt loves the guy and so I couldn't possibly have a conversation with her about this. We changed the subject and talked about my sexuality. We talked about the obituary she received about her old antiques business partner, Kitty, who tried to kill her mother by giving her too many pills and letting her lay on the floor without calling an ambulance and how Aunt Helen came over and made her call. “She was a witch,” she said. Michelle sang the refrain, “A witch.” Sitting at the kitchen table with the plastic coated tablecloth, we ate very tasty Jersey pizza. Honestly, the best I've had in years. And after that, Aunt Helen had to go to bed because she was so tired.
I stayed a while longer. I installed a new toilet paper dispenser, brackets first, then the two side pieces screwed onto the brackets. I helped Michelle work the messaging options on her cell phone. Michelle is a lovely and distressed woman who has had a very rough life. In 1969, she lived with us in Spring Valley, New York for a few months, went to the famous Woodstock concert, blew her mind on drugs, fell off the back of a truck and returned to our house days later, strung out and covered
with mud. Since then, she's often repeated that performance in some form, with or without Creedence Clearwater Revival. Michelle really works at being sober. She walks with a cane. Her warmth is the size of Trenton. She does not shut up.
I got back on the Garden State Parkway, drove up to Exit 163, took Route 17 North to Mahwah to my brother's house and I sat in the new great room and watched a Val Kilmer movie with my brother, Greg and his wife, Deb, on HBO, followed by Fox News. I then drove across Bergen County back to my sister's house and went down to the basement and I gave my mother the two OxyContin pills that Michelle gave me to give to her for the pain in her legs.
BiCoastal Chronicles: My Favorite Filthy Breakup
Today, I was talking on the cellular telephone with my friend Megan and I mentioned to her that I was sitting in New Jersey bored out of my mind. I asked if she would take the train up to the GW Bridge and I would pick her up on the Manhattan side. She was all for it and a midweek party was born. In Bergen County.
My sister and brother-in-law are very easy going when it comes to guests. They pulled together a big tasty steak dinner and Megan brought flowers and chocolate covered pretzels. Everyone was well fed and then further stuffed with ice cream and berries.
After dinner was over, we took a walk around the neighborhood, came back to the house and watched hits from my brother-in-law’s Ed Sullivan Musical Performance DVD’s, of course, mostly fixating on Karen Carpenter singing, live, We’ve Only Just Begun. We just can’t get enough of that anorexic.
Then when we were getting ready to go to bed, we started talking about the logistics of pillows and pajamas and during the natural progression of conversation, Megan told my brother-in-law and me that she wears the same socks, her only pair, five days in a row before she washes them. Of course we had to ask her why.
Megan and her girlfriend are in a solid five month break up and Megan still hasn’t moved into her new apartment, but will very soon. In the meantime, her ex-girlfriend, two friends and a dog have run amok, leaving food partout while mold envelopes the bathroom. During this long transition, Megan stays away from her trashed old place as much as possible. When she goes back to the former love nest, she can’t even get a fresh pair of socks because the old girlfriend has cannibalized them, wearing them with no heed to breakup boundaries, and when she is finished, throws them in the hallway, used.
My sister and brother-in-law are very easy going when it comes to guests. They pulled together a big tasty steak dinner and Megan brought flowers and chocolate covered pretzels. Everyone was well fed and then further stuffed with ice cream and berries.
After dinner was over, we took a walk around the neighborhood, came back to the house and watched hits from my brother-in-law’s Ed Sullivan Musical Performance DVD’s, of course, mostly fixating on Karen Carpenter singing, live, We’ve Only Just Begun. We just can’t get enough of that anorexic.
Then when we were getting ready to go to bed, we started talking about the logistics of pillows and pajamas and during the natural progression of conversation, Megan told my brother-in-law and me that she wears the same socks, her only pair, five days in a row before she washes them. Of course we had to ask her why.
Megan and her girlfriend are in a solid five month break up and Megan still hasn’t moved into her new apartment, but will very soon. In the meantime, her ex-girlfriend, two friends and a dog have run amok, leaving food partout while mold envelopes the bathroom. During this long transition, Megan stays away from her trashed old place as much as possible. When she goes back to the former love nest, she can’t even get a fresh pair of socks because the old girlfriend has cannibalized them, wearing them with no heed to breakup boundaries, and when she is finished, throws them in the hallway, used.
Monday, September 19, 2005
BiCoastal Chronicles--A New Apartment and a Little Babysitting
The joy of living is, you never know where you will be when you get the news. Adam and I were in Ojai petting goats just minutes before we found out about the Twin Towers being ruined by some Jihadists.
So today, when I called the management company about the apartment in Queens...and they said, “Yes, you’ve been approved,” who knew I would be sitting all alone in my sister’s house in Cresskill, New Jersey with nothing to do except to celebrate, as a party of one?
I immediately called Adam, my State-of-California-Recognized-Domestic-Partner, and of course he was thrilled and relieved.
I called friends, sent emails, etc. We were approved by the very scary Coop Board. Those two mooks just had to make us sweat it out a little. Why do people make people sweat things out? I always try to make people as comfortable as possible with immediate response.
I know this sounds like I made up the original conflict...as if I am writing a reality show...but it really did seem like we would perhaps not get this apartment because the guys who sat across from us just seemed to, I don’t know, hate us? Or were we reading too much into it?
My friend, Todd, warned me that this whole process would bring up issues...and it did. I thought I would be all calm. I wasn’t. He also said that after this, I will never have to deal with these people again.
Happiness all around. I wish I could say I am now excited...but frankly, I only feel relieved. I think I’ll become more excited once I get the hell out of New Jersey.
But tonight, the sweet truth is, I babysat for my five year old nephew. That little cutey-pie is so tender and new. Humans are intense...at every age. He tried so hard to be a big boy. He really wanted to be good with Uncle Donald. I made him a little dinner. We played some badminton. We colored. He is at an age where he really wants to figure out what he is good at. And as of yet, he does not know. We would start to draw and he would stop drawing if he thought I was better at it than he was. He has to learn about nine million things and just thinking about it makes me feel like...shit, man, good luck! He’s smart, very articulate and is obviously from my family (He takes medicine for heartburn and asthma and at one point, we had to go into the bathroom to get the anti-itching cream for the bite on his leg.) He is ridiculously sensitive and if there is a God, may she help him! He did very well for most of the night...but after I read him One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish (which frankly, does not hold up), and I left the room...he just fell apart. “I want mommy.” And he couldn’t stop crying. So, I brought him back out into the living room and we sat together on the chaise until he went to sleep and I carried him back to his bedroom in his Scooby-Doo pajamas and he said to me half asleep, “I cried because I was scared to be alone.” And I thought, “Kiddo, you and everyone else.” And he went to sleep.
So today, when I called the management company about the apartment in Queens...and they said, “Yes, you’ve been approved,” who knew I would be sitting all alone in my sister’s house in Cresskill, New Jersey with nothing to do except to celebrate, as a party of one?
I immediately called Adam, my State-of-California-Recognized-Domestic-Partner, and of course he was thrilled and relieved.
I called friends, sent emails, etc. We were approved by the very scary Coop Board. Those two mooks just had to make us sweat it out a little. Why do people make people sweat things out? I always try to make people as comfortable as possible with immediate response.
I know this sounds like I made up the original conflict...as if I am writing a reality show...but it really did seem like we would perhaps not get this apartment because the guys who sat across from us just seemed to, I don’t know, hate us? Or were we reading too much into it?
My friend, Todd, warned me that this whole process would bring up issues...and it did. I thought I would be all calm. I wasn’t. He also said that after this, I will never have to deal with these people again.
Happiness all around. I wish I could say I am now excited...but frankly, I only feel relieved. I think I’ll become more excited once I get the hell out of New Jersey.
But tonight, the sweet truth is, I babysat for my five year old nephew. That little cutey-pie is so tender and new. Humans are intense...at every age. He tried so hard to be a big boy. He really wanted to be good with Uncle Donald. I made him a little dinner. We played some badminton. We colored. He is at an age where he really wants to figure out what he is good at. And as of yet, he does not know. We would start to draw and he would stop drawing if he thought I was better at it than he was. He has to learn about nine million things and just thinking about it makes me feel like...shit, man, good luck! He’s smart, very articulate and is obviously from my family (He takes medicine for heartburn and asthma and at one point, we had to go into the bathroom to get the anti-itching cream for the bite on his leg.) He is ridiculously sensitive and if there is a God, may she help him! He did very well for most of the night...but after I read him One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish (which frankly, does not hold up), and I left the room...he just fell apart. “I want mommy.” And he couldn’t stop crying. So, I brought him back out into the living room and we sat together on the chaise until he went to sleep and I carried him back to his bedroom in his Scooby-Doo pajamas and he said to me half asleep, “I cried because I was scared to be alone.” And I thought, “Kiddo, you and everyone else.” And he went to sleep.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
BiCoastal Chronicles: The Ass of Ophelia, The Old Neighborhood and a Deer
She went out to Nova Scotia and has left us alone. Die, Ophelia, Die.
It occasionally rained on Saturday and by Sunday we had clear blue skies. The perfect fall weather. I am no fan of tropical storms.
But more to today’s point...this was the day when you hang out with your younger brother in the old neighborhood and you walk around and it’s both fun and freakish all at once.
I met my brother over at his brother-in-law’s house where they were making wine in the garage...I caught them after the wine making was over and the Bocci game was in full force. My brother was covered with grape stains. It was truly brilliant and the tradition of making your own garage wine is something I must applaud. The grapes are ordered from some vineyard in California, shipped to Suffern and then Bacchus rules. They have barrels and stainless steel storage containers. I’m sure it all began as some old Italian immigrant making wine out of apples or dandelions or a backyard grape vine...and then evolved into this. My brother’s father-in-law asked me as he looked at my little ass in expensive jeans, “So what is it that you do for a living? No one here knows. We know you were an actor, but I’ve never seen you in anything. What’d you do? Porn?”
I told him about my little collection of ways that I make money but that mostly, I’m a stay-at-home house husband who has just about finished writing a book. Good enough for him. Just a few points left in the Bocci game.
After we headed home and stopped at the A&P to buy fresh bread, my brother and I took a walk through the New York/New Jersey neighborhood where we grew up and where he has happily remained. We grew up on the New York side. He now lives on the Jersey Side. We walked down to The Black Bridge. This place/idea/happening zone was where all the good badness happened when we were kids. You get to the Black Bridge by first crossing an unnamed lower bridge with silver railings which juts out like a tail off the horseshoe shaped connection of Oak Terrace and Jersey Avenue. This lower bridge goes over a storm drainage area...the place that froze in the winter where we used to ice skate. It is always filled with skunk cabbage and cattails in the summer and becomes part of the flood plain of the river during big rainfall. It is completely wide open and frozen in the winter. A great place to burn Christmas trees and smoke cigarettes. Just past this drainage area, you go up a very short hill and you are at The Black Bridge which straddles the Ramapo River. It is a rusting hulk of a thing, completely made from industrial steel and looks like it should be in a coal mining town in West Virginia. The Black Bridge connects the New Jersey end of our neighborhood with the now defunct Mahwah Ford Plant. Everything about the old Ford Plant is gone. Even the train tracks that ran along the river have been pulled out. The plant used to give plenty of jobs. I think Bruce Springsteen sings about the closing of the Mahwah Ford Plant on some album. In any event, I never knew anyone who worked there. The Ramapo River, at the edge of the neighborhood, still runs good and strong. It’s about twenty feet wide and runs through the Ramapo Valley where Suffern sits. In the distance on two sides are mountain ranges. It is all very beautiful and sadly ugly all at once. The natural part is lovely. The dead industry is sort of poignant. There are huge voltage lines that travel next to the river that breaks the bucolic mood. They intrude threateningly. The placement of the lines along the river makes total sense in a civil engineering kind of way. The lines can run through the river valley and get to many of the towns of the Ramapo. A fire road is well cut through very thick weeds so the lines can be maintained. Many years ago, someone must have planted grapes because there are wild grape vines everywhere, running over every other weed and tree in sight. And since it’s the end of the summer, the plants could not be thicker.
Of course, my brother had some of the good green. So we did what we used to do as kids and when we decided to leave the bridge all high and we walked by the fire road back to the regular roads of the neighborhood, we both were intrigued and so we went down the fire road cut into the thick bramble and grape vines, trying to take the old path to George Lane’s House...a path that goes for three blocks, something we used to do all the time. “We should call George and tell him to get his ass over here,” my brother said. We got close to our destination and along the way, I took pictures and when I have a good DSL thing going on again, I will post them. In the thickets of weeds and thick grape vines, sitting in a pushed down area was a huge deer. The deer, as a foraging animal, always seem to me something akin to a very large dog crossed with a squirrel. It was great to see this huge deer sitting among the grape vines sprawled all over the thick briar under the power towers. Of course after I took the pictures I immediately thought of the thick weeds, deer, deer ticks, Lyme’s Disease and expensive and inconvenient antibiotic treatments followed by improper medical billings.
We could not get past a certain point, so we had to turn around and go back to The Black Bridge and then back into the neighborhood... The neighborhood is extremely varied, much more so than when I was a kid. There is the one little block near the Water Treatment area that is still a tiny enclave of Italian immigrants. There are extremely pretty blocks in pristine condition with old stone houses that are real old timey. One tiny stone house was purchased by some great new ager type and he turned it into this awesome hippie cottage with a stone wall and decorative grasses and cone flowers. The few other all stone houses are gorgeous. And then there are the 1910 houses that have been redone to look like gingerbread revivals with wrap around porches, delicate Victoriana trim and stained glass windows. Then there are the houses that have never been redone and they look depressingly grim and the same people live in them who lived in them when I was a kid and that seemed to me, in my highish state, both lovely and sad all at once. The house I grew up in is just terrible. It was a boxy thing, built in 1973 and sits on a corner lot and the fence that ran along the side has been removed and cars park right on the grass in the back yard. Like something you’d see in a holler. The particular block I lived on was never very nice, but when we lived there we did not park in the yard and we always had very coiffed shrubbery and cheerful flowers. To see your old house trashed is not a very sweet experience.
My brother knows everyone so we stopped along the way and talked to many of the neighbors. It was super homey and the strong New York accents, to the high ear, were extremely entertaining, endearing and also mildly terrifying. I met a woman who talked about expanding her house. I met a guy, an Iannacone, who talked about buying a car. The highlight of the trek around the old neighborhood was seeing Keith Hunter. Keith was the neighborhood “retard”. I don’t know exactly what was wrong with him...but he was definitely deficient in brain power and we kept him around in our group because he was older than us and he would always buy us booze. When we were kids, he had shiny, greasy, straight, black hair. Now, he has the same exact hair but it is 90 % silver. It is very bizarre to jump through time and see your local “tardo” all aged.
We returned to my brother’s huge Dutch colonial house, recently expanded with a very romantic front porch festooned with rocking chairs. Inside, my sister, brother-in-law and nephew were all sitting down and we joined them as my sister-in-law, Deb, served the macaroni and sauce while American flags waved in the yards up and down the block.
It occasionally rained on Saturday and by Sunday we had clear blue skies. The perfect fall weather. I am no fan of tropical storms.
But more to today’s point...this was the day when you hang out with your younger brother in the old neighborhood and you walk around and it’s both fun and freakish all at once.
I met my brother over at his brother-in-law’s house where they were making wine in the garage...I caught them after the wine making was over and the Bocci game was in full force. My brother was covered with grape stains. It was truly brilliant and the tradition of making your own garage wine is something I must applaud. The grapes are ordered from some vineyard in California, shipped to Suffern and then Bacchus rules. They have barrels and stainless steel storage containers. I’m sure it all began as some old Italian immigrant making wine out of apples or dandelions or a backyard grape vine...and then evolved into this. My brother’s father-in-law asked me as he looked at my little ass in expensive jeans, “So what is it that you do for a living? No one here knows. We know you were an actor, but I’ve never seen you in anything. What’d you do? Porn?”
I told him about my little collection of ways that I make money but that mostly, I’m a stay-at-home house husband who has just about finished writing a book. Good enough for him. Just a few points left in the Bocci game.
After we headed home and stopped at the A&P to buy fresh bread, my brother and I took a walk through the New York/New Jersey neighborhood where we grew up and where he has happily remained. We grew up on the New York side. He now lives on the Jersey Side. We walked down to The Black Bridge. This place/idea/happening zone was where all the good badness happened when we were kids. You get to the Black Bridge by first crossing an unnamed lower bridge with silver railings which juts out like a tail off the horseshoe shaped connection of Oak Terrace and Jersey Avenue. This lower bridge goes over a storm drainage area...the place that froze in the winter where we used to ice skate. It is always filled with skunk cabbage and cattails in the summer and becomes part of the flood plain of the river during big rainfall. It is completely wide open and frozen in the winter. A great place to burn Christmas trees and smoke cigarettes. Just past this drainage area, you go up a very short hill and you are at The Black Bridge which straddles the Ramapo River. It is a rusting hulk of a thing, completely made from industrial steel and looks like it should be in a coal mining town in West Virginia. The Black Bridge connects the New Jersey end of our neighborhood with the now defunct Mahwah Ford Plant. Everything about the old Ford Plant is gone. Even the train tracks that ran along the river have been pulled out. The plant used to give plenty of jobs. I think Bruce Springsteen sings about the closing of the Mahwah Ford Plant on some album. In any event, I never knew anyone who worked there. The Ramapo River, at the edge of the neighborhood, still runs good and strong. It’s about twenty feet wide and runs through the Ramapo Valley where Suffern sits. In the distance on two sides are mountain ranges. It is all very beautiful and sadly ugly all at once. The natural part is lovely. The dead industry is sort of poignant. There are huge voltage lines that travel next to the river that breaks the bucolic mood. They intrude threateningly. The placement of the lines along the river makes total sense in a civil engineering kind of way. The lines can run through the river valley and get to many of the towns of the Ramapo. A fire road is well cut through very thick weeds so the lines can be maintained. Many years ago, someone must have planted grapes because there are wild grape vines everywhere, running over every other weed and tree in sight. And since it’s the end of the summer, the plants could not be thicker.
Of course, my brother had some of the good green. So we did what we used to do as kids and when we decided to leave the bridge all high and we walked by the fire road back to the regular roads of the neighborhood, we both were intrigued and so we went down the fire road cut into the thick bramble and grape vines, trying to take the old path to George Lane’s House...a path that goes for three blocks, something we used to do all the time. “We should call George and tell him to get his ass over here,” my brother said. We got close to our destination and along the way, I took pictures and when I have a good DSL thing going on again, I will post them. In the thickets of weeds and thick grape vines, sitting in a pushed down area was a huge deer. The deer, as a foraging animal, always seem to me something akin to a very large dog crossed with a squirrel. It was great to see this huge deer sitting among the grape vines sprawled all over the thick briar under the power towers. Of course after I took the pictures I immediately thought of the thick weeds, deer, deer ticks, Lyme’s Disease and expensive and inconvenient antibiotic treatments followed by improper medical billings.
We could not get past a certain point, so we had to turn around and go back to The Black Bridge and then back into the neighborhood... The neighborhood is extremely varied, much more so than when I was a kid. There is the one little block near the Water Treatment area that is still a tiny enclave of Italian immigrants. There are extremely pretty blocks in pristine condition with old stone houses that are real old timey. One tiny stone house was purchased by some great new ager type and he turned it into this awesome hippie cottage with a stone wall and decorative grasses and cone flowers. The few other all stone houses are gorgeous. And then there are the 1910 houses that have been redone to look like gingerbread revivals with wrap around porches, delicate Victoriana trim and stained glass windows. Then there are the houses that have never been redone and they look depressingly grim and the same people live in them who lived in them when I was a kid and that seemed to me, in my highish state, both lovely and sad all at once. The house I grew up in is just terrible. It was a boxy thing, built in 1973 and sits on a corner lot and the fence that ran along the side has been removed and cars park right on the grass in the back yard. Like something you’d see in a holler. The particular block I lived on was never very nice, but when we lived there we did not park in the yard and we always had very coiffed shrubbery and cheerful flowers. To see your old house trashed is not a very sweet experience.
My brother knows everyone so we stopped along the way and talked to many of the neighbors. It was super homey and the strong New York accents, to the high ear, were extremely entertaining, endearing and also mildly terrifying. I met a woman who talked about expanding her house. I met a guy, an Iannacone, who talked about buying a car. The highlight of the trek around the old neighborhood was seeing Keith Hunter. Keith was the neighborhood “retard”. I don’t know exactly what was wrong with him...but he was definitely deficient in brain power and we kept him around in our group because he was older than us and he would always buy us booze. When we were kids, he had shiny, greasy, straight, black hair. Now, he has the same exact hair but it is 90 % silver. It is very bizarre to jump through time and see your local “tardo” all aged.
We returned to my brother’s huge Dutch colonial house, recently expanded with a very romantic front porch festooned with rocking chairs. Inside, my sister, brother-in-law and nephew were all sitting down and we joined them as my sister-in-law, Deb, served the macaroni and sauce while American flags waved in the yards up and down the block.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
BiCoastal Chronicles: Swamp Ophelia and a Very Small Homo
I can come to New York in February and it will be 84 degrees with 91% humidity.
It’s wretched....it rained hard and instead of the air clearing, it only grew thicker with the fetid damp emanating off the bands of Ophelia. She sits and stews and spews. It should abate by Sunday. Until then, it's all oil and sweat.
After a few meals with some great old friends, I met my anthropologist brother-in-law at the Museum of Natural History. Peter Brown, the man who discovered “The Hobbit” on the Indonesian Island of Flores, gave a lecture with a jaunty Australian accent. He had a solid power point presentation. And casts of the skull and mandible. Very interesting, though I must admit I fell asleep here and there. The odd thing: this tiny homo species at 1 meter tall had very long arms and the hands at rest faced palms outward. Interesting, right? Yet they still used tools similar to our ancient stone tools. He asked that no one repeat anything from tonight’s lecture since all this news was going to be released soon. You heard it here first. Those poor hobbits never had a chance. With their twirled hands, how could they have ever learned how to type?
It’s wretched....it rained hard and instead of the air clearing, it only grew thicker with the fetid damp emanating off the bands of Ophelia. She sits and stews and spews. It should abate by Sunday. Until then, it's all oil and sweat.
After a few meals with some great old friends, I met my anthropologist brother-in-law at the Museum of Natural History. Peter Brown, the man who discovered “The Hobbit” on the Indonesian Island of Flores, gave a lecture with a jaunty Australian accent. He had a solid power point presentation. And casts of the skull and mandible. Very interesting, though I must admit I fell asleep here and there. The odd thing: this tiny homo species at 1 meter tall had very long arms and the hands at rest faced palms outward. Interesting, right? Yet they still used tools similar to our ancient stone tools. He asked that no one repeat anything from tonight’s lecture since all this news was going to be released soon. You heard it here first. Those poor hobbits never had a chance. With their twirled hands, how could they have ever learned how to type?
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
BiCoastal Chronicles: A Walk in the Park and Some Art
With fresh reasons to feel anxious, I decided it was time to give up the worries about the future of a Coop in Queens. Whereas real estate is ephemeral, nature and art are eternal.
So I walked across Central Park, alone, one of my favorite things to do on earth, and I went to The Met. First of all, the weather in New York just sucks. It is humid. It’s like wading through the ass of one of those giant guinea pigs in Brazil. However, some trees were turning, The old cast iron lamps were still gracing the walkways. New York is still pretty romantic, if not also clammy and filled with poorly dressed people.
Upon my approach to 96th and Fifth Avenue, I came across high school girls being coached in soccer ball dribbling. Nice lean white girls from some private school, no doubt. As I was about to exit the park, another gaggle of white girls were coming into the park for soccer. They, too, were tall, blue-eyed, milky white and carefree with privilege. What was also odd, they all looked the same. Like an army of young Mariel Hemingways. Could this private school be packed with one large family of sixty sisters? I think not.
The class structure in New York seems very entrenched to my populist California eyes.
The girls went about their balling and I went into the Met. With only a couple hours before the place would close, I decided to avoid my O.C.D. nature and just sort of wing it. See where it all took me.
First stop...the bathroom in ancient Egypt. It gave me great pleasure to know that people have been peeing for at least 2500 years. I usually could care less about the Egyptian stuff, but lately, I’m a little more into it. I mean, it really was a civilization. They really made all that crazy shit. Even though the eyes are kind of dead, they were all very much alive.
Then, I stumbled around the European paintings because, you know, why fuck with the American Wing? I just poked about and didn’t stop unless something really caught my eye...
The following paintings were the ones that made me stop, stare and take note. It was a great experience and I suggest you leave your daily grind right this minute and get theeself to an art museum.
Greuze’s BROKEN EGGS...1756...symbolizes the loss of virginity. The child tries to repair the broken egg...in his innocence. The young woman in the picture is a perfect symbol of melancholy. The old woman points her finger in anger. The gentleman is clueless. There’s mood, characters, attitude, great technique and the little kid’s face is priceless. It’s an amazing painting. Do a search.
Then there was the foppish Van Dyck SELF PORTRAIT. Call me wackypants, but I’m more of a Van Dyck fan than a fan of Rembrandt and certainly of Rubens. This particularly fop shot is just hilarious. His mop of hair is so flipped to the side. His hand hangs like a fag flipper with a little dainty ring on it. His lips are all ruddy pink like a lady. He is obviously an arch dude. Very funny. 1620. It’s an amazing painting. Do a search.
Then there was the awful Rapheal...MADONNA AND CHILD. Commissioned for the Franciscan convent of Sant’ Antonio in Perugia. The nuns requested that the baby Jesus be clothed. Lots of golden halos...all filled in. It’s flat, dead and conservative. 1504. We should be happy, today, that the world isn’t even more religiously insane than it is, given what Jesus lunatics Europe has endured over the centuries. It’s a wretched painting. Do a search.
Now, the ever so tacky PEACOCKS by Hondecooter...1683...hilarious. A huge Peacock and a squirrel, melon, a turkey, a new world monkey, a stork...this thing could have come from the living room of my grandmother. It is so bold and so obviously made for color and brazen tastes...you gotta love it. It’s a ridiculous painting with a monkey. Do a search.
1656—Vermeer—A MAID ASLEEP. Lovely. Modern in its light expression and gentle tone. Seems contemporary in its mood, even with the clothing and the heavy table cloth. It’s really lovely. Vermeer...you just gotta love this thing. Do a search.
***
I tried to find the Asian art...but the rabbit warren of rooms were confusing for me... many of them were blocked off for who knows what sort of traveling shows, reconstructions, what-have-you’s... And I, along with everyone else, felt very mouse-in-a-maze...It was disconcerting to feel so cornered at times...but then, someone would give me a little piece of cheese and I would continue...
I did go down to the Frank Lloyd Wright room...abiding the suggestion of my artist hottie, Megan. It was a complete Frank Lloyd Wright room in the basement of the American Wing...Summer residence of Francis W. Little—1912—Wayzata, Minnesota. It was Arts and Crafts meets The Midwest meets California Train Station. It was oddly graceful, relaxing and oppressive all at once.
I quickly zipped by the Manets, Monets, Renoirs, etc...because we were all being herded out and I’ve had enough of them lately. Renoir’s MARGUERITE caught my eye. You know the famous one...the little girl with the pronounced forehead with the wide blue eyes. 1879. This is a portrait of Marguerite Berard, known as Margot, one of three daughers of Paul Berard. Oddly enough, she looks like a cousin of Dakota Fanning. This added to my desire to maybe do some time traveling just so I could give her a little slap across the face to hear her scream. The papery little girl must have had an odd adulthood.
So I walked across Central Park, alone, one of my favorite things to do on earth, and I went to The Met. First of all, the weather in New York just sucks. It is humid. It’s like wading through the ass of one of those giant guinea pigs in Brazil. However, some trees were turning, The old cast iron lamps were still gracing the walkways. New York is still pretty romantic, if not also clammy and filled with poorly dressed people.
Upon my approach to 96th and Fifth Avenue, I came across high school girls being coached in soccer ball dribbling. Nice lean white girls from some private school, no doubt. As I was about to exit the park, another gaggle of white girls were coming into the park for soccer. They, too, were tall, blue-eyed, milky white and carefree with privilege. What was also odd, they all looked the same. Like an army of young Mariel Hemingways. Could this private school be packed with one large family of sixty sisters? I think not.
The class structure in New York seems very entrenched to my populist California eyes.
The girls went about their balling and I went into the Met. With only a couple hours before the place would close, I decided to avoid my O.C.D. nature and just sort of wing it. See where it all took me.
First stop...the bathroom in ancient Egypt. It gave me great pleasure to know that people have been peeing for at least 2500 years. I usually could care less about the Egyptian stuff, but lately, I’m a little more into it. I mean, it really was a civilization. They really made all that crazy shit. Even though the eyes are kind of dead, they were all very much alive.
Then, I stumbled around the European paintings because, you know, why fuck with the American Wing? I just poked about and didn’t stop unless something really caught my eye...
The following paintings were the ones that made me stop, stare and take note. It was a great experience and I suggest you leave your daily grind right this minute and get theeself to an art museum.
Greuze’s BROKEN EGGS...1756...symbolizes the loss of virginity. The child tries to repair the broken egg...in his innocence. The young woman in the picture is a perfect symbol of melancholy. The old woman points her finger in anger. The gentleman is clueless. There’s mood, characters, attitude, great technique and the little kid’s face is priceless. It’s an amazing painting. Do a search.
Then there was the foppish Van Dyck SELF PORTRAIT. Call me wackypants, but I’m more of a Van Dyck fan than a fan of Rembrandt and certainly of Rubens. This particularly fop shot is just hilarious. His mop of hair is so flipped to the side. His hand hangs like a fag flipper with a little dainty ring on it. His lips are all ruddy pink like a lady. He is obviously an arch dude. Very funny. 1620. It’s an amazing painting. Do a search.
Then there was the awful Rapheal...MADONNA AND CHILD. Commissioned for the Franciscan convent of Sant’ Antonio in Perugia. The nuns requested that the baby Jesus be clothed. Lots of golden halos...all filled in. It’s flat, dead and conservative. 1504. We should be happy, today, that the world isn’t even more religiously insane than it is, given what Jesus lunatics Europe has endured over the centuries. It’s a wretched painting. Do a search.
Now, the ever so tacky PEACOCKS by Hondecooter...1683...hilarious. A huge Peacock and a squirrel, melon, a turkey, a new world monkey, a stork...this thing could have come from the living room of my grandmother. It is so bold and so obviously made for color and brazen tastes...you gotta love it. It’s a ridiculous painting with a monkey. Do a search.
1656—Vermeer—A MAID ASLEEP. Lovely. Modern in its light expression and gentle tone. Seems contemporary in its mood, even with the clothing and the heavy table cloth. It’s really lovely. Vermeer...you just gotta love this thing. Do a search.
***
I tried to find the Asian art...but the rabbit warren of rooms were confusing for me... many of them were blocked off for who knows what sort of traveling shows, reconstructions, what-have-you’s... And I, along with everyone else, felt very mouse-in-a-maze...It was disconcerting to feel so cornered at times...but then, someone would give me a little piece of cheese and I would continue...
I did go down to the Frank Lloyd Wright room...abiding the suggestion of my artist hottie, Megan. It was a complete Frank Lloyd Wright room in the basement of the American Wing...Summer residence of Francis W. Little—1912—Wayzata, Minnesota. It was Arts and Crafts meets The Midwest meets California Train Station. It was oddly graceful, relaxing and oppressive all at once.
I quickly zipped by the Manets, Monets, Renoirs, etc...because we were all being herded out and I’ve had enough of them lately. Renoir’s MARGUERITE caught my eye. You know the famous one...the little girl with the pronounced forehead with the wide blue eyes. 1879. This is a portrait of Marguerite Berard, known as Margot, one of three daughers of Paul Berard. Oddly enough, she looks like a cousin of Dakota Fanning. This added to my desire to maybe do some time traveling just so I could give her a little slap across the face to hear her scream. The papery little girl must have had an odd adulthood.
BiCoastal Chronicles: The Coop Board Meeting
First the Good, then the Bad and the Ugly.
Adam and I met at the lawyer’s office in Astoria so Adam could sign some papers since he won’t be here at closing. We had some lunch at the award winning Mike’s Diner. We changed into our nice shirts and arrived in Jackson Heights on time (early) and ready to wrap this thing up.
We still liked the neighborhood, even more so. The leafy streets and landscaped dividers really are lovely. The old buildings are all in perfect shape, including our spotless digs.
Everything seemed to be going well.
Now, the Bad and the Ugly. Which I must posit in a list of questions:
1. Why is the Coop Board Office in the basement behind the laundry room?
2. Who were these two guys, really, who interviewed us? One weighed about 300 pounds, was wall-eyed and had silver, curly hair. He looked like he should have been stuffing an Italian pastry down his gullet. He sat very disapprovingly throughout in his old T-shirt. The other guy: a bulldog in a tank top, covered with tattoos. We had met this bulldog before...in the laundry room. He seemed scary then. He seemed less scary this time, but still, scary.
3. Why were these two mooks upset that we’d be using the place part time?
4. Why did we get the incredibly wretched feeling that these two slobs in basement attire were completely homophobic and did not want us to be living in their building?
5. Why, at the end of the meeting when the big curly guy said, “Call the coop board next Monday to find out if you passed,” in a dismissive tone did we get the feeling that they hated us and that we were not being accepted?
6. How is it that coop boards can behave this way, legally discriminating based on hunches, prejudices or the color maroon?
7. Why, in June, when I saw matching flags posted on each entryway fire escape on the buildings, realizing it must have been a coop board that did this, and knowing that American flags mean right wing Nazis and had a sinking feeling in my stomach due to said flags, did I not steel myself even more for this meeting which would certainly be a clash of lifestyles?
8. Why, in a place that is only ten minutes from mid-town Manhattan, are people so blue collar, angry and holding meetings in hot basements?
9. Why do we have to sit and wait until Monday to find out if we were accepted?
10. Why can’t we all just get along at the register?
Adam and I met at the lawyer’s office in Astoria so Adam could sign some papers since he won’t be here at closing. We had some lunch at the award winning Mike’s Diner. We changed into our nice shirts and arrived in Jackson Heights on time (early) and ready to wrap this thing up.
We still liked the neighborhood, even more so. The leafy streets and landscaped dividers really are lovely. The old buildings are all in perfect shape, including our spotless digs.
Everything seemed to be going well.
Now, the Bad and the Ugly. Which I must posit in a list of questions:
1. Why is the Coop Board Office in the basement behind the laundry room?
2. Who were these two guys, really, who interviewed us? One weighed about 300 pounds, was wall-eyed and had silver, curly hair. He looked like he should have been stuffing an Italian pastry down his gullet. He sat very disapprovingly throughout in his old T-shirt. The other guy: a bulldog in a tank top, covered with tattoos. We had met this bulldog before...in the laundry room. He seemed scary then. He seemed less scary this time, but still, scary.
3. Why were these two mooks upset that we’d be using the place part time?
4. Why did we get the incredibly wretched feeling that these two slobs in basement attire were completely homophobic and did not want us to be living in their building?
5. Why, at the end of the meeting when the big curly guy said, “Call the coop board next Monday to find out if you passed,” in a dismissive tone did we get the feeling that they hated us and that we were not being accepted?
6. How is it that coop boards can behave this way, legally discriminating based on hunches, prejudices or the color maroon?
7. Why, in June, when I saw matching flags posted on each entryway fire escape on the buildings, realizing it must have been a coop board that did this, and knowing that American flags mean right wing Nazis and had a sinking feeling in my stomach due to said flags, did I not steel myself even more for this meeting which would certainly be a clash of lifestyles?
8. Why, in a place that is only ten minutes from mid-town Manhattan, are people so blue collar, angry and holding meetings in hot basements?
9. Why do we have to sit and wait until Monday to find out if we were accepted?
10. Why can’t we all just get along at the register?
Monday, September 12, 2005
BiCoastal Chronicles: Arrival
Leaving Los Angeles today, I arrived at LAX about ten minutes before the Blackout. Lucky me. Of course, when everything at LAX went dark for a few seconds and all the stores' metal gratings automatically started to roll down and people started running out of the stores because they feared being trapped...playing "Is this fucking terrorism Limbo," I was not so much scared as kind of amused. Is this how it all ends? At 43? At LAX? People trying to avoid being crushed by security gates? At least if I die, I won't have any more acid reflux.
The flight...delayed because the computers for the baggage got wacked and they had to be loaded onto the plane by comparing each piece to a list. But once we were in the air, it was an easy ride East.
The worst part: The cab ride into town. My question for the entire city of New York is: WHY DON'T THESE CABS HAVE SHOCK ABSORBERS?
It's hot and humid. I just ate leftovers from Dara's fridge...chased by two Zantac.
Staying in the converted maid's quarters. Dara has always had great taste. Now she also has a view of the Hudson. When I was thirteen, she was my girlfriend.
The flight...delayed because the computers for the baggage got wacked and they had to be loaded onto the plane by comparing each piece to a list. But once we were in the air, it was an easy ride East.
The worst part: The cab ride into town. My question for the entire city of New York is: WHY DON'T THESE CABS HAVE SHOCK ABSORBERS?
It's hot and humid. I just ate leftovers from Dara's fridge...chased by two Zantac.
Staying in the converted maid's quarters. Dara has always had great taste. Now she also has a view of the Hudson. When I was thirteen, she was my girlfriend.
9-11 1974
Today was really a bad day. I mean really. It was so boring. At the corner, it was beat. It was beat all over. I think that I should gain about 10 pounds. It's really ridiculous how much I weigh. Well I'm going to sleep. Well Goodnight.
Friday, September 09, 2005
Flooded with Thoughts as the World Falls Out
I think people do feel that it is a time of apocalypse. I know I can't be alone in this opinion.
I think it must be impossible to wake up in the morning as a right wing prick and look at the shape of the world, this country, without feeling like somehow you were really wrong about everything.
I think change is coming not by the will of a few horribly greedy men, but by nature's corrections.
They are pumping complete pollution into Lake Pontrachain.
Our deficit cannot hold. We owe our asses to China.
What happened to the fun Clinton years?
I think I have O.C.D. I have to force myself to throw out unread newspapers and magazines. This behavior stems from a need to read, and to a lesser degree, a need to use the goods that show up at the doorstep, to not just toss them. Or maybe I just have O.C.D.
And I'm a hand washer. Though, in my defense, since I began the practice, I have not been ill with a cold once. This has been almost one year.
My Recognized-by-the-State-of-California-Domestic-Partner Adam cries a lot about the dying pets in New Orleans.
We have only donated $50 to Katrina (matched by 50 more). That's pathetic. But somehow, call me a bitch, I feel like the government should pay for this. I don't think we should. I think if the government had not decided to destroy the economy and if they had not tried to dismantle the government for their own filthy aims, then there would be money there and it could be spent on this enormous disaster.
Besides, We're on our way to New York to seal the deal on our new apartment.
These are confusing times. Which is a euphemism for, "The Shit Really Has Hit the Fan. Who's going to pay the most?"
Death, it seems, is what people understand. Death. Not incremental steps that lead up to death, no, that's too subtle. Can't be bothered with that. But big Death? People get big Death.
I think it must be impossible to wake up in the morning as a right wing prick and look at the shape of the world, this country, without feeling like somehow you were really wrong about everything.
I think change is coming not by the will of a few horribly greedy men, but by nature's corrections.
They are pumping complete pollution into Lake Pontrachain.
Our deficit cannot hold. We owe our asses to China.
What happened to the fun Clinton years?
I think I have O.C.D. I have to force myself to throw out unread newspapers and magazines. This behavior stems from a need to read, and to a lesser degree, a need to use the goods that show up at the doorstep, to not just toss them. Or maybe I just have O.C.D.
And I'm a hand washer. Though, in my defense, since I began the practice, I have not been ill with a cold once. This has been almost one year.
My Recognized-by-the-State-of-California-Domestic-Partner Adam cries a lot about the dying pets in New Orleans.
We have only donated $50 to Katrina (matched by 50 more). That's pathetic. But somehow, call me a bitch, I feel like the government should pay for this. I don't think we should. I think if the government had not decided to destroy the economy and if they had not tried to dismantle the government for their own filthy aims, then there would be money there and it could be spent on this enormous disaster.
Besides, We're on our way to New York to seal the deal on our new apartment.
These are confusing times. Which is a euphemism for, "The Shit Really Has Hit the Fan. Who's going to pay the most?"
Death, it seems, is what people understand. Death. Not incremental steps that lead up to death, no, that's too subtle. Can't be bothered with that. But big Death? People get big Death.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
On This Special Day
I wish my Recognized-by-the-State-of-California-Domestic-Partner, Adam,
a very Happy Birthday.
a very Happy Birthday.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
California Legislature Approves Gay Marriage
You can read all about it in the link below.
I would like you to pay particular attention to the comment in the sixth paragraph made by Dennis Mountjoy, the Assemblyman from Monrovia, a quaint little town just East of Pasadena.
Could it be that with a name like Mountjoy, this particular bigot of vituperation is just wailing in his misdirected attack due to years of being teased?
And futhermore, who by the name of Dennis is not a lover of the menacing pole of love?
Poor Dennis Mountjoy. What a fearful fool. Why, I just want to joyfully mount Dennis! Too bad it takes six weeks to drive to Monrovia or else I would do it.
Washington Post Article
When you are finished reading the article, why not send your own little missive to Dennis below? You can base your snide comment on the little picture of him he has posted on his site. Maybe let him know how much he looks like Ned Beatty and how much you would love to hear him squeal like a pig?
Email Dennis Mountjoy
I would like you to pay particular attention to the comment in the sixth paragraph made by Dennis Mountjoy, the Assemblyman from Monrovia, a quaint little town just East of Pasadena.
Could it be that with a name like Mountjoy, this particular bigot of vituperation is just wailing in his misdirected attack due to years of being teased?
And futhermore, who by the name of Dennis is not a lover of the menacing pole of love?
Poor Dennis Mountjoy. What a fearful fool. Why, I just want to joyfully mount Dennis! Too bad it takes six weeks to drive to Monrovia or else I would do it.
Washington Post Article
When you are finished reading the article, why not send your own little missive to Dennis below? You can base your snide comment on the little picture of him he has posted on his site. Maybe let him know how much he looks like Ned Beatty and how much you would love to hear him squeal like a pig?
Email Dennis Mountjoy
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Because You Deserve the Very Best
The good news is - and it's hard for some to see it now - that out of this chaos is going to come a fantastic Gulf Coast, like it was before. Out of the rubbles of Trent Lott's house -- he's lost his entire house - there's going to be a fantastic house. And I'm looking forward to sitting on the porch. - president George W. Bush
The Long Weekend is Over. This is Your Reality.
The Long Weekend is Over. This is Your Reality.
Friday, September 02, 2005
Chaotic Thoughts for Chaotic Times
1. This hurricane is Bush's Waterloo.
2. The look in Bush's eyes on Good Morning America is that of a wild ferret, drunk on his own delusional thoughts. Or maybe he was just drunk, the ferret?
3. Those poor refugees from New Orleans? As soon as those levees are actually made out of unbreachable steel...their old neighborhoods will be gentrified, filled with McMansions.
4. The sordid underbelly of our nation is: we just don't fucking care about poor people. Especially poor black people. Let them piss all over themselves in the fetid Superdome.
5. Ted Koppel ridiculed FEMA man.
6. I've been systematizing my email lately. Because I can't stand the tons of junk,spam, etc. So, much of the junk is now classified as junk and goes into the junk folder. For the stuff that is almost junk, but may be of interest to me (Like Macy's, Screen Actors Guild, American Airlines, Etc.)--those are now loading right into the Norton AntiSpam folder. Truth is---Today, John Kerry has been banished into Spam. He seems so unnecessary. Sorry John.
7. Engineers always knew the levees would break. And they did. See number 1 above.
8. Watching the news footage and then seeing an SUV commercial makes you think, "Go buy that monster carbon producing machine...sure...so you can heat things up even more so we can have even greater storms."
9. Watching all these sleeping pill commercials—Lunesta? Could it be that no one can get a good night's sleep these days because everyone is worried about their jobs and the lack of any safety net?
10. I have GERD, because I drink red wine late at night, drink tea all day long, and eat way too much cheese and meat. I'm back on bananas, apple juice, pasta and honey.
11. Congratulations to Megan on her new apartment in Queens. The board loved her, she loved the board. Let the outer borough living begin.
12. Chimps and Humans are practically the same animal.
13. My State of California Recognized Domestic Partner (SCRDP) and I are going to Idaho this weekend to visit with his family.
14. The Healthcare system in this country does not work. Though I hate to wish it, I do think a health scare is next. This will expose the horrendous nature of our careless medical culture.
15. There are two forces in organizing societies. Greed or Communalism. Perhaps we will recognize how essential it is to be communal after we have a few more horrible disasters in this country.
16. Can you imagine what homeland security is up to right now? They must be freaking that someone is going to take advantage of us when we're down.
17. Enjoy your Labor Day Weekend. Drive safely...better yet...don't drive at all.
18. Think globally. Eat food grown within fifty miles of your home.
19. I can't get that image out of my head...Georgie sitting all alone in that airplane seat, looking like a lost child peering down at the destroyed city of New Orleans. See number 1 above.
20. Now is the time for The West Coast and the Northeast to secede from the United Red States. See number 1 above.
2. The look in Bush's eyes on Good Morning America is that of a wild ferret, drunk on his own delusional thoughts. Or maybe he was just drunk, the ferret?
3. Those poor refugees from New Orleans? As soon as those levees are actually made out of unbreachable steel...their old neighborhoods will be gentrified, filled with McMansions.
4. The sordid underbelly of our nation is: we just don't fucking care about poor people. Especially poor black people. Let them piss all over themselves in the fetid Superdome.
5. Ted Koppel ridiculed FEMA man.
6. I've been systematizing my email lately. Because I can't stand the tons of junk,spam, etc. So, much of the junk is now classified as junk and goes into the junk folder. For the stuff that is almost junk, but may be of interest to me (Like Macy's, Screen Actors Guild, American Airlines, Etc.)--those are now loading right into the Norton AntiSpam folder. Truth is---Today, John Kerry has been banished into Spam. He seems so unnecessary. Sorry John.
7. Engineers always knew the levees would break. And they did. See number 1 above.
8. Watching the news footage and then seeing an SUV commercial makes you think, "Go buy that monster carbon producing machine...sure...so you can heat things up even more so we can have even greater storms."
9. Watching all these sleeping pill commercials—Lunesta? Could it be that no one can get a good night's sleep these days because everyone is worried about their jobs and the lack of any safety net?
10. I have GERD, because I drink red wine late at night, drink tea all day long, and eat way too much cheese and meat. I'm back on bananas, apple juice, pasta and honey.
11. Congratulations to Megan on her new apartment in Queens. The board loved her, she loved the board. Let the outer borough living begin.
12. Chimps and Humans are practically the same animal.
13. My State of California Recognized Domestic Partner (SCRDP) and I are going to Idaho this weekend to visit with his family.
14. The Healthcare system in this country does not work. Though I hate to wish it, I do think a health scare is next. This will expose the horrendous nature of our careless medical culture.
15. There are two forces in organizing societies. Greed or Communalism. Perhaps we will recognize how essential it is to be communal after we have a few more horrible disasters in this country.
16. Can you imagine what homeland security is up to right now? They must be freaking that someone is going to take advantage of us when we're down.
17. Enjoy your Labor Day Weekend. Drive safely...better yet...don't drive at all.
18. Think globally. Eat food grown within fifty miles of your home.
19. I can't get that image out of my head...Georgie sitting all alone in that airplane seat, looking like a lost child peering down at the destroyed city of New Orleans. See number 1 above.
20. Now is the time for The West Coast and the Northeast to secede from the United Red States. See number 1 above.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Bush Flies Over and Assesses the Situation
After his flight on Air Force One over the areas destroyed by Hurricane Katrina, President Bush met with Vice President Dick Cheney, Secretary of State Condoleeza Rice and Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld this afternoon in order to assess the root of evil that has caused the destruction in the gulf states of this great Christian Nation.
According to scientific research based on a very strong hunch, it has been declared that this hurricane originated off the coast of Guinea, with perhaps vectors of turbulence arising from Liberia and Sierra Leon.
Based on intelligence and a master plan to eradicate the region as a breeding ground for storms, the president has decided to declare war on Nigeria.
"When we arrive in Nigeria, it will be better than shock and awe. We have, we got our people working on this.
The good citizens of Nigeria will be thankful we've arrived and we will stabilize the area, keeping the evil seeds of storms from arising off the coast of this great nation, freeing the people, freeing our people."
When pressed to explain why the president is using the military to invade Nigeria, an oil rich nation, instead of Guinea, Sierra Leon or even our offspring state of Liberia, the president responded, "They have seeds of destruction in Nigeria. They do. They have seeds of destruction there. And those seeds affect the clouds and those clouds build up, they do, and we are in danger. It's a war on these, on these, storm seeds. I feel it in my heart."
When asked for comment on the devastation caused by Katrina in the Gulf States, Condolezza Rice replied, "We would have moved heaven and earth if we knew Americans were in harm's way."
This interviewer asked Ms. Rice, "If you are actually able to move heaven and earth, why did you not at least move some busses into the poorer areas of New Orleans to take these American citizens to higher ground before the storm arrived?"
The Secretary of State's response, "Heaven and earth.
Heaven and earth."
When asked for his opinion on intelligence reports from Africa, Donald Rumsfeld could only reply, "Reports that say that something hasn't happened are always interesting to me, because as we know, there are known knowns; there are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns; that is to say we know there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns -- the ones we don't know we don't know. This leads to seeds that we know are known, unknown but not the seeds that we don’t know we don’t know.”
On the subject of certain military invasion, Dick Cheney added, “We will, in fact, be greeted as liberators.”
The United Nations recommends that all Nigerians evacuate the country.
Busses supplied by Germany will take refugees to France.
According to scientific research based on a very strong hunch, it has been declared that this hurricane originated off the coast of Guinea, with perhaps vectors of turbulence arising from Liberia and Sierra Leon.
Based on intelligence and a master plan to eradicate the region as a breeding ground for storms, the president has decided to declare war on Nigeria.
"When we arrive in Nigeria, it will be better than shock and awe. We have, we got our people working on this.
The good citizens of Nigeria will be thankful we've arrived and we will stabilize the area, keeping the evil seeds of storms from arising off the coast of this great nation, freeing the people, freeing our people."
When pressed to explain why the president is using the military to invade Nigeria, an oil rich nation, instead of Guinea, Sierra Leon or even our offspring state of Liberia, the president responded, "They have seeds of destruction in Nigeria. They do. They have seeds of destruction there. And those seeds affect the clouds and those clouds build up, they do, and we are in danger. It's a war on these, on these, storm seeds. I feel it in my heart."
When asked for comment on the devastation caused by Katrina in the Gulf States, Condolezza Rice replied, "We would have moved heaven and earth if we knew Americans were in harm's way."
This interviewer asked Ms. Rice, "If you are actually able to move heaven and earth, why did you not at least move some busses into the poorer areas of New Orleans to take these American citizens to higher ground before the storm arrived?"
The Secretary of State's response, "Heaven and earth.
Heaven and earth."
When asked for his opinion on intelligence reports from Africa, Donald Rumsfeld could only reply, "Reports that say that something hasn't happened are always interesting to me, because as we know, there are known knowns; there are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns; that is to say we know there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns -- the ones we don't know we don't know. This leads to seeds that we know are known, unknown but not the seeds that we don’t know we don’t know.”
On the subject of certain military invasion, Dick Cheney added, “We will, in fact, be greeted as liberators.”
The United Nations recommends that all Nigerians evacuate the country.
Busses supplied by Germany will take refugees to France.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
The Entitled Always Shoot Themselves in the Foot
What always destroys the Republican Party is their sense of entitlement. Going on vacation for a month while your plans are all falling apart is so stupid, it's brilliant.
Even though rich, spoiled, lazy men would have you believe otherwise, physics still holds in all earthbound affairs. Nature will not support a lazy idiot who does nothing but ride his bicycle all day. All the plans of such an idiot will not succeed without energy expended with some kind of diligent intelligence (which is obviously a lot to ask, considering this mouth breather of a president). Even though the plans for Middle Eastern domination were ill conceived at inception, with energy and thought, they could have been adjusted for some type of success or at least some movement in the right direction. But entitled people always behave as if they've done quite enough and the lackeys should, by now, fall in and do their bidding. Because, obviously, this is what lackeys were born to do.
Justice is always served when the obtuseness of entitlement is in vogue--
The repercussions should last at least two-hundred more years.
So sit back, relax, and enjoy the show.
Even though rich, spoiled, lazy men would have you believe otherwise, physics still holds in all earthbound affairs. Nature will not support a lazy idiot who does nothing but ride his bicycle all day. All the plans of such an idiot will not succeed without energy expended with some kind of diligent intelligence (which is obviously a lot to ask, considering this mouth breather of a president). Even though the plans for Middle Eastern domination were ill conceived at inception, with energy and thought, they could have been adjusted for some type of success or at least some movement in the right direction. But entitled people always behave as if they've done quite enough and the lackeys should, by now, fall in and do their bidding. Because, obviously, this is what lackeys were born to do.
Justice is always served when the obtuseness of entitlement is in vogue--
The repercussions should last at least two-hundred more years.
So sit back, relax, and enjoy the show.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
I Just Have One Question About the Iraqi Constition
Why do they get articles 28-34?
Articles 28 to 34 define Iraq as a welfare state in the tradition of Western Europe. The constitution exempts the poor from taxes while guaranteeing universal healthcare and free education at all levels for all Iraqis. It guarantees the right of Iraqis to a clean environment and commits the state to preserving the biological diversity of wildlife.
And we get what? The right to bear arms?
And the fatter we get as a nation, should we really be running around like that?
Okay, so the Iraqi constitution won't fruish. However, I can't believe the Iraqis have a piece of paper that guarantees health, education and a clean environment and all we get are freed slaves and no unusual punishment.
Articles 28 to 34 define Iraq as a welfare state in the tradition of Western Europe. The constitution exempts the poor from taxes while guaranteeing universal healthcare and free education at all levels for all Iraqis. It guarantees the right of Iraqis to a clean environment and commits the state to preserving the biological diversity of wildlife.
And we get what? The right to bear arms?
And the fatter we get as a nation, should we really be running around like that?
Okay, so the Iraqi constitution won't fruish. However, I can't believe the Iraqis have a piece of paper that guarantees health, education and a clean environment and all we get are freed slaves and no unusual punishment.
Sunday, August 28, 2005
Suicide Engenders the Funny
The daughter of Don Red Barry was at our house on Saturday attending a writer's group party. DRB was a character actor who worked all the time.
Don Red Barry IMDB
He committed suicide in 1980, and his really bright daughter, perhaps overcompensating for what must have been a wretched childhood, had this hilarious dark sense of humor.
She said:
"My husband wants to make and sell a new blow up doll...for sex...of Mary. You know, with the blue veil and everything."
She pointed her two index fingers toward her head.
"And the doll has a name at the top. The title is You Be the First One."
As a parting gift, we gave her our Jesus Action Figure.
Don Red Barry IMDB
He committed suicide in 1980, and his really bright daughter, perhaps overcompensating for what must have been a wretched childhood, had this hilarious dark sense of humor.
She said:
"My husband wants to make and sell a new blow up doll...for sex...of Mary. You know, with the blue veil and everything."
She pointed her two index fingers toward her head.
"And the doll has a name at the top. The title is You Be the First One."
As a parting gift, we gave her our Jesus Action Figure.
Friday, August 26, 2005
When a Sad Mom Wants to See You, Ride Your Bike
When a sad mom wants to see you
Ride your bike.
If your oily plan deceives you
Ride your bike.
When No Iraqi constitution
Makes Civil War the sole solution
Thank greasy Jesus, Absolution,
Ride your bike.
Ride your bike.
If your oily plan deceives you
Ride your bike.
When No Iraqi constitution
Makes Civil War the sole solution
Thank greasy Jesus, Absolution,
Ride your bike.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Whatever happened to
Anthrax?
Everyone still talks about where they were when the twin towers were destroyed. But does anyone ever talk about Anthrax? Never.
What is your memory of Anthrax?
Mine was quite funny and said a lot more about the Americans I was dealing with than the Anthrax that I knew was never destined for any mailbox I'd ever be near.
I was working for a very rich guy in Pacific Palisades. Guess how he dealt with the Anthrax scare? He had me open ALL his mail.
This was not long after he realized something earth shattering and with a wild-eyed fear said to me, "I guess it doesn't matter how much money you have. You can't guarantee you'll be safe from terrorists." He seemed truly dejected because he could not buy his way into absolute safety.
Having me open his possibly Anthraxed mail was quite insulting, but there was a certain event that was even more down putting that finally forced me to quit working for this entitled American person. It was his new fiancé. She made smoothies for everyone (herself, him and a kid) and at the bottom of the blender was a tiny bit left and she asked me, "Do you want the rest?" And I said, "Sure."
And there they stood...the three rich people with full glasses of smoothie and me with an inch. I decided that day I would quit. And I did.
Anthrax was the tip of the insulting iceberg. But I knew there was no real threat. But bitch, don't diss me with your smoothie.
Everyone still talks about where they were when the twin towers were destroyed. But does anyone ever talk about Anthrax? Never.
What is your memory of Anthrax?
Mine was quite funny and said a lot more about the Americans I was dealing with than the Anthrax that I knew was never destined for any mailbox I'd ever be near.
I was working for a very rich guy in Pacific Palisades. Guess how he dealt with the Anthrax scare? He had me open ALL his mail.
This was not long after he realized something earth shattering and with a wild-eyed fear said to me, "I guess it doesn't matter how much money you have. You can't guarantee you'll be safe from terrorists." He seemed truly dejected because he could not buy his way into absolute safety.
Having me open his possibly Anthraxed mail was quite insulting, but there was a certain event that was even more down putting that finally forced me to quit working for this entitled American person. It was his new fiancé. She made smoothies for everyone (herself, him and a kid) and at the bottom of the blender was a tiny bit left and she asked me, "Do you want the rest?" And I said, "Sure."
And there they stood...the three rich people with full glasses of smoothie and me with an inch. I decided that day I would quit. And I did.
Anthrax was the tip of the insulting iceberg. But I knew there was no real threat. But bitch, don't diss me with your smoothie.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
August 24, 1980
Today was excellent. I got up extremely late. I sat around, then me, Greg and George doobied in the woods. I fell asleep at George’s house. I came home, ate and visited B at Reinaur’s. I cam home, Holly came over. We went to her house. We went and ate at Ramapo Diner. We came to my house and me, Holly, Greg and Matt Poole went down to the picnic table and drank and had a fire. Welp-the cops came. We took off—but came back (Holly forgot her purse and Greg’s car was there). We had to get in the car. Welp—we were arrested. It was pretty funny. We have to go to court. (Disorderly Conduct). Holly was so cool. The cops were fucks. So, anyway. Matt had to stay ‘cause he’s only 15 and his mom has to pick him up. Me, Greg and Holly went to Reinaur’s and left. Holly had to go home. I love her. It was so great. Right now me and Greg are watching T.V. Today was unreal. It was funny. Goodnight.
I wonder why I thought this day was excellent. I mean, I was arrested for goodness’ sake.
Holly was one of my best friends in high school. She was a fantastic musician, blonde, funny and always a good time. She lived across the street from John Pousette-Dart, an almost-was big time musician from the ‘70’s. Now, she teaches voice and piano and speech pathology and has two cute little girls. She lives in the house where she grew up on Route 202 in Suffern, New York, leafy kind of deck house sort of area.
My brother, Greg, and I and George and Matt Poole lived in the Westward of Suffern. Our neighborhood was sandwiched between train tracks and The Ramapo River. It was the kind of place where you made forts in corrugated metal castoffs and for summer fun, you’d steal an old bus tire inner tube and float down the polluted Ramapo.
The picnic table was a green village issued break table for the workers at the city works which was a couple blocks from my house. There was a water treatment plant and a huge shed filled with trucks for street cleaning, salting the roads, etc. The picnic table was right behind this building under a tree...so we used to hang out there at night and smoke, have fires, eat pudding. Obviously, we were not supposed to have a fire. So, we were arrested. What I most remember was the cop saying, “You’re lucky we’re not booking you for arson.” And I remember looking at the cop and thinking, “Yeah, right, someone’s going to think that we were trying to burn down this huge metal shed with our tiny fire surrounded by rocks. Asshole.”
Reinaur’s was the truck stop where I was a short order cook during most of my college breaks. B, my girlfriend, worked there. I got her the job. She wore a brown polyester waitress uniform. The truckstop had a Native American motif. The gift shop sold Indian headdresses and silly little leather change purses among the maps and cowboy boots. On the placemats for the restaurant was also the menu (hamburger 65 cents) and there was a reference to “The Lenape Gift and Curio Shop.” I had half an idea how absurd this place was. I loved working there.
I wonder why I thought this day was excellent. I mean, I was arrested for goodness’ sake.
Holly was one of my best friends in high school. She was a fantastic musician, blonde, funny and always a good time. She lived across the street from John Pousette-Dart, an almost-was big time musician from the ‘70’s. Now, she teaches voice and piano and speech pathology and has two cute little girls. She lives in the house where she grew up on Route 202 in Suffern, New York, leafy kind of deck house sort of area.
My brother, Greg, and I and George and Matt Poole lived in the Westward of Suffern. Our neighborhood was sandwiched between train tracks and The Ramapo River. It was the kind of place where you made forts in corrugated metal castoffs and for summer fun, you’d steal an old bus tire inner tube and float down the polluted Ramapo.
The picnic table was a green village issued break table for the workers at the city works which was a couple blocks from my house. There was a water treatment plant and a huge shed filled with trucks for street cleaning, salting the roads, etc. The picnic table was right behind this building under a tree...so we used to hang out there at night and smoke, have fires, eat pudding. Obviously, we were not supposed to have a fire. So, we were arrested. What I most remember was the cop saying, “You’re lucky we’re not booking you for arson.” And I remember looking at the cop and thinking, “Yeah, right, someone’s going to think that we were trying to burn down this huge metal shed with our tiny fire surrounded by rocks. Asshole.”
Reinaur’s was the truck stop where I was a short order cook during most of my college breaks. B, my girlfriend, worked there. I got her the job. She wore a brown polyester waitress uniform. The truckstop had a Native American motif. The gift shop sold Indian headdresses and silly little leather change purses among the maps and cowboy boots. On the placemats for the restaurant was also the menu (hamburger 65 cents) and there was a reference to “The Lenape Gift and Curio Shop.” I had half an idea how absurd this place was. I loved working there.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Being that Life is Finite
Pretending you are someone who you are not or not someone who you are is a sleight of vanity schooled by fear and a complete waste of time. Unless, of course, by doing this costly exercise you are enjoying yourself. But I've never met anyone like that.
Monday, August 22, 2005
Just One More Thing to Worry About
The Iodine Emails
Did you get your Iodine yet?
Jeff
*************************************
Soon.
Don
****************************************
I don’t know if it is the paranoia, but I am going to get some tomorrow.
Jeff
******************************************
Buy me a bag if you’re in the iodine store. (for two---no wait, better, for one—okay okay for two) I’ll reimburse you...
Don
******************************************
How long after irradiation do you need to take them?
How does one keep the iodine pills from getting irradiated?
Jeff
******************************************
I have no idea about how long after....I think, pretty much, you have to start taking them right away...over days...like every day you take them...because there will be radioactive iodine in the air every day after a big bomb.
The iodine pills will not get irradiated.
You know physics...the first waves of gammas, heat, etc., kill who they kill, but then the next damage comes from all the fallout from alpha radiation (Helium isotopes, right?)--- and other unstable large molecules that are bad bad bad for us...
Among them, iodine...but the bad iodine won’t replace the good iodine in the tablets...in fact, the opposite is true, so that is why you take the good iodine.
Will gamma rays go through the pills? Sure...but if there is a whole lot of gamma around you, you’ll die anyway...so no need to worry about the pills.
Hopefully, a big bomb would land at LAX, and we could possibly survive. If it lands in downtown LA...forget it. We’re dead.
I bet they drop the bomb right on Beverly Hills...in which case, we’re dead, too.
So, get your iodine tablets, but be prepared to die.
(I think It’ll actually be a little safer in Jackson Heights)
If anything, our US government would be happy if LA was blown up...it would give them an excuse to nuke the middle East out of existence, AND, they’d be rid of millions of pesky liberals.
Don
******************************************
I was wondering if they should be in the car and office, or just at home.
Alpha radiation is indeed helium nuclei, beta is electrons, and gamma is high-energry light. If they can irradiate the iodine in your thyroid, why can’t they irradiate the iodine in your pills?
Jeff
********************************************
The idea is that the thyroid is taking up iodine all the time, and if there are large radioactive iodine molecules in the air, they will take up residence in your thyroid and give you cancer. But, if the concentration of iodine in your blood stream is high (because you are taking the iodine pills) the thyroid will take up those iodine molecules because they are at a greater concentration and nature always goes for efficiency and so you take up the iodine that is not harmful into your thyroid, avoiding cancer. Thus, the whole reason for the iodine pills. So I’m told.
Don
************************************************
Okay.
Jeff
Did you get your Iodine yet?
Jeff
*************************************
Soon.
Don
****************************************
I don’t know if it is the paranoia, but I am going to get some tomorrow.
Jeff
******************************************
Buy me a bag if you’re in the iodine store. (for two---no wait, better, for one—okay okay for two) I’ll reimburse you...
Don
******************************************
How long after irradiation do you need to take them?
How does one keep the iodine pills from getting irradiated?
Jeff
******************************************
I have no idea about how long after....I think, pretty much, you have to start taking them right away...over days...like every day you take them...because there will be radioactive iodine in the air every day after a big bomb.
The iodine pills will not get irradiated.
You know physics...the first waves of gammas, heat, etc., kill who they kill, but then the next damage comes from all the fallout from alpha radiation (Helium isotopes, right?)--- and other unstable large molecules that are bad bad bad for us...
Among them, iodine...but the bad iodine won’t replace the good iodine in the tablets...in fact, the opposite is true, so that is why you take the good iodine.
Will gamma rays go through the pills? Sure...but if there is a whole lot of gamma around you, you’ll die anyway...so no need to worry about the pills.
Hopefully, a big bomb would land at LAX, and we could possibly survive. If it lands in downtown LA...forget it. We’re dead.
I bet they drop the bomb right on Beverly Hills...in which case, we’re dead, too.
So, get your iodine tablets, but be prepared to die.
(I think It’ll actually be a little safer in Jackson Heights)
If anything, our US government would be happy if LA was blown up...it would give them an excuse to nuke the middle East out of existence, AND, they’d be rid of millions of pesky liberals.
Don
******************************************
I was wondering if they should be in the car and office, or just at home.
Alpha radiation is indeed helium nuclei, beta is electrons, and gamma is high-energry light. If they can irradiate the iodine in your thyroid, why can’t they irradiate the iodine in your pills?
Jeff
********************************************
The idea is that the thyroid is taking up iodine all the time, and if there are large radioactive iodine molecules in the air, they will take up residence in your thyroid and give you cancer. But, if the concentration of iodine in your blood stream is high (because you are taking the iodine pills) the thyroid will take up those iodine molecules because they are at a greater concentration and nature always goes for efficiency and so you take up the iodine that is not harmful into your thyroid, avoiding cancer. Thus, the whole reason for the iodine pills. So I’m told.
Don
************************************************
Okay.
Jeff
Thursday, August 18, 2005
A Blog Worth Reading
I would like to promote a new blogger who has a distinct voice and a very sharp grasp on our current political situation.
She is also a very talented emerging artist from one of our Mid-Atlantic states and happens to be the sister of my legally-sanctioned-by-the-state-of-California-domestic-partner (LSSCDP), Adam.
Her latest entry about Darryl, the soldier, is quite sad and profound. Her musings on happiness and the pointed list exposing the hypocrisy of the Republican party with regard to Clinton during wartime in Bosnia are great mind poppers.
So do check it out. And if you forget to save this blog URL in your favorite blogs list, you can always find it by clicking on it under LINKS down on the right side of Open Trench.
Enjoy:
Courage is Found in Unlikely Places
She is also a very talented emerging artist from one of our Mid-Atlantic states and happens to be the sister of my legally-sanctioned-by-the-state-of-California-domestic-partner (LSSCDP), Adam.
Her latest entry about Darryl, the soldier, is quite sad and profound. Her musings on happiness and the pointed list exposing the hypocrisy of the Republican party with regard to Clinton during wartime in Bosnia are great mind poppers.
So do check it out. And if you forget to save this blog URL in your favorite blogs list, you can always find it by clicking on it under LINKS down on the right side of Open Trench.
Enjoy:
Courage is Found in Unlikely Places
Midweek Party with Chrissy
The very Republican Chrissy was here and as we were arguing about the war in Iraq it became clear to me that she had a point. We need to secure the area.
And my counterpoint was: Okay, lie about weapons of M.D. and say whatever you want to try to fool the idiots of this country, but if you are going to lie, get in there and do it right. Turn that Sunni Triangle into a Sunni Crater.
But then, you don't even know what we really want. Maybe we want the Sunnis to take over.
And Chrissy got into the flypaper theory of having our soldiers there draws all the jihadists to them where they can safely blow them away far from our shores. Etc. Etc. Yuck Yuck Oil.
And of course, Dan would have none of it. He saw right through Chrissy's flawed thinking-- No one on earth can even begin to imagine that this whole war effort is going to succeed. And when Dan brought this war up on charges, Chrissy kept staying on message, like right wingers do, saying how we had to be in that area.
I see her point. But from Dan's point, the original logic of the war is wrong and from my point, the execution of the war has failed. And Chrissy thinks this strategy right now is going to work.
But when I told Chrissy that this war was really just about a few rich families, including the Bushes and the Saudi Royals, who are all fighting over the last billions to be made in the oil business before it all ends, she became dumbstruck and it really hit her in her moneyplexus and she said, all high, "That's fascinating. I've never thought about it like that before. Oh yes. Yes. We have to go write this down right now, together, so we don't forget it."
I told her I would remember it and that I'd blog about it later on. And so here I fulfill the promise.
We also got to see Chrissy's tits, and, when Chrissy asked Jeff to get her some water, Jeff refused and so Chrissy decided that she could never live in California and Adam told her that it has nothing to do with the coasts, she's living in a very old century.
Then Chrissy passed out, from all the drugs, and we eventually had to carry her out to the car so she could sleep it off at Sarah's.
And my counterpoint was: Okay, lie about weapons of M.D. and say whatever you want to try to fool the idiots of this country, but if you are going to lie, get in there and do it right. Turn that Sunni Triangle into a Sunni Crater.
But then, you don't even know what we really want. Maybe we want the Sunnis to take over.
And Chrissy got into the flypaper theory of having our soldiers there draws all the jihadists to them where they can safely blow them away far from our shores. Etc. Etc. Yuck Yuck Oil.
And of course, Dan would have none of it. He saw right through Chrissy's flawed thinking-- No one on earth can even begin to imagine that this whole war effort is going to succeed. And when Dan brought this war up on charges, Chrissy kept staying on message, like right wingers do, saying how we had to be in that area.
I see her point. But from Dan's point, the original logic of the war is wrong and from my point, the execution of the war has failed. And Chrissy thinks this strategy right now is going to work.
But when I told Chrissy that this war was really just about a few rich families, including the Bushes and the Saudi Royals, who are all fighting over the last billions to be made in the oil business before it all ends, she became dumbstruck and it really hit her in her moneyplexus and she said, all high, "That's fascinating. I've never thought about it like that before. Oh yes. Yes. We have to go write this down right now, together, so we don't forget it."
I told her I would remember it and that I'd blog about it later on. And so here I fulfill the promise.
We also got to see Chrissy's tits, and, when Chrissy asked Jeff to get her some water, Jeff refused and so Chrissy decided that she could never live in California and Adam told her that it has nothing to do with the coasts, she's living in a very old century.
Then Chrissy passed out, from all the drugs, and we eventually had to carry her out to the car so she could sleep it off at Sarah's.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
You Just Can't Make this Shit Up: August 17, 1980
Today was cool. I worked from 10AM to 12PM. It was really something. I was so beat. Greg and George and B and Kevin and Helga visited me. After work, me, B, Kevin, and Helga went to B’s house and played quarters and pigged out. Me and B had outrageous sex. It was our 1 year and 2 day anniversary for losing our virginity. Mom and Dad also visited at work. Today was really cool. Goodnight.
Okay, I worked from 10AM until midnight, just to clear up the AM, PM thing. I was working at The Handy Stop...a convenience store. And of course, there was a lot of thieving going on.
Greg is my brother. And George was our best friend who lived down the street. He was really my brother’s best friend, but I always thought he was my best friend, too. They were a year younger than me.
B and Kevin were a year older than me. B was Barbara, my girlfriend. I never called her B. Her family called her that. I just used it as shorthand in the diaries. Kevin had very red hair and freckles and was really tall and big. Football player. He was one of those guys who could be captain of the football team, AND play the lead in Dracula (to my fly eating Renfield). Kevin was studying communications at Ithaca College. Helga was even a year older than Kevin and two years older than me. She was very tall and smart and beautiful and became an engineer, graduating from SUNY Buffalo.
This was the first summer after I graduated high school. Barbara had gone to college but actually quit to come back home because she missed her family and she missed me. So there I was during my senior year of high school and my girlfriend, who was a year older and was so in love with me for odd reasons of her own, really cramped what should have been my wild days. Of course, I continued to date her all the way through my senior year of college, on and off, so I could pretend I was straight. Poor thing, she was so used and I think I pretty much destroyed her life. She eventually made it to the local college and ultimately graduated from The University of Connecticut and became an English teacher. After I completely succumbed to my gayness, she picked up the pieces of her life, married a cop who beat her, divorced him and then married a very sweet guy with an odd speech impediment.
I am sure everyone who came to work to visit me came there so they could steal shit. Especially my mother.
As far as playing quarters and pigging out goes. Yeah, we did that.
As far as outrageous sex goes. Sure, why not.
As far as it being our one year and two day anniversary of losing our virginity, yeah, that too. Sweet, really, in a twisted way.
I can only say this: For me, it was probably closer to my six year anniversary of losing my virginity. But that anniversary was the loss of my virginity that dared not speak its name.
Okay, I worked from 10AM until midnight, just to clear up the AM, PM thing. I was working at The Handy Stop...a convenience store. And of course, there was a lot of thieving going on.
Greg is my brother. And George was our best friend who lived down the street. He was really my brother’s best friend, but I always thought he was my best friend, too. They were a year younger than me.
B and Kevin were a year older than me. B was Barbara, my girlfriend. I never called her B. Her family called her that. I just used it as shorthand in the diaries. Kevin had very red hair and freckles and was really tall and big. Football player. He was one of those guys who could be captain of the football team, AND play the lead in Dracula (to my fly eating Renfield). Kevin was studying communications at Ithaca College. Helga was even a year older than Kevin and two years older than me. She was very tall and smart and beautiful and became an engineer, graduating from SUNY Buffalo.
This was the first summer after I graduated high school. Barbara had gone to college but actually quit to come back home because she missed her family and she missed me. So there I was during my senior year of high school and my girlfriend, who was a year older and was so in love with me for odd reasons of her own, really cramped what should have been my wild days. Of course, I continued to date her all the way through my senior year of college, on and off, so I could pretend I was straight. Poor thing, she was so used and I think I pretty much destroyed her life. She eventually made it to the local college and ultimately graduated from The University of Connecticut and became an English teacher. After I completely succumbed to my gayness, she picked up the pieces of her life, married a cop who beat her, divorced him and then married a very sweet guy with an odd speech impediment.
I am sure everyone who came to work to visit me came there so they could steal shit. Especially my mother.
As far as playing quarters and pigging out goes. Yeah, we did that.
As far as outrageous sex goes. Sure, why not.
As far as it being our one year and two day anniversary of losing our virginity, yeah, that too. Sweet, really, in a twisted way.
I can only say this: For me, it was probably closer to my six year anniversary of losing my virginity. But that anniversary was the loss of my virginity that dared not speak its name.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
August 16, 1974
I swam at Devils Ditch and I swam at a swimming whole in hillburn. All Sally’s friends came over tonight. They ate everything. Well I’m going to sleep now. Well Goodnight.
At the end of my street where I grew up was the Ramapo River. A bit polluted, but we swam in it anyway. Six blocks south of my street, downriver and over the state line into New Jersey was Devils Ditch, our swimming hole. It was actually a very deep spot in the river and it had a rope swing. I spent many days there with my friends swimming, making fires, even camping.
I can barely remember the swimming hole in Hillburn, a couple miles upstream, though I think it was more of a rocky ledge near a turn in the Ramapo River with a gravel island not far from the river bank. The space between the ledge and the island was the swimming hole. I think I was only ever there this one time. What I most remember about it was the time of day. Early Evening. It was secluded and had a bit of the open nature idyll to it. I remember always feeling embarrassed that I liked the feel of things more than the activity of the event.
Sally is my sister. I have no idea what her friends ate.
At the end of my street where I grew up was the Ramapo River. A bit polluted, but we swam in it anyway. Six blocks south of my street, downriver and over the state line into New Jersey was Devils Ditch, our swimming hole. It was actually a very deep spot in the river and it had a rope swing. I spent many days there with my friends swimming, making fires, even camping.
I can barely remember the swimming hole in Hillburn, a couple miles upstream, though I think it was more of a rocky ledge near a turn in the Ramapo River with a gravel island not far from the river bank. The space between the ledge and the island was the swimming hole. I think I was only ever there this one time. What I most remember about it was the time of day. Early Evening. It was secluded and had a bit of the open nature idyll to it. I remember always feeling embarrassed that I liked the feel of things more than the activity of the event.
Sally is my sister. I have no idea what her friends ate.
Monday, August 15, 2005
Malibu Convergence with T.D.
Sometimes, life throws you big lips and you just have to take them.
So, this afternoon, I was at an intimate party at my friend’s house.
Okay, Malibu Mansion. My friend is real low key and by a stroke of chance she became very wealthy and now lives looking out over the Pacific.
By chance, Taylor Dayne was there. Well, because she is a friend of my friend, which I didn’t know.
This is not so surprising in Los Angeles considering at any party, someone or other anywhere could show up. But what was surprising was, my friend decided that I was going to play the piano and Taylor Dayne was going to sing. This seemed like an okay idea to my friend since I’d been drafted into music provider in the past at her little get togethers to positive effect. But what my friend did not really take into account was that when this went down the last time, it was in a room full of middle aged actors of no great distinction who happened to like Billy Joel. But being optimistic, our hostess pressed Taylor and me into a little musical act.
This was not a great pairing. As Taylor sidled down onto the piano stool next to me, I told her I really didn’t know any music past 1980. I was a little nervous but also a little calm since, really, I actually don’t know Taylor Dayne’s music at all. Between her name and her album covers and my general mood in the Eighties, I was not listening to T.D.
But I had a vague feeling she was kind of rocky, bluesy, whatever. I darted into a song or two that I thought would work and she sort of looked at me like I had no beat. Which I don’t. I’m more of a chords and melody kind of medium to slow ballad guy. I can’t turn the piano into a drum. And Taylor, who you could feel definitely has the music in her in a huge way, was of course, way out of my league.
So after some definite failures at trying things like For All We Know by K. Carpenter, This Masquerade, some Stevie Wonder thing, A Case of You by Joni, all songs Taylor picked among my cutting edge offerings, the magic just wasn’t brewing. As soon as we would start into a song, T.D. didn't catch the vibe and so she'd sort of subtly peter out and let the focus be more on her energetic child. Which was actually pretty sweet. So her kid would take the mike and fool around and the unrealized moments would pass.
But the focus in the room was unwavering if not even a bit tense. People wanted to hear T.D. sing. Our hostess was really behind it. And I was the band. I had no idea when I woke up this morning that this would be going down or else I would have gone out and bought some sheet music to one of her hits, right?
Finally, I directly lobbied for You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman in order to get this thing done. And it worked. She sang pretty much the whole song. T.D. was cool enough to give the little party a taste and to hang in there with me until something got some real life in it. She went hard on the song. She has an ass kicking voice. And I banged out backup.
It was absolutely ridiculous. Yet, Taylor Dayne, in her grizzled, lumpy, earthy middle age, was totally chill, cared more about her kid than herself and was happy to put up with my 1970’s Bass and Plunk chord slamming that is the extent of my virtuosity in order to give away a good little piece of herself for the sake of others. This experience reflects one of the balancing marvels of the social contract within the human condition: Our hostess made everyone happy by making everyone just a little bit miserable.
This experience also suggests: You can be Taylor Dayne, but one day, you may just have to sing along with me.
So, this afternoon, I was at an intimate party at my friend’s house.
Okay, Malibu Mansion. My friend is real low key and by a stroke of chance she became very wealthy and now lives looking out over the Pacific.
By chance, Taylor Dayne was there. Well, because she is a friend of my friend, which I didn’t know.
This is not so surprising in Los Angeles considering at any party, someone or other anywhere could show up. But what was surprising was, my friend decided that I was going to play the piano and Taylor Dayne was going to sing. This seemed like an okay idea to my friend since I’d been drafted into music provider in the past at her little get togethers to positive effect. But what my friend did not really take into account was that when this went down the last time, it was in a room full of middle aged actors of no great distinction who happened to like Billy Joel. But being optimistic, our hostess pressed Taylor and me into a little musical act.
This was not a great pairing. As Taylor sidled down onto the piano stool next to me, I told her I really didn’t know any music past 1980. I was a little nervous but also a little calm since, really, I actually don’t know Taylor Dayne’s music at all. Between her name and her album covers and my general mood in the Eighties, I was not listening to T.D.
But I had a vague feeling she was kind of rocky, bluesy, whatever. I darted into a song or two that I thought would work and she sort of looked at me like I had no beat. Which I don’t. I’m more of a chords and melody kind of medium to slow ballad guy. I can’t turn the piano into a drum. And Taylor, who you could feel definitely has the music in her in a huge way, was of course, way out of my league.
So after some definite failures at trying things like For All We Know by K. Carpenter, This Masquerade, some Stevie Wonder thing, A Case of You by Joni, all songs Taylor picked among my cutting edge offerings, the magic just wasn’t brewing. As soon as we would start into a song, T.D. didn't catch the vibe and so she'd sort of subtly peter out and let the focus be more on her energetic child. Which was actually pretty sweet. So her kid would take the mike and fool around and the unrealized moments would pass.
But the focus in the room was unwavering if not even a bit tense. People wanted to hear T.D. sing. Our hostess was really behind it. And I was the band. I had no idea when I woke up this morning that this would be going down or else I would have gone out and bought some sheet music to one of her hits, right?
Finally, I directly lobbied for You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman in order to get this thing done. And it worked. She sang pretty much the whole song. T.D. was cool enough to give the little party a taste and to hang in there with me until something got some real life in it. She went hard on the song. She has an ass kicking voice. And I banged out backup.
It was absolutely ridiculous. Yet, Taylor Dayne, in her grizzled, lumpy, earthy middle age, was totally chill, cared more about her kid than herself and was happy to put up with my 1970’s Bass and Plunk chord slamming that is the extent of my virtuosity in order to give away a good little piece of herself for the sake of others. This experience reflects one of the balancing marvels of the social contract within the human condition: Our hostess made everyone happy by making everyone just a little bit miserable.
This experience also suggests: You can be Taylor Dayne, but one day, you may just have to sing along with me.
Friday, August 12, 2005
The Aristocracy Does not Live in Silverlake
Last night, due to circumstances beyond our control, a midweek party erupted in Silver Lake. The next thing you know, the subject of the American Aristocracy erupted.
Now, it's interesting that all it takes is Cindy Sheehan sitting outside of Bush's duchy for people to really start getting it on a personal level:
Bush and his greasy pals are oil hungry. And they'll kill whoever is in their way to get what they want.
But then, you start to realize, these Bush people are American aristocracy. Sure, Georgie plays the humble cowboy with the bad diction and the staunch religious swagger, but really, it's all show. The aristocracy, always, has been a bunch of actors. Like the court during the era of Louis XIV, these people dressed up, lied, did whatever it took to get whatever they could.
But after the cobwebs of the midweek party clear, and the sun comes up over Silver Lake and I crawl off the overly tufted divan to my car and drive home in the 6AM traffic on Sunset Boulevard and my fan belt breaks and whips the underside of the chassis but I roll to the curb of my house without incident and say to myself, "Fucking cars, I hate them all," I then start to wonder: Is having an aristocracy really avoidable?
Doesn't every country have one? How many French families really do get to send their intelligent offspring to L'Ecole Nationale d'Administration, (ENA) whose alumni pretty much run the grande nation of egalité?
Do we, all tribes on earth, rely on the aristocracy to do our filthy bidding? Do we allow for a severe pecking order, giving the richest families access to the military so they can go get the stuff that we need to live on? And in return for their services of murder and acquisition, do we perhaps allow them to make (steal) enormous sums of money to further entrench and strengthen their positions in business, so they may continue to maintain a steady bargaining power in the world, which in turn brings to our shores monstrous booty?
And can you blame people who have always had everything for aspiring to squeeze the last billions of dollars they can out of the oil business before they have to actually trudge into some other energy business that scares them, since they don’t know what that business is yet?
To me, the question is not, how could this FUCKING SELFISH IDIOT be our president.
To me, the question is, why do we love the aristocracy and why are we willing to let them lead us blindly? Or, at least, half of us...which is enough, apparently, to get the job done.
Good luck, Cindy Sheehan. The greed and mendacity you face is greater than that which exists in one wretched, exercise obsessed vacationer in Texas.
Now, it's interesting that all it takes is Cindy Sheehan sitting outside of Bush's duchy for people to really start getting it on a personal level:
Bush and his greasy pals are oil hungry. And they'll kill whoever is in their way to get what they want.
But then, you start to realize, these Bush people are American aristocracy. Sure, Georgie plays the humble cowboy with the bad diction and the staunch religious swagger, but really, it's all show. The aristocracy, always, has been a bunch of actors. Like the court during the era of Louis XIV, these people dressed up, lied, did whatever it took to get whatever they could.
But after the cobwebs of the midweek party clear, and the sun comes up over Silver Lake and I crawl off the overly tufted divan to my car and drive home in the 6AM traffic on Sunset Boulevard and my fan belt breaks and whips the underside of the chassis but I roll to the curb of my house without incident and say to myself, "Fucking cars, I hate them all," I then start to wonder: Is having an aristocracy really avoidable?
Doesn't every country have one? How many French families really do get to send their intelligent offspring to L'Ecole Nationale d'Administration, (ENA) whose alumni pretty much run the grande nation of egalité?
Do we, all tribes on earth, rely on the aristocracy to do our filthy bidding? Do we allow for a severe pecking order, giving the richest families access to the military so they can go get the stuff that we need to live on? And in return for their services of murder and acquisition, do we perhaps allow them to make (steal) enormous sums of money to further entrench and strengthen their positions in business, so they may continue to maintain a steady bargaining power in the world, which in turn brings to our shores monstrous booty?
And can you blame people who have always had everything for aspiring to squeeze the last billions of dollars they can out of the oil business before they have to actually trudge into some other energy business that scares them, since they don’t know what that business is yet?
To me, the question is not, how could this FUCKING SELFISH IDIOT be our president.
To me, the question is, why do we love the aristocracy and why are we willing to let them lead us blindly? Or, at least, half of us...which is enough, apparently, to get the job done.
Good luck, Cindy Sheehan. The greed and mendacity you face is greater than that which exists in one wretched, exercise obsessed vacationer in Texas.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Let the Sun Shine
My Friend, Dan, has your back. He works for the power company and now this:
News Release
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
www.edisonnews.com
Major New Solar Energy Project Announced By Southern California Edison and Stirling Energy Systems, Inc.
ROSEMEAD, Calif., Aug. 9, 2005—Edison International (NYSE:EIX) subsidiary Southern California Edison (SCE), the nation’s leading purchaser of renewable energy, and Stirling Energy Systems today announced an agreement that could result in construction of a massive, 4,500-acre solar generating station in Southern California. When completed, the proposed power station would be the world’s largest solar facility, capable of producing more electricity than all other U.S. solar projects combined.
The 20-year power purchase agreement signed today, which is subject to California Public Utilities Commission approval, calls for development of a 500-megawatt (MW) solar project 70 miles northeast of Los Angeles using innovative Stirling dish technology. The agreement includes an option to expand the project to 850 MW. Initially, Stirling would build a one-MW test facility using 40 of the company’s 37-foot-diameter dish assemblies. Subsequently, a 20,000-dish array would be constructed near Victorville, Calif., during a four-year period.
“At a time of rising fossil-fuel costs and increased concern about greenhouse-gas emissions, the Stirling project would provide enough clean power to serve 278,000 homes for an entire year,” said SCE Chairman John Bryson. “Edison is committed to facilitating development of new, environmentally sensitive, renewable energy technologies to meet the growing demand for electricity here and throughout the U.S.”
Although Stirling dish technology has been successfully tested for 20 years, the SCE-Stirling project represents its first major application in the commercial electricity generation field. Experimental models of the Stirling dish technology have undergone more than 26,000 hours of successful solar operation. A six-dish model Stirling power project is currently operating at the Sandia National Laboratories in Albuquerque, New Mexico.
“We are especially pleased about the financial benefits of this agreement for our customers and the state,” said Alan Fohrer, SCE chief executive officer. “The contract requires no state subsidy and provides favorable pricing for ratepayers because tests have shown the Stirling dish technology can produce electricity at significantly lower costs than other solar technologies.”
- MORE -
SCE-STIRLING SOLAR CONTRACT ANNOUNCED
Page 2 of 2
How It Works
The Stirling dish technology converts thermal energy to electricity by using a mirror array to focus the sun’s rays on the receiver end of a Stirling engine. The internal side of the receiver then heats hydrogen gas which expands. The pressure created by the expanding gas drives a piston, crank shaft, and drive shaft assembly much like those found in internal combustion engines but without igniting the gas. The drive shaft turns a small electricity generator. The entire energy conversion process takes place within a canister the size of an oil barrel. The process requires no water and the engine is emission-free.
Comparison to Other Solar Technologies
Tests conducted by SCE and the Sandia National Laboratories have shown that the Stirling dish technology is almost twice as efficient as other solar technologies. These include parabolic troughs which use the sun’s heat to create steam that drives turbines similar to those found in conventional power plants, and photovoltaic cells which convert sunlight directly into electricity by means of semiconducting materials like those found in computer chips.
News Release
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
www.edisonnews.com
Major New Solar Energy Project Announced By Southern California Edison and Stirling Energy Systems, Inc.
ROSEMEAD, Calif., Aug. 9, 2005—Edison International (NYSE:EIX) subsidiary Southern California Edison (SCE), the nation’s leading purchaser of renewable energy, and Stirling Energy Systems today announced an agreement that could result in construction of a massive, 4,500-acre solar generating station in Southern California. When completed, the proposed power station would be the world’s largest solar facility, capable of producing more electricity than all other U.S. solar projects combined.
The 20-year power purchase agreement signed today, which is subject to California Public Utilities Commission approval, calls for development of a 500-megawatt (MW) solar project 70 miles northeast of Los Angeles using innovative Stirling dish technology. The agreement includes an option to expand the project to 850 MW. Initially, Stirling would build a one-MW test facility using 40 of the company’s 37-foot-diameter dish assemblies. Subsequently, a 20,000-dish array would be constructed near Victorville, Calif., during a four-year period.
“At a time of rising fossil-fuel costs and increased concern about greenhouse-gas emissions, the Stirling project would provide enough clean power to serve 278,000 homes for an entire year,” said SCE Chairman John Bryson. “Edison is committed to facilitating development of new, environmentally sensitive, renewable energy technologies to meet the growing demand for electricity here and throughout the U.S.”
Although Stirling dish technology has been successfully tested for 20 years, the SCE-Stirling project represents its first major application in the commercial electricity generation field. Experimental models of the Stirling dish technology have undergone more than 26,000 hours of successful solar operation. A six-dish model Stirling power project is currently operating at the Sandia National Laboratories in Albuquerque, New Mexico.
“We are especially pleased about the financial benefits of this agreement for our customers and the state,” said Alan Fohrer, SCE chief executive officer. “The contract requires no state subsidy and provides favorable pricing for ratepayers because tests have shown the Stirling dish technology can produce electricity at significantly lower costs than other solar technologies.”
- MORE -
SCE-STIRLING SOLAR CONTRACT ANNOUNCED
Page 2 of 2
How It Works
The Stirling dish technology converts thermal energy to electricity by using a mirror array to focus the sun’s rays on the receiver end of a Stirling engine. The internal side of the receiver then heats hydrogen gas which expands. The pressure created by the expanding gas drives a piston, crank shaft, and drive shaft assembly much like those found in internal combustion engines but without igniting the gas. The drive shaft turns a small electricity generator. The entire energy conversion process takes place within a canister the size of an oil barrel. The process requires no water and the engine is emission-free.
Comparison to Other Solar Technologies
Tests conducted by SCE and the Sandia National Laboratories have shown that the Stirling dish technology is almost twice as efficient as other solar technologies. These include parabolic troughs which use the sun’s heat to create steam that drives turbines similar to those found in conventional power plants, and photovoltaic cells which convert sunlight directly into electricity by means of semiconducting materials like those found in computer chips.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Sonic Boom
*54
This morning at 5:12, I was awakened by what I assumed was an earthquake. There was a huge noise in my backyard that sounded to me as if a 727's waste tank had fallen from the sky and landed on the grass.
The house shook, including the windows. I got out of bed, walked into the office and wrote down on a pad, "Earthquake, 5:12." I always write things down on pads at all times of day...
I went back to bed a bit shaken. Because earthquakes are kind of upsetting.
When my California sanctioned domestic partner, Adam, got out of bed at about 8:30, I asked him, "Honey, look online. It felt like a 5.2"
Though I sleep like the dead...truly, worms eat me while I sleep...I always wake up for oncoming earthquakes. I have some sort of reptilian medulla thing that alerts my cerebral cortex and I become completely alert.
Adam looked online and told me it was the Discovery landing. The sonic boom was my earthquake.
It must be very intense to be in the space shuttle.
Monday, August 08, 2005
Crawl, Hillary, Crawl to the Middle!
*53
So, she's going to win again, as senator of New York State in 2006. No sweat.
And it does look like she's getting ready for a presidential run in 2008. Seems to me. Maybe 2012? She'll still be young enough.
And she's doing what she has to do. The slog to the middle. Do it, girl. Do it hard.
In this day and age, when the fight over what is Left and what is Right just won't quit, a real Centrist is what is needed. As we all know, the two system party is set up to push things to the middle. And as Hillary rides the wave there, it's impossible to blame her wet ass. The system forces it.
Apparently, Bill Clinton was further to the Right than Dick Nixon.
It's not the people, people, it's the times!
Of course, the Right is already vilifying Hillary as a Leftist wolf in Centrist sheep's clothes.
And Hillary, with that unflappable look in her big eyes, continues to increase her support as she articulates exactly why she takes the positions she takes in this current U.S.A.
I believe she can be our next president. I believe the United States of America is ready for Hillary Clinton, wife of the funnest, most smartest, bestest ex-president we've seen in forever.
Sunday, August 07, 2005
Blog Block
It happened.
I have nothing to blog.
I blog anyway.
What do you call a Scottish overweight, needy woman who only hangs out with gay men?
Faggus Haggis
And that, is what I have.
I have nothing to blog.
I blog anyway.
What do you call a Scottish overweight, needy woman who only hangs out with gay men?
Faggus Haggis
And that, is what I have.
Friday, August 05, 2005
New Yorkers Edit Los Angeles
Like big brothers who want to make sure their younger sibling does not embarrass them, the Los Angeles Times is now being edited by New Yorkers.
The Chicago Tribune, who owns the Los Angeles Times, is perfectly positioned in their corporate headquarters between the two largest cities in the country to promote literary homogeneity.
I loved that the Los Angeles Times was a little more homespun and definitely more sarcastic than The New York Times. It’s what made the Los Angeles Times, in my opinion, a much more enjoyable newspaper. Plus, having a California spin on the news is always more interesting, because, hey, here we are in California. And we Californians take things a little less seriously and we sort of, I don’t know, laugh at things sooner than we get all righteous.
Now that the editors have changed, the tone has gotten more somber. It’s just too bad.
But what’s even worse is the infusion of the same fucking vocabulary words I always have to look up when I’m reading The New Yorker. Don’t get me wrong. I love The New Yorker (and to a lesser extent The New York Times), but I’ve already spent the past year looking up words like hegemony, heuristic, ersatz and pseudonymous. And having a decent memory, I’ve learned the meanings of these words and would be very thankful to never have to see them again.
But there they are in my Los Angeles Times newspaper. Like that young man of yesteryear, must everything, “GO WEST?”
Will I wake up tomorrow and have to face the prolix terror of penumbra, apostasy and supererogation? And must I look up desultory just one more time before I die? And the dreaded spavined! It has something to do with a horse hock. I’ve read that word about twenty times this year in The New Yorker. I hate it for its overuse and now, I fear, it will end up in the Home Section of my Los Angeles Times.
It seems to me there is some awful editor king somewhere in midtown Manhattan who has a very large vocabulary, but a limited one, nevertheless. And this king, not happy to only lord it over The New York Times and The New Yorker, has aggressively acquired our little duchy of the Los Angeles Times. I would like, very much, for him to be deposed before I have to put up with riparian, demotic, exegesis, sui generis or fustian fluttering in my face while I try to read my cool, snarky L.A. Times and drink my morning herbal tea in peace.
The Chicago Tribune, who owns the Los Angeles Times, is perfectly positioned in their corporate headquarters between the two largest cities in the country to promote literary homogeneity.
I loved that the Los Angeles Times was a little more homespun and definitely more sarcastic than The New York Times. It’s what made the Los Angeles Times, in my opinion, a much more enjoyable newspaper. Plus, having a California spin on the news is always more interesting, because, hey, here we are in California. And we Californians take things a little less seriously and we sort of, I don’t know, laugh at things sooner than we get all righteous.
Now that the editors have changed, the tone has gotten more somber. It’s just too bad.
But what’s even worse is the infusion of the same fucking vocabulary words I always have to look up when I’m reading The New Yorker. Don’t get me wrong. I love The New Yorker (and to a lesser extent The New York Times), but I’ve already spent the past year looking up words like hegemony, heuristic, ersatz and pseudonymous. And having a decent memory, I’ve learned the meanings of these words and would be very thankful to never have to see them again.
But there they are in my Los Angeles Times newspaper. Like that young man of yesteryear, must everything, “GO WEST?”
Will I wake up tomorrow and have to face the prolix terror of penumbra, apostasy and supererogation? And must I look up desultory just one more time before I die? And the dreaded spavined! It has something to do with a horse hock. I’ve read that word about twenty times this year in The New Yorker. I hate it for its overuse and now, I fear, it will end up in the Home Section of my Los Angeles Times.
It seems to me there is some awful editor king somewhere in midtown Manhattan who has a very large vocabulary, but a limited one, nevertheless. And this king, not happy to only lord it over The New York Times and The New Yorker, has aggressively acquired our little duchy of the Los Angeles Times. I would like, very much, for him to be deposed before I have to put up with riparian, demotic, exegesis, sui generis or fustian fluttering in my face while I try to read my cool, snarky L.A. Times and drink my morning herbal tea in peace.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Evolution of a Bipedal Slime
George Bush's belief in intelligent design can be nothing more than wishful thinking.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
My Birthday August 3, 1974
My birthday
Well here I am at the house we’re renting for our vacation. It’s a nice house. It wasn’t bad weather and my diving mask works good. I didn’t try out my mit yet. I didn’t tell anyone this but this vacation sucks the moose. I wish I could have a vacation where you go to amusement parks, see different attractions, etc. But all we do when we come here is sit around and go swimming. I really do appreciate my mom and dad’s concern for me and everything. I left my pants in my locker at the clubhouse cause I was swimming. It had $4.00 in it and someone took it and replaced it with a penny. Boy was I mad. Daddy gave me $3.00 after that to make up for it. I appreciate it a lot.
We owned property in the Poconos...and we were building a house on it at the time. So we rented for the weekend in order to be able to have a vacation weekend. I remember it was actually a nice house, very close to the clubhouse.
I did not admit something in this diary entry. When I discovered that my $4.00 was stolen (birthday money from the day before), I got so upset that I started crying and couldn’t stop. I also remember my father being embarrassed that I was being such a crybaby. And, I remember when he only gave me $3.00 that it was sort of weird. Somehow, I think by withholding a dollar he was teaching me a lesson, like, I had to have a little pain to remember to not leave money in my pockets in an unlocked locker.
Obviously, too, the penny I found in my pocket was probably my penny. I cannot imagine someone taking $4.00 and then replacing it with a penny.
I remember, too, that I never liked the Poconos again after this experience. I felt that if there was a nice clubhouse, and it was actually quite nice with an indoor pool and a huge fireplace and ski lifts right outside, well, if such a nice place existed, they should not let bad kids in who would steal your money. I already had enough with bad kids. I didn’t need to deal with them at our vacation home, too. I knew I was leaving the money in my pocket when we went swimming, but I assumed it was safe because of where we were.
Also, I remember I only bought a mit because I was supposed to. It was actually blue. Remember when they made baseball mits in colors? I think I used the thing in summer camp because I had to. It was a silly mit but I was always proud to wear it. I was giving the signal to the world, “I only have this mit because I’m a boy and I have to have one. But I picked a cobalt blue one, so there.”
Well here I am at the house we’re renting for our vacation. It’s a nice house. It wasn’t bad weather and my diving mask works good. I didn’t try out my mit yet. I didn’t tell anyone this but this vacation sucks the moose. I wish I could have a vacation where you go to amusement parks, see different attractions, etc. But all we do when we come here is sit around and go swimming. I really do appreciate my mom and dad’s concern for me and everything. I left my pants in my locker at the clubhouse cause I was swimming. It had $4.00 in it and someone took it and replaced it with a penny. Boy was I mad. Daddy gave me $3.00 after that to make up for it. I appreciate it a lot.
We owned property in the Poconos...and we were building a house on it at the time. So we rented for the weekend in order to be able to have a vacation weekend. I remember it was actually a nice house, very close to the clubhouse.
I did not admit something in this diary entry. When I discovered that my $4.00 was stolen (birthday money from the day before), I got so upset that I started crying and couldn’t stop. I also remember my father being embarrassed that I was being such a crybaby. And, I remember when he only gave me $3.00 that it was sort of weird. Somehow, I think by withholding a dollar he was teaching me a lesson, like, I had to have a little pain to remember to not leave money in my pockets in an unlocked locker.
Obviously, too, the penny I found in my pocket was probably my penny. I cannot imagine someone taking $4.00 and then replacing it with a penny.
I remember, too, that I never liked the Poconos again after this experience. I felt that if there was a nice clubhouse, and it was actually quite nice with an indoor pool and a huge fireplace and ski lifts right outside, well, if such a nice place existed, they should not let bad kids in who would steal your money. I already had enough with bad kids. I didn’t need to deal with them at our vacation home, too. I knew I was leaving the money in my pocket when we went swimming, but I assumed it was safe because of where we were.
Also, I remember I only bought a mit because I was supposed to. It was actually blue. Remember when they made baseball mits in colors? I think I used the thing in summer camp because I had to. It was a silly mit but I was always proud to wear it. I was giving the signal to the world, “I only have this mit because I’m a boy and I have to have one. But I picked a cobalt blue one, so there.”
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Are You a Libertarian?
My sister-in-law directed me to this very simple sight that will help you determine if you are a Libertarian. (Thanks Rebecca) Apparently, though I wish I was one, I am not a Libertarian. I scored 80% on personal issues and 40% on economic issues for Liberal. This makes me a Liberal. On the graphed chart, I am close to Moderate. Hillary in 2008? Sure!
Take the forty-five second quiz:
Libertarian Quiz
Take the forty-five second quiz:
Libertarian Quiz
Monday, August 01, 2005
Dan at the Power Company and Other Dead Things
My friend Dan works at the power company and he sent me the article below.
It's a thrill to know that farmers are thinking about their waste. And interestingly, they are doing it on their own gas. No need for regulation. I guess a time comes when people are willing to change. Especially when energy and money are involved.
Perhaps I need to finally admit to being a Libertarian. I didn't want to be one, but I seem to be moving in that direction. People balk at regulation. Good ideas may really and truly follow if Libertarianism reigned.
The first thing I would do in a Libertarian society is to build an electricity generating incinerator for dead bodies. Why waste all these good dead bodies putting them in the ground or cremating them with nothing positive to gain from their slow or very fast decay? Why not a nice slow, steady burning of the dead so that we may have a net increase in kilo wattage?
The Cow Gas article from Dan at the Power Company:
Farmers get charge out of cow manure | Methane is converted into
electrical power
Anne Krueger
STAFF WRITER
© 2005 San Diego Union Tribune Publishing Company. Provided by ProQuest
Information and Learning. All Rights Reserved.
LAKESIDE -- Tons of cow manure won't be going to waste at the Van Ommering
dairy.
The family farm is the fifth in California -- and the first in San Diego
County -- to make use of a technology that converts the gases produced by
cow manure into electricity. Rob and Dave Van Ommering, two brothers who
operate the dairy, began running the equipment in March and say their most
recent electric bill was half the usual amount.
The $900,000 system, known as an anaerobic plug-flow digester, was
financed in part by a $244,000 state grant and a $150,000 federal grant.
Representatives from the state dairy industry and government agencies plan
to attend an unveiling at the Van Ommering dairy tomorrow.
Spurred by economics and environmental concerns, California is at the
forefront of building the devices that turn poop into power.
"If we can ever develop a market for this power, instead of having it go
up in the atmosphere, we can have the farmer get paid for the energy he's
producing," said Mark Marsh, who heads the nonprofit corporation
administering the state grants. "This would electrify a lot of homes in
California."
Fourteen dairies in California have received a total of $6 million in
grants to build the methane digesters. Only nine dairy farms outside the
state have them now, Marsh said.
With 500 cows at their Lakeside dairy, the Van Ommerings have plenty of
raw material for their digester. Each cow produces about 80 pounds of
waste each day, or almost 15 tons a year.
The manure is carted to a concrete-lined, 130-foot-long holding tank
covered with a polyethylene tarp. It stews for about 30 days while
bacteria creates a gas that is funneled to a generator producing more than
100 kilowatts of electricity, enough to power more than 100 homes.
Dave Van Ommering said a key to the operation is ensuring the manure is
maintained at about 100 degrees, the optimum temperature for the bacteria.
It puts a whole new spin on those California milk commercials featuring
happy cows.
"Instead of happy cows, we have happy microbes," he said, quickly adding
that his bovines are also contented.
The Van Ommerings are the second generation to run the Lakeside dairy;
their parents started the farm after emigrating from Holland 45 years ago.
It's one of seven dairies in San Diego County.
The process of getting the digester built took longer and cost more than
the Van Ommerings anticipated when their grant from the California Energy
Commission was accepted in December 2001.
Dave Van Ommering said he was interested in building a digester because he
felt dairy farmers will be facing increased environmental regulations.
Methane gas, created when manure decomposes, is a greenhouse gas that
affects the Earth's temperature and climate system.
Van Ommering said he started thinking about methane emissions after
hearing that scientists at the University of California Davis were
studying the amount of the gas produced by cows through belching and
flatulence -- "the front end and the back end" of the animal.
The digester seemed to offer an answer to some of those environmental
concerns. In addition to generating electricity, manure that goes through
a digester is less smelly and has fewer weed seeds, making it a more
desirable fertilizer.
"We knew that we had to change our operations," Van Ommering said.
The Van Ommerings had hoped to have the digester operating by September
2002 and had expected it to cost about $480,000. It took 2 1/2 years to
obtain county approval of their application. By then, the costs of
construction materials had risen, adding hundreds of thousands of dollars
to their expenses.
The energy produced by the methane digester is subtracted from the amount
of power the dairy purchases from San Diego Gas & Electric Co. The dairy
and the seven houses on the Van Ommerings' 200 acres consume about 80
kilowatt-hours of electricity, Rob Van Ommering said.
He estimated that the electricity savings will result in the digester
paying for itself within 15 years.
SDG&E is not required to pay for any excess electricity produced by the
digester beyond the needs of the dairy. That's a sore point for Marsh, who said California utilities fought legislative efforts to require that they
pay retail rates for the power.
"The utility gets the additional power for nothing," he said.
Anne Krueger: (619) 593-4962; anne.krueger@uniontrib.com
Cow gas for electricity. Dead bodies for electricity. Banana peels for electricity. Whatever it takes to get the FUCK out of that greasy mess called The Middle East.
Note to Dan: Thanks for the article. And, I only used the title for this entry because it sounded funny.
FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO AREN'T UP TO DATE WITH SIX FEET UNDER, STOP READING RIGHT HERE.
Scroll down a bit for those who have seen it.
Even though you just had to know that Nate was going down once they announced this was the last season, it was still so surprising when he dropped dead. When my grandmother had cancer, I knew she was going to die. It's never the same when they're dead as compared to the knowing it's coming, even a fictitious character on television.
The future:
Will David and Keith raise Maya?
Will Brenda have another miscarriage and then kill herself?
Will Clair end up an office drone?
What a show.
It's a thrill to know that farmers are thinking about their waste. And interestingly, they are doing it on their own gas. No need for regulation. I guess a time comes when people are willing to change. Especially when energy and money are involved.
Perhaps I need to finally admit to being a Libertarian. I didn't want to be one, but I seem to be moving in that direction. People balk at regulation. Good ideas may really and truly follow if Libertarianism reigned.
The first thing I would do in a Libertarian society is to build an electricity generating incinerator for dead bodies. Why waste all these good dead bodies putting them in the ground or cremating them with nothing positive to gain from their slow or very fast decay? Why not a nice slow, steady burning of the dead so that we may have a net increase in kilo wattage?
The Cow Gas article from Dan at the Power Company:
Farmers get charge out of cow manure | Methane is converted into
electrical power
Anne Krueger
STAFF WRITER
© 2005 San Diego Union Tribune Publishing Company. Provided by ProQuest
Information and Learning. All Rights Reserved.
LAKESIDE -- Tons of cow manure won't be going to waste at the Van Ommering
dairy.
The family farm is the fifth in California -- and the first in San Diego
County -- to make use of a technology that converts the gases produced by
cow manure into electricity. Rob and Dave Van Ommering, two brothers who
operate the dairy, began running the equipment in March and say their most
recent electric bill was half the usual amount.
The $900,000 system, known as an anaerobic plug-flow digester, was
financed in part by a $244,000 state grant and a $150,000 federal grant.
Representatives from the state dairy industry and government agencies plan
to attend an unveiling at the Van Ommering dairy tomorrow.
Spurred by economics and environmental concerns, California is at the
forefront of building the devices that turn poop into power.
"If we can ever develop a market for this power, instead of having it go
up in the atmosphere, we can have the farmer get paid for the energy he's
producing," said Mark Marsh, who heads the nonprofit corporation
administering the state grants. "This would electrify a lot of homes in
California."
Fourteen dairies in California have received a total of $6 million in
grants to build the methane digesters. Only nine dairy farms outside the
state have them now, Marsh said.
With 500 cows at their Lakeside dairy, the Van Ommerings have plenty of
raw material for their digester. Each cow produces about 80 pounds of
waste each day, or almost 15 tons a year.
The manure is carted to a concrete-lined, 130-foot-long holding tank
covered with a polyethylene tarp. It stews for about 30 days while
bacteria creates a gas that is funneled to a generator producing more than
100 kilowatts of electricity, enough to power more than 100 homes.
Dave Van Ommering said a key to the operation is ensuring the manure is
maintained at about 100 degrees, the optimum temperature for the bacteria.
It puts a whole new spin on those California milk commercials featuring
happy cows.
"Instead of happy cows, we have happy microbes," he said, quickly adding
that his bovines are also contented.
The Van Ommerings are the second generation to run the Lakeside dairy;
their parents started the farm after emigrating from Holland 45 years ago.
It's one of seven dairies in San Diego County.
The process of getting the digester built took longer and cost more than
the Van Ommerings anticipated when their grant from the California Energy
Commission was accepted in December 2001.
Dave Van Ommering said he was interested in building a digester because he
felt dairy farmers will be facing increased environmental regulations.
Methane gas, created when manure decomposes, is a greenhouse gas that
affects the Earth's temperature and climate system.
Van Ommering said he started thinking about methane emissions after
hearing that scientists at the University of California Davis were
studying the amount of the gas produced by cows through belching and
flatulence -- "the front end and the back end" of the animal.
The digester seemed to offer an answer to some of those environmental
concerns. In addition to generating electricity, manure that goes through
a digester is less smelly and has fewer weed seeds, making it a more
desirable fertilizer.
"We knew that we had to change our operations," Van Ommering said.
The Van Ommerings had hoped to have the digester operating by September
2002 and had expected it to cost about $480,000. It took 2 1/2 years to
obtain county approval of their application. By then, the costs of
construction materials had risen, adding hundreds of thousands of dollars
to their expenses.
The energy produced by the methane digester is subtracted from the amount
of power the dairy purchases from San Diego Gas & Electric Co. The dairy
and the seven houses on the Van Ommerings' 200 acres consume about 80
kilowatt-hours of electricity, Rob Van Ommering said.
He estimated that the electricity savings will result in the digester
paying for itself within 15 years.
SDG&E is not required to pay for any excess electricity produced by the
digester beyond the needs of the dairy. That's a sore point for Marsh, who said California utilities fought legislative efforts to require that they
pay retail rates for the power.
"The utility gets the additional power for nothing," he said.
Anne Krueger: (619) 593-4962; anne.krueger@uniontrib.com
Cow gas for electricity. Dead bodies for electricity. Banana peels for electricity. Whatever it takes to get the FUCK out of that greasy mess called The Middle East.
Note to Dan: Thanks for the article. And, I only used the title for this entry because it sounded funny.
FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO AREN'T UP TO DATE WITH SIX FEET UNDER, STOP READING RIGHT HERE.
Scroll down a bit for those who have seen it.
Even though you just had to know that Nate was going down once they announced this was the last season, it was still so surprising when he dropped dead. When my grandmother had cancer, I knew she was going to die. It's never the same when they're dead as compared to the knowing it's coming, even a fictitious character on television.
The future:
Will David and Keith raise Maya?
Will Brenda have another miscarriage and then kill herself?
Will Clair end up an office drone?
What a show.
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