My Dog is Old

If she is walking for a while, she is fine. But if she sits for a long time, and this is what she mostly does, when Louise begins her walk, she is very stiff. She is old. It happened last week. I love her so much and I cannot believe she is mortal.

But when the day comes and she dies, I will be so very happy that she came into our house and lived.

I am preparing myself for the inevitable.

And while time passes and I know, too, that my own future corpse is an absolute must, I am sad to accept that I had to live during an era ruled by bullies. Bullies in the Gulf, bullies at the border, bullies giving each other demeaning nicknames, bullies who understand their ego motives as the shimmering rays of God, bullies who are rapacious and terrifying, bullies in the wood pile. And they just have to know who you’re calling.

Our dog is so sweet. She came into our house in October of 2001 and she reminds us every day what it is to be a decent mammal.

What Does the Shadow Know?

Fresh comment from yesterday’s blog entry:

This is not new! All of this has been tried before, to wit....The Soviet Union, Nazi Germany and Japan and currently Red China.

Redistribution of wealth....your are nuts!



Now let’s use this as an example. Here is, most likely, a Right Wing person. Moniker: The Shadow. He found me on Robert Reich’s blog (in a comment from a friend of mine on that blog) and he popped over to me and lay in.

Look how righteous this person is. (S)he does not consider the facts of what I stated, which is no big deal, really. But what is interesting is the overreaction and righteous rage, using The Soviet Union and Nazi Germany as sledge hammers to my ideas. And if there are scared sheep around, I am sure they would listen to The Shadow. Soviets and Nazis are pretty scary to most Americans.

As far as the reference to Japan goes, I don’t quite get it. And Red China? Who says Red China any longer?

The final statement however, “Redistribution of wealth...you are nuts!” is really the one. First of all, redistribution of wealth happens every single day. The small wealth of average people gets kicked up to the hoovering wealth of rich people. And, as far as me being nuts goes, though this may be true, the attack on me as a person is the obvious tool of a righteous (wo)man. Sheep love to follow angry retort. It makes them feel alive, like they’re at a football game. So an attack by the righteous, again, keeps them on message. The believers on the Right side of our nation never waver from rage and righteousness.

Now, let’s use The Shadow’s method for our own gain, but with less emotion and more clarity, with an eye toward efficiency. We can simply say to the Shadow, “The Soviet Union and Nazi Germany were not efficient nations. The Soviets mismanaged the wealth of their entire populace and did not do anything to encourage incentive. Nazi Germany was SO inefficient, using the energy of the nation for expansionist war and genocide. Bad idea. As far as Japan and China are concerned, both of these nations have had varying degrees of success with their management of finances. Chinese citizens also efficiently know how to save money, which is reflected not only in their personal savings, but in the national psyche that has created a trade surplus. It is inefficient to use examples that have nothing to do with the efficient use of hard earned American dollars.

It is quite inefficient to redistribute wealth to the wealthy since these are the people who do not need any more money. Thus, not only are average citizens inconvenienced and forced to live inefficient lives of overwork and organ stress (which costs the nation more money, thus more inefficiency) but the funnels set up to move the money upward is also inefficient, as the money is being forced there unnaturally since nature, in its normal state, tries to balance things out by diffusion (maximizing entropy) and does not concentrate energy by pumping it to an already highly energetic place.

It is an inefficient use of language to call someone nuts when there is no basis for such a label. Misusing labels is always a waste of time and energy.

So, we can see here, that staying on message, calmly, efficiently, with no heed to righteous rage other than showing how much more efficiently one can use one’s energy.

Efficiency: clear, bright and unwavering. This is what is needed. It is understood by everyone. It is not sloppy. It cuts to the bottom line. It removes the fog of fear. It empowers. It lets people know that they are cared for and that their money is not being wasted.

Let’s get things lean and functional.

The Efficiency Party

In the near future will be a presidential election. Even though we have a Constitution that divides things up, it is very apparent that people are animals and behave according to a pecking order with the president as head rooster. It’s disgusting, but then, so are chicken livers.

The president, as we have all witnessed much to our sadness, sets the tone for the country. What I love about our Constitution today, more than anything else, is that GWB cannot stay in the White House after January of 2009.

Lucky us.

After he goes back to hell, wouldn’t it be great to have a Democratic President? Sure, I’d accept a sane, Moderate Republican president, if it comes to that. But another Billy C. would be wonderful.
And since the Democrats cannot only stay on message, but can’t even find one, I suggest this: THE EFFICIENCY PARTY.

The Republicans have been THE RIGHTEOUS PARTY. And no matter what, they stay on message. They are right. End of story. It’s all a moral prerogative. They never answer opposition because they are always right. It’s actually a brilliant scheme. It is totally dismissive and moronic, but since people are sheep, this act of shepherd-hubris wins the days.

A strong Democratic leader could do the same thing. However, (s)he could choose a real approach that is germane to today’s real problems. The Democratic Party can be the PARTY OF EFFICIENCY. (Or pick a better synonym.) And in this global market, BOTH SIDES can’t help but love the idea of efficiency. Being efficient will make us lean. It will make us more competitive. And, it will make us cleaner, calmer, happier and richer. And everyone can get their brains around the very rational bottom line. No matter what anyone ever asks, the Democratic leader will have ironclad answers. The simplistic mantra of constant efficiency will always be the answer. Imagine this:

1. The government provides universal health coverage, because it is the most efficient use of tax dollars per person and will save everyone money on health care.

2. The government raises the minimum wage according to a respectable standard of living because then, workers will be able to make more efficient use of their time.

3. A national fund for the development of alternative fuels is in place because this will be the most efficient use of citizens’ tax dollars and will save money not only in the long run, but in the short run. And, it will remove us from the perils of dealing with corrupt, oil rich nations.

4. The Death Penalty is illegal, because this is the most efficient use of the nation’s tax dollars which, in the past, was wasted on appeals in such cases.

5. There is a national fund for campaigning. Tax dollars will be used efficiently in fair elections. Americans will not have to spend enormous sums to corporations in the hidden fees of retail in order to pay for corporate lobbyists.

6. All National Parks are to be forever protected. This is the most efficient use of these spaces as it will always be clear what their use is for and tax dollars will not be wasted in law suits to protect them. They will always be protected.

7. All preemptive war is illegal. Tax dollars should not be wasted on a hunch.

8. All people who work in this country right now are legal citizens. This will efficiently expedite their being part of this nation and so they can operate as legal citizens. No more wasted money on reforms. The borders will then be patrolled. And, we will put political force upon Mexico to normalize the terrible class discrepancies in their country.

9. We will normalize the terrible class discrepancies in this country. CEO’s and other top executives of large companies must have salary, bonus, exit fee and stock option caps. It is inefficient for a society to endlessly kick upward to a corporate goon.

10. Public transportation will be the number one national budgetary item. This will provide the most efficient use of resources and will efficiently improve the moods of Americans as they are able to enjoy the company of their fellow travelers.


Everyone appreciates the efficient use of time, resources, money and land. If you like the idea of efficiency, spread it around. We, as Democrats, need to do our part to help the leaders with their message. And since we ARE Democrats, what better place for the message to come from: us.

Splashy Flick

It opened. Shelley’s body is barely cold...and here it is.

Poseidon.

I wonder why they did it. Is it really just remakes from now until the end of time?

The Mann’s Chinese Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard had its first screening tonight at 10. So we went. It wasn’t an event. The place was about 10% filled.

I mean, the movie is awful. If you are talking about script.

And the acting is just, whatever.

But the design of it. The fear of it. The water always coming at them. The suspense. The filming. The effects.
Honestly, it’s quite a good ride and we were entertained, with adrenalin rushing through our arteries almost the entire time.

But the poor waterlogged actors. The unknowns, well, they had to do it. But you get the sense that the known ones didn’t have much else going on. Kevin Dillon played the bad boy. He doesn’t last long. Kurt Russell is the big hero. His character was once the mayor of New York---a cheesy nod to Giuliani in a crisis. Richard Dreyfuss got an “And” credit at the beginning of the movie. He plays the old guy, but in this movie, he’s gay and sports a diamond stud earring. It’s just ludicrous, but he soldiers through it. I imagine he must have insisted when he agreed to do this role, “I’ll be in the Poseidon remake only if I don’t have to die in it.”

Hispanic actors are done away with quite harshly. The absolute survival aspect is what this movie is all about. And it’s rough and it’s hard and the pretty people (but not too pretty) that survive, well, they’re pretty.

I somehow appreciated the lack of character. It helped to point up the base survival instinct of human beings. So Das Boot.

The original Poseidon Adventure was about thirty times better. I mean, the cast alone. Come on. Shelley who, “In the water was a very skinny lady.” And the amazing Stella Stevens and Ernest Borgnine. And Gene Hackman, no less. Jack Albertson as the hang-dog Manny. And frigging Red Buttons. There just HAD to be a morning after.

I’d say, rent The Poseidon Adventure and then go see Poseidon and trace the plot connections. This remake is somehow scarier, what with its 9/11 disaster overtones (and a crucifix that saves the day). But the original movie, of course, is the one.

Leaving Los Angeles

I vowed today that I will not stay in Los Angeles any longer than necessary.

I drove from Marina Del Rey to North Hollywood.

It took almost two hours.

For those who don't know LA, it's about a twenty mile trip.
I mapped it on Yahoo Driving Directions. According to them, it should take twenty-one minutes. And true, it would take twenty-one minutes at 4AM.

And even at Rush hour, I'd be okay with forty minutes.

But close to two hours???

Why would anyone live like this?

The Split

I have been in this mode lately. The "Get it out there" mode. This includes passing my days with phone calls, the organization of production, emails, drinks with "people" and a general attitude of a salesman/entrepreneur.

I don't mind it.

In fact, it puts me in the world in a very active way. I actually think it improves my mood.

However

When does one find the time to write when one is hopping around town sucking down red wine and chatting with producers and directors and other writers?

Balance it out. Must find a way.

Wouldn't Thursdays and Fridays be great days to write?

Paint and the Stubborn Jesus Fetishists

1) My Recognized-by-the-State-of-California-Domestic-Partner and I, Adam, painted our two front rooms over the past four days. It was purely maintenance. The old plaster walls were cracking in many places. The original paint job was eight years old. It was time. I like doing very physical work. It feels good for the body and the mind.

2) I applaud Christianity, and other very organized religions, for bearing the brunt of the load for helping people realize they can choose which aspects of their animal behaviors to enhance. Without any real Science, some people figured out that by repeating certain thoughts and rituals, they could train themselves to be kinder, more generous mammals. Must be good for the species. (It is interesting to note there are not many religions organized around ancient philosophers who were NOT charismatic. People like the charismatic, a reflection of the vanity of the crowd with a good dose of sheep mentality.) The Modern Era brought us psychology and the idea that an animal could better its behavior by using thought and ritual, (but not centered around a charismatic leader) is a very intelligent and interesting freedom. One can be in charge of oneself. And of course, this will all keep evolving. Why don't the religionists want to move forward?

Conventional Wisdom Faced Down

1) I am not afraid of China. They are expanding too fast and they do not have a good system of government. They will collapse.

2) So many Christians are insane. However, perhaps they would be even more insane if they didn't have Christianity holding them together.

A Friday Blog

Hungover.

I will offer this, however. Sarah Schultz, from the old days, is here visiting her brother in Redondo Beach. She visits her brother a couple of times each year and during each trip usually comes here for a day and a night. Since Redondo Beach is on the Green Line and I live on the Red Line, she took public transportation (Green to Blue to Red) to get here yesterday. She particularly enjoyed waiting under the Freeway in Compton for the transfer to the Blue. It took an hour and a half. Let's pick up the pace, MTA.

When in LA

I'm So Pumped

Gas prices are high.

And guess what?

Traffic has decreased. Driving around Los Angeles during the past three days has been like time travel: to a former era when there were fewer people on earth.

These are joyous times.

Raise the prices! Raise the prices! I won't be happy until gasoline is $5.00 per gallon. Then, each time someone takes a trip, they'll really have to think about whether it's worth it.

You know what I want to hear every day, as often as possible?
"Where's the bus stop?"

May 3, 1974

I went to this thing called mini courses. I took a course on making movies. We got some real fags in that group. We will make cartoons and everything. Goodnight.

This was Sixth Grade. I remember, this little class was taught by Mrs. Dowler, the school librarian (who was also my reading teacher who had us read Newberry award books and gave us a shiny star for each one read on a big piece of public oak tag. Kind of silly for Sixth Grade. But alas, it did encourage people to read. Wrinkle in Time. From the Mixed Up Files..., Miracle on Maple Hill, It's Like This Cat, Etc.)

So, this mini course took place over four Friday afternoons, or something like that. There were about eight kids in the group. We all made plans for our movies, little outlines. Eventually, when it came time to actually write and make the movies, the other kids lost interest (and there was no grade for this class) and I was the only kid who actually wrote one. It was about a lemon-aide stand. When customers came and drank the juice, they would fall down and then come back up as a monster. The monster was literally a warty, green Halloween mask. Richie Brown, the handsome and hip future football star, played the role of the lemon-aide salesman. He was a great actor and I was so glad to be filming him there on the front lawn of Washington Avenue Elementary School in Suffern, New York. The movie ended with Richie wondering why everyone he sold the lemon-aide to was turning into monsters. So, he drank some of his own product, fell down, came back up with the Halloween mask on and then ran off as a monster. He actually played the monster better than anyone else. The End.

We shot the whole thing. The only thing the little class ever did was shoot this one film, such genius that it was. Mrs. Dowler sent it off to have the film processed. We all couldn't wait to see how it turned out. Mrs. Dowler said the film didn't develop correctly. We did something wrong during the shooting. And she had no idea what it was. I guess we had some sort of aperture set incorrectly. I was very annoyed with her and wondered how someone could teach a course and completely mess it up.

Blue Monday

I did not wear my onesie today. I had a lot of errands and appointments and things. And, I just couldn't bear to have to answer to a whole bunch of people about my new religion.

There's something about the onesie. That single zipper. Being all naked inside and just knowing there's only this silly bag of denim between you and the world.

The simplicity of wearing a skin that has the same overall shape as your own.

Maybe I'll wear my onesie to bed.

Am I looking for mother's milk?

Is it an odd tribute to Barry Gibb?

Oh Onesie, what are you, really, to me?

Walking in a Winning Onesie-Land

So much in the newspapers lately about Cuba.
Shouldn’t we be happy there is a nation in the Western World that is committed to consuming less?

I have had this desire for many years to give up my clothing and spend my life in a series of jumpsuits. Coveralls, if you will. My good friend Dan had the nerve and follow through to get on Ebay and purchase a couple. He showed up in his at Jeff’s (his brother) for dinner. He brought me mine. I was so excited, I wanted to split my pants. Thank you Jeff, for the delicious chicken.

I couldn’t wear my jumpsuit last night, as it wasn’t yet washed and had the rough feeling of a tarp. But today, after two washings, I donned my hard denim gas-station man outfit and went out into the world.

First stop: House Warming/Meet our freshly adopted son at the lovely home of a very skinny gay couple in Beachwood Canyon. It was one thing when all my straight friends over forty were having children. Now the gay ones, well into their forties, are procuring little brown ones. My suit was met mostly with indifference (How dare these parties be about children instead of about me?) I received a warm compliment from the fabulous actress, Amy Hill. We both loved the lemon parfait desserts. While very thin, well dressed gay men ran after their chicly clad children or carried them around like the latest Gucci bag they received at a Hollywood Swag give-away, I stood motionless in my onesie, wondering if someone would dare ask to change my diaper. Mostly, I was asked to change the oil in people’s cars.

After this event, and don’t get me wrong, I do love children and I hope gay people keep having them, we went to my Recognized-by-the-State-of-California-Domestic-Partner, Adam’s, book club. These are very old friends. All of them straight (Okay, one of them is into Trannies) and there were two little girls enjoying themselves on the carpet. These loyal friends loved the onesie. But then, they understand my ironic clothing choices, my loathing of convention and my need for attention. They are used to me trying on ridiculous get-ups, the scary tight bathing suit, the occasional fright wig.

And though I do like a lot of variety in living, I also long to keep things simple. My onesie is a stab in that direction.

We must simplify. On the subject of global warming: the last time the earth heated up like this, after a while, the ocean currents really did change. When the currents changed, 95% of all living things on the earth became extinct.

Onesie, anyone?

Four Bits

When I started blogging about sixteen months ago...I started a small envelope called “blog” and if I got an idea, I would scratch it down onto a piece of paper and put it in there. They’ve been forgotten. But here are four of them:

1) People always freak out when you use the incorrect gender pronoun for their pet. “He’s a he. A He.”

2) God is a patriarchal fantasy people put into the sky so they never have to grow up.

3) Addiction is a nice way of saying, “I won’t bother you if you won’t bother me.”

4) The absolute strongest exploit the fear of death for their material gain.

What is The Meatrix?

The Meatrix

Blog Under Siege: Summer Entry Riles a Corporate PR Guy?

Check out this old blog entry and the comments thread. Someone is coming after me. Who is it? Medco? A Gen X Born-Again crusader for the status-quo?

Please weigh in. Calling all sleuths!

Old Entry Gets Attacked

I Love Rats

This is my last day in New York City for a bit, and I decided to spend it alone, in full relationship to only my surroundings. Very interesting.

First of all, we have a maid in Los Angeles. We do not, naturally, in our part-time abode in Jackson Heights. This meant that I had to clean this little place since I am leaving tomorrow. What an experience. It took four hours. It was so much fun. Windowsills and the bathroom and the floors and the table tops. How fascinating. I think being a maid would be very satisfying. You clean it, you see the results, you get paid, you go home and you just have some fun.

After the frenzy, I went into town to peruse the writing books at the Drama Book Shop. It’s on 40th Street now. Hanging in a bookstore is my idea of heaven.

So there I was, it was 8PM and I was very hungry. So I sauntered down Eighth Avenue and had dinner at The Viceroy in Chelsea, a sort of bar/restaurant. I picked it because it was lively but not too much of a scene. My good friend, Sarah Schultz, called and we talked while I cradled the cell phone between my ear and my shoulder while cutting steak and drinking red wine. She is upset because her brother has another tumor in his head. He seems to get these things. They take them out. He lives. But still. Tumors in the head are kind of awful.

I was in that restaurant, and after I hung up (better for the wear, since conversations of any kind always enliven me), I realized that I was a bit nervous. Sort of alone in New York. No one likes to sit alone in a restaurant at night. Lunch is one thing. Dinner, something else. It struck a bit of the insecurity in me. Whatever. It was time to get on the F train and head back to Queens. I was walking East on 23rd Street, headed for the F train, when I came upon the Chelsea Hotel. I had seen an ad in a gay magazine that announced their “massage night” in the bar called Serena in the basement. It’s all about gay guys and professional massage therapists and other kinds of healers hawking their trade and booze. And as I approached, some guy handed me a flyer for the event. I thought, “Sounds good. I love massage. And I’m definitely gay. Plus, I could use a little healing.”

I went down the basement steps. There is a thrill one gets when walking down basement steps in New York City. They seem to bring out the possibilities of life. After I pounded down another glass of wine and talked to some tenor from Brooklyn who was doing his best to flirt, etc., he introduced me to Simon, the Core Energy Healing certified Vortex Healer. The Brooklyn tenor said, “Simon is amazing. You have to try him sometime.” With an eye toward healing and a desire to get away from the tenor, I said, “Why don’t I try him right now?”

What an amazing experience. It was sort of like acupuncture. There was this weird experience where I felt all sorts of energy flow going through my body. And my heart opened up. And my joy returned to me. I had told Simon at the beginning that I wanted to work on my “Ability to attract the right kind of people to my writing so my work will find a place in the world.” After the session, Simon said that my heart chakra was blocked and he opened it. I think this is true. He also said that my career blocks were odd. Most people have a big block. Mine was more like lots of little shards that scattered me. Okay. And lastly, Simon said, “You have to stop apologizing for your writing.”

Interesting.

When in New York, see what Simon has to say. His work is amazing. He sucks the bad energy right out of you through your head and blows it away. Assisi4@aol.com.

I had to just sit and revel in my newfound centeredness. I had another glass of wine while all sorts of men in their underwear were getting rub-downs. It was surreal, yet oddly perfect. It started getting late and Chris from Ecuador was starting to get a wee-bit too friendly. I put on my black-track-jack and I went down to the subway platform all vortex-healed and I saw the loveliest little rat. (S)He was busy just poking along the track, sniffing, checking out what was what. This delightful rat had the look in its eye like any sweet mammal, similar to my pooch, Louise, and I have to say, I just loved the little filthy beast. I think my heart chakra is way open. I am so happy.

Jersey Boys

Okay, you can stop right here if you are at all adverse to cheesy goodness. Go do something else. But I have to sing it out.

I saw JERSEY BOYS. Friday night. Got the last seat in the house.

Friends, it was something else.

First of all, THE FOUR SEASONS were around when I was born. Gulp. My Uncle Gene had their records and played them all the time. (Note: My mother thinks Uncle Gene is gay. Even though he was a janitor and he was married to Aunt Lois and had four daughters and an illegitimate granddaughter and illegitimate great granddaughter and his lesbian daughter became a prison guard. No matter, he introduced me to WALK LIKE A MAN in Peekskill, NY in the early 1960’s.)

So, seeing this show was a bit like experiencing a time machine. Could that be what the producers wanted? No way. Was that why there was so much gray hair in the audience?

BEATLEMANIA!

All marketing ploys aside (and this thing is ploying), the damn thing works. Industrial stage set. Things move all around. Vignettes are quick cut. The VH1 type story of a rise to fortune, to losing fortune (but not so bad, this is a musical) and then rising to a level of survivorship, well, we’ve all heard/seen these stories before. But the execution in this case is quite wonderful. At times, they only deliver little pieces of songs and then move on. My favorite, of course, is the cheesiest song of them all, that seventies hit, WHO LOVES YOU. “Who loves you pretty baby, who’s gonna help you through the night. Who loves you pretty mamma, who’s always there to make it right. Who loves you. Who’s gonna love you love you love you...”

To wrap this up, what I have to say in my Broadway way is John Lloyd Young as the midget crooner, Frankie Valli, is unreal. Truly. The guy can really sing like a Bee-Gee on helium. It is ear blowing and quite joy making. He acts so well, too. Honestly, worth seeing the show to hear this guy.

Or you could just buy the old records. But I think this show is better than the records. And I think Uncle Gene is gay, too, but only because he came onto me a few years ago. Not really, but sort of.

Call Me a Racist if You Must

After a lovely dinner with my old friends John and Cathy (who introduced me to my Recognized-by-the-State-of-California-Domestic-Partner, Adam) in the West Village at Sazerac House (I had Schnitzel)---I decided to take a walk down Christopher Street, the former center of Gay Manhattan (Before Chelsea was anything more than a weird area to get film developed)---

Christopher Street is Black. Yes. I mean, I don't care. But it struck me in an odd way. Like what many white people must have felt in the 1970's when they went back to their former urban neighborhoods they abandoned for the suburbs. Though, there is nothing of the sense of decay going on Christopher Street.

For me, the interesting thing sociologically is---if something gets abandoned and it's kind of cool, the Black crowd will certainly gladly take over. This is a good thing.

The black gay crowd dresses up just like most black youth. To me, that was what was so bizarre on Christopher Street. It used to be all tight jeans and tiny T-shirts. Occasional boots and leather guys. Some drag queens. Now, it's all Tupie. Why didn't anyone tell me? Is everyone too PC to say, "Christopher Street is Black."
Or are people saying this inadvertently when they say, "Let's go to Chelsea"?

Why Life is So Good

First of all, I was ready to wheel my new HP Laser Printer 1020 back to Staples because I couldn't get it to work. But I called customer support (A.K.A. India) and after walking me through about 62 steps, the thing actually works! And it's so cute and small and zippy.

Secondly, I saw tonight a very good thing. Though the E Train to Queens starts running local after midnight, the F train is always express. I was on the Lower East Side with fun-ass Linda from LA, and we drank like fish in the happening coin of Manhattan at the Rivington Hotel, after which I jumped on the F and was back home within minutes. Wild. What about that Lower East Side? I mean, really?


It all gets better and better.

Sweeney Todd

I attended the tale tonight.

At first, it all seemed so cool and promising. The actors are the singers and the instrumentalists for the entire play, served up all Brechtian and stagey in this declamatory (yet annoyingly academic) way. Soon enough, you realize that Patti Lupone playing a tuba, while basically hilarious, is something best left for a skit on Saturday Night Live.

The whole thing seemed like the misbegotten wayward child of some mad creative director. Though it was interesting, I think it would have worked best in someone's living room, as a little jokey show for a macabre birthday party.

When will people let Brecht die? Is there anyone who wants to try something new? Or will it be all ripped stockings and bowler hats forever?

The Reflective Life

Who would think that a life in Los Angeles would be more reflective than a life in New York?

Okay, to compare them in this gross manor is silly. The real difference is not so much the cities as the amount of time spent in each one. Since I primarily live in Los Angeles, I am apt to have more time there, to think. Since New York seems new and fun every time I visit, I basically remain very active and don’t think much beyond my next easy meal, bit of entertainment, walking route.

Interestingly, this pattern in my life will not change any time soon, so Los Angeles will most likely arise as my “Thinking man’s city,” and New York will arise as “The light and fun place.”

Of course, I might be absolutely off.


Aside: I ran into an old Theatre School chum in Times Square today. He has become a dresser for shows (so Thelma Ritter). He took me on a basement tour of The Imperial Theatre. We eventually walked onto the stage of the theatre, with only the ghost light on. (That little light bulb on a pole that stands at the edge of the theatre when it's dark.) It really felt like 1898 New York. Of course, I did see Luci Arnaz starring in THEY’RE PLAYING OUR SONG on the very stage back in my youthful disco days. “I Can’t Wait ‘Till We Get to Quogue.”---What a lyric.

Easter in New Jersey

These Christ holidays so often involve eating a ham. Yet no matter how many pigs we slaughter and devour in the name of Jesus, nothing has brought back the Savior or anything else that is Christ-like. But we keep eating.

Poor piggies. Their biggest sin is that they're so damn tasty.

Paramus, A Flat Tire and Aunt Rose

The latter half of the day consisted of the absolute mundane. Going to Ikea in Paramus to buy a storage system for the dressing area of our apartment, which included fixing a flat tire (I love fixing flats. I’ve done it so many times. It seems like such a good thing to know how to do. And when you do it, a very big problem gets solved.)

But the first half of the day was quite something. My Great Aunt Rose is 88 years old. She lives in a senior citizen housing tower right off exit 117 on the New Jersey Turnpike. Hazlet. Not quite the shore. But certainly not Newark. She’s a saucy broad, sitting there in her house dress. She had an incredible life, in a way. She never married, but had a love affair with Frank, for ten years starting around 1947. Apparently, Frank’s wife was an awful bitch and Rose met Frank at a political meeting and they hooked up for ten years. He was minor Mafioso and would get her anything she wanted. He was twenty years older than she. And, of course, he never left his wife, died, and Aunt Rose stayed living with her own mother until her mother died, upon which she moved into a series of senior citizen homes, usually arranged by either my grandmother, Netty, or my Great Aunt Helen (Who just died and left me the most awesome lamp from the 1950’s. She was my Godmother and I loved her so.)

Aunt Rose is sharp. So sharp. And lonely. So lonely. She told us so many stories today. Why don’t people listen to old people more often? They are truly fascinating. She also has very similar quirks (twiddling the straps of her purse) and look in her eyes (sad kindness mixed with very intelligent acceptance of life’s terrors) as my grandmother, Antoinette DeFranza. It was a heart breaking experience. But I figure, I’ll just keep calling her when I can. Visit when I can. The truth is, when you get old, you can end up very much alone. Luckily, she has Letterman.

Thanks, Megan, for lending us your car.

Was it REALLY Worth it?

A complete day of tourism was at hand today. We went to Ellis Island. Worth the trip, especially if you have relatives who came through. You can look them up in their screening system, find out what the boat looked like and the time of arrival of your traveling ancestors. Pretty amazing. I’ve been there before, and Adam, my Recognized-by-the-State-of-California-Domestic-Partner, is an old WASP with lineage from way back when, so it didn’t hit him as deeply as it hits me, however, he did think it was very cool.

And, after drinking with the after-work-Wall-Street-crowd in a bar in Tribeca on Laight Street, we ended up at

PO

Highly recommend it. The Po River Valley is in Northern Italy. The restaurant is in Greenwich Village. Extremely lively and delicious. Followed by cannoli and such at Caffe Dante.

But what sticks with me, more than anything, was the sight when we got off the E Train downtown to go to the ferry for Ellis Island. The E Train ends at the PATH Station to New Jersey under the former World Trade Center. One of the things that has been completed at Ground Zero is this Station. However, since there are no buildings, the station is not underground, but actually floats in the middle of the construction site. The cement floor is completely new. The roof is made of metal. And the entire cement platform is surrounded by a cage of fence, so there is no way you could run into the pit to try to find a cell of your former dead lover/hero.

But what I thought, while standing there on that odd, caged platform in the middle of what was once The World Trade Center over a well groomed pile of dirt is, “Okay, this is sad and all, but we could have gotten over it without all this fucking war.”



I said to Adam, “You know, Predatory Capitalism is a form of terrorism, right? Doesn’t it make sense that someone would get back at us?”

And Adam, so astutely said, “And it’s so interesting, because it wasn’t governments against governments. It was some corporations and some people.”

Spring Tuesday

It comes to one’s attention, quickly here by the Atlantic Ocean, that the only thing worth reading and the only thing worth writing is the truth. Almost as if you were about to die and if you didn’t tell the truth, then your life would not have been worth living.

There is something about living/visiting a dense community that fosters the truth. No one has the time for bullshit. This is the beauty of New York. Whereas, in LA, people are so afraid of being off-putting, in New York, it is expected that you are forthright. If you are not, you are not considered. At all. Of course, I grew up in the suburbs of this mentality, so I feel quite at home within it...but I must say, this old hat way of living is such a breath of fresh air. It’s not that the people at the bar are that interesting. Their concerns are the same as the concerns of most people in the United Sates: How can I get rich quick, and maybe even famous, and then do whatever I want, until I die?

Our country is sad.

But at least people talk.

This city is a loosener. My favorite image of today was that of Adam, my recognized-by-the-state-of-California-domestic-partner. It was time to clean the windows. So, while I input receipt amounts into Quickbooks-Pro, Adam Windexed. There are four big windows in the main room and one small one in the kitchen. Adam did all this in only his gray Gap underwear. I don’t know why. For some reason, Adam is prudish about his body in Los Angeles...like when he is in our back yard which is completely enclosed, he won’t run around naked, even though I encourage him to join me. But in New York City, he will stand on the window sills in nothing but his tighty-grayies. We are only four floors up.

Fact: There are but two gay bars left on the Upper West Side. We went to one called The Candle Bar. It was super skanky years ago. But now, since the only good bar in the neighborhood is gone, and the one that was super skanky is still super skanky, this one has come up in rank. Interesting.

Inside Man

New York City is so lovely in spring. (I wish we capitalized the s of Spring, like the Germans. In fact, I really want to capitalize all nouns, like those big Germans.)

Our wonderful Martha Donaldson (Megan’s girlfriend and oddly enough by pure coincidence, a former denizen of our hometown, Suffern) got us tickets to see the show TITLE OF SHOW--- a very funny musical about two guys and two girls writing a musical. It was smart. It was pared down. It truly was inspired.

And after going to the park (and I tried so hard to post a picture of a blooming Central Park, but I had such technical problems)---we went to see INSIDE MAN.
Come on...it was so interesting. Well acted. Well directed. Shot so interestingly.

But without wrecking anything, I do have one question...After the shit went down, why didn’t Christopher Plummer check the box?

L.A., She is my lady...

But New York might just be my man.

Off to our Nest in Lovely Jackson Heights, Queens

TRY

Christmas, 1988. I was living with my boyfriend, Gary, for three years. It was one of those young, tempestuous relationships that could only end poorly.

We were not meant for each other, but I was so romantically attached and did not want this thing to end. He was sweet and cute. I was ballsy and ready. There we were on 99th Street and Lexington Avenue on the edge of Spanish Harlem, just one exposed train track line demarcation away from Carnegie Hill.

During this period, I was writing a lot of songs. I had been doing acting jobs that often included playing the guitar. And, I loved suspended chords (and Joni Mitchell, of course).
So I wrote a song to assuage the pain of the breakup. I’ve played it for years, for fun. I played it in a hotel in Martha’s Vineyard. I play it when someone asks me, “Play one of the songs that you wrote.” It’s called TRY. It’s kind of great and kind of hysterical.

*** ***
Today, it was raining all day long here in Los Angeles. My current boyfriend of twelve years, Adam, is not going anywhere. I mean, we’re just too old and happy to leave each other. We are getting ready to go to New York for two weeks. I had mountains of things to do. Bills to pay. Things to put in order. Pack. You name it.

But my MBox was sitting on my desk. And I thought, “Wouldn’t it be so much more fun to play with recording than to do administrative bullshit?” For those who don’t know, an MBox is something you buy at a music store. It’s basically a digital at-home studio with a USB connection. It comes with software that turns your tired PC (or Mac) into a day of fun, fun, fun.

So, I spent the whole day doing this. It’s rough. I didn’t know how to fade out at the end, though I tried to figure it out. I particularly liked laying down the vocal backups. There are three of them, doubled up and put through the reverb processesor.

I don’t feel the pain any longer of the 1988 breakup. But I still like this song.

If you’re in the mood, go to
TRY

And down in the tracks, you’ll see a few songs. TRY is one of them. Click on listen. I recommend earphones, especially if you are at work.

Acid Reflux Redux

Back and forth, on and on, I have dealt with stomach things most of my life. In fact, it was an attack of GERD (acid reflux) that sort of sent me over the edge this past autumn. Having to face my mortality, my body not working perfectly, middle age, etc.

Being Scientific of mind, I realized the only thing to do was trial and error experimentation. I read many books about GERD. I couldn't take the corporate medicines out there. The Nexiums, the Prilosecs, the Zantacs, etc.-- they made me hyper and nervous (apparently, these are the side effects most teenagers experience taking these drugs. I guess there is something in my metabolism/body chemistry that is still teen-like.)

And I tried the aloe vera juice (Does help to keep things moving, so that's good. Acid be gone.) And I did eat the sweet pickles (Very helpful. Always keep sweet pickles around. For some reason, they neutralize anything.) And red delicious apples are very helpful, too. But what works best of all, always and forever? Chewing gum. It increases saliva production. Saliva is quite basic. And it neutralizes acid. And, chewing gets the gut moving so stuff moves south, away from your esophagus and out toward its manifest destiny. But mostly, it’s just your own saliva that saves you. Isn’t that nature’s perfect little creation?

I offer this as a public service announcement to anyone who suffers with this problem. One does not have to be on drugs. Just chewing gum. I like Fruit Xylichew. Available at any health food store. It is sugarless and tasty and comes in cute boxes.

You know, you have to make the effort to keep the esophagus healthy and un-irritated. First sign of the burn, just chew the gum. Keep at it. Then, after a few days of this, you're healed and you don't need the gum. Weeks go by and you find yourself on a cruise, eating and drinking like an American pig and the burn comes back...get back on the gum. And swallow that basic saliva!

Okay, my New Year's Resolution for 2006 was to not talk about medical stuff. However, I felt that I had to share this with the world. It's practical and it eases suffering. Chew when you must. Continue chewing after meals for a few days. You’ll be healed and you can go about your business.

Narcissism or Music?

This weekend, I ran into some friends in a coffee shop. We talked for two hours. The subject of the internet came up. And narcissism. And hedonism.

And since I am often twisted with guilt, I immediately took it upon myself to consider how narcissistic I am. (Though, I quickly accepted my level of hedonism as acceptable.)
And I figured, on a scale of 1-10, 10 being the highest, I am probably a pretty solid 7.2

And then I thought, what the hell does narcissism really mean? Is it all about getting involved with your own reflection in some sort of drugged out way?
Does it also encompass the imaginings of oneself as something more than what one is?

I mean, is it not healthy to regard one’s expressions, posted into the world as something of value?

And, since we have all these websites to upload our musings and human expressions, well, why wouldn't we do such a thing? Aren't we just like those little Who's on the dust speck that Horton carries around on the clover flower, screaming, "WE ARE HERE, WE ARE HERE, WE ARE HERE!" ?

Seems to me, we are so lonely. And reaching across, in any way, is better than drinking oneself to death.

So, I banged on the piano. MOVE in C.

Play it here:

MOVE in C

House Arrest

Oh Man! Martha Stewart, I feel your pain.

Last month, my cousins came down from Santa Barbara in their huge vehicle and we went to LACMA. Since they are from out of town, I offered to drive. Traffic was terrible and driving was not fun. Besides, it was President's Day.

After our museum visit (And LACMA is pretty great), we were on our way home and I was heading East on Sixth...something I never do...and I needed to make a left turn. So, I was coming up to Hauser and I was all, "Wide open, let's pound this baby through Park La Brea."

I made my left. Then, the cop started following me. I heard the occasional "Werp" of his horn. The lights flashing. Could it be me?

I pulled to the side. The officer asked me, "Do you know why you're being pulled over?"

I had to say, "I have no idea."

"You made a left at a sign that is posted--No Left Turn Between 4-7PM."

I said, "I didn't see anything like that."

"It's there."

(I drove by later and checked it out. It is there.)

Then I said, "Does that 4-7 thing apply on holidays? It says except for Sat. and Sun. right?" (That’s what most of them say. I inferred.)

And he said, affably enough, "Yes."

And all I could think of was, "FUCK! NOW I HAVE TO SPEND EIGHT FUCKING HOURS IN FUCKING TRAFFIC SCHOOL!"

I don't do well with authority figures in Jack Boots. And as the cop handed me the ticket, I said, "I guess LA has to make their money somehow."

The friendly cop took off, heading north through the Park La Brea complex. I kind of love Park La Brea, but that wasn’t enough to lift my spirits.
I was cranky, but ultimately apologizing for being cranky since I didn't want my cousins to feel too bad, since I was doing them the favor of driving. "No good deed shall go unpunished."

So, after I calmed down, and my cousins went on their merry way back to that good-air-infested Santa Barbara, I just accepted that I had to go to traffic school so I wouldn't get a point against my license. And, I figured I would just actually go to one of those eight hour sessions. At least there are people there. I hadn't been to traffic school since the mid-nineties, when I lived in Santa Monica. I remember a girl with one of those knapsacks made out of a teddy bear.
I remember it was a long day, but oddly fun in a proletariat kind of way.

But then, I got busy and we’re going away next week for two weeks and I realized I couldn't give up a whole day to traffic school, so I decided, "Okay, I'll do it online."

It took me three days. Granted, just an hour or two each day. But three days! It was awful. Eight sections. And there are tests after each section. And you have to get nine out of ten questions right. And at the end of all the sections, there's a final test of 50 questions. And they embed things into the text and ask questions about those, to make sure you're really reading it. One of the embedding things was an off color joke about Michael Jackson. “Why did Michael Jackson go to the Wal-Mart sale? He heard that kids pants were half off.” I can just imagine the pasty, fat white guys chortling over that one out there in Missouri when they put it into the text of information.

Bad jokes aside, you have to plod through all that text, because the questions are annoyingly more difficult than you'd think. And, if you go too fast reading through it, a window pops up and says, “Slow down.”

I did learn a few things. First of all, if you drive a motorcycle you DO have to wear a helmet. I also learned that you can make a LEFT ON RED if you are turning from a one-way street into another one-way street. And, any child under six years of age or sixty pounds has to be in a car seat. Alcohol Blood level: .08 or less okay. If you are 21 or younger: .01

But after reading tiny print for hours on end (I swear, I felt like I was reading the ingredients on the back of a diet bar), never once did I read, "Don't make a left turn if it says No left turn 4-7PM except for Sat. & Sun."

I made one bad turn and I had to reread every thing about driving that you sort of know but don't care to revisit on screen. It was like being imprisoned in my own home. I got an 88% on my final test. I cranked through it quickly and did not check my work. I had to get out of the house.




24-7 Traffic School

March 30, 1974

Nanny moved. I did so much unpacking. I slept over. It's a nice apt. Man am I tired. I'm writing this on March 31 because I didn't have it with me March 30 because I slept over. Goodnight.


I will never forget the weekend I moved my grandmother into a senior citizen apartment. She had been a widow for about six months. She was living with us, sleeping on a schnazzy cot in the finished basement. This nice apartment became available and she moved. This weekend was the first weekend of her life where she was going to be living alone. I stayed with her. I remember that she put a towel on the goldish-green couch and then some blankets. Eventually, this couch was covered with the see-through plastic covers.

On Sunday (the next day), when it was time for me to go, Nanny kept talking. She was nervous and she didn't want to be left alone. I felt awful leaving her there alone.

The Italians

Nanny and Poppa lived in Yonkers. (Antoinette DeFranza and Salvatore Porcello)
Antoinette, also known as Netty, was the first born child of Italian immigrants from Ariano Irpino, about an hour outside of Naples. DeFranza means from France. Apparently, the DeFranzas were French Huguenots who fled during the 1600’s. Great Grandma DeFranza was a Protestant when she arrived in this country, living in Newark, New Jersey. Since all the other Italians went to Catholic church, she dropped her Protestantism and became Catholic. Salvatore was born in Sicily and came to the United States by boat in 1904 when he was two years old. He worked in a carpet factory and a boat factory. Severe asthma plagued him for most of his life.

Nanny was an amazing Italian cook. I was her favorite grandchild. We traveled to Italy together in 1979, when I was 17. On an American Express bus tour. While visiting Assisi, we happened to run into friends of mine from high school, Megan and others, who were on a school trip.

The two youngest children are my cousins, Scott and Christina. Today, Scott sells cars. Christina is a hairdresser in Florida.

The Irish

Uncle Eddie died of lung cancer when in his forties. After WWII, he moved in with his parents and never left again.

Grandma and Grandpa Cummings (Louise Veronica Dietrich and Joseph Alyosius Cummings) did not have teeth for as long as I could remember.
Together, they made delicious turnips, mashed potatoes and Legs of Lamb.

Old Friends

There have been requests.
And visitations.


I would at first like to say that my old friend, Bart, has moved in with his girlfriend, Susie, into her lovely home in Valley Village. I helped them move. This was two weeks ago and Susie pointed out that I didn’t mention it on the blog. How dare I move them, spend a whole day, and not write one little word? Well, here it is: I am so glad I helped Bart move into your place, Susie. Bart seems very happy. And I think it’s very cool that you two were able to mix your furniture and lives together in what seemed to be a pretty low key first day. Bart got a little tense when Susie and I started declaring how we should pack the moving truck. Our idea was against Bart’s plan. I picked up on this rather quickly and I backed off and just started loading the goods onto the front median strip of grass near the truck. I figured, “Let the lovebirds figure it out. I’m just the muscle.” My favorite part of the move was when the wacky neighbor with the bad back insisted helping with the unloading. And it became all about finding special light boxes and throw pillows for her to carry. She was harmless, however, I had this weird fear of her. I guess you could call it “Lady-alone-in-a-tiny-rental-with-mountains-of-cats-who-will-do-anything-including-helping-the-neighbor-move-in-her-boyfriend-even-though-she-has-a-bad-back-because-she-so-lonely-syndrome" aversion. For my reward, Susie served delicious dry salami and cheese with very tasty bread. It was worth it. I haven’t moved anyone in years. I found it very refreshing. I was glad for the physical experience and the drizzling rain at the end.

My old friend Megan, who lives in Queens right down the street from our NYC love room, really wanted more info about career lady. As did my sister-in-law, Rebecca. This makes much sense. Both of these women are artists, and artists struggle terribly with career, career identity, career time, lack of career, career in motion, career stalled, career in the toilet, career at the bottom of the wine bottle, career delusions and career funk-in-general. I was going along fine with my career plans, sort of, when I hit a very nervous wall of dread. So, my friend, Lisa, who is quite persuasive, if not even a bit overbearing in this area, got me to go to her Wednesday night group sessions. I like groups. Always have. I feel there is safety in numbers. And, I’m a camaraderie kind of person. I will say this—Barbara Deutsch--you can check her out online at dbapproach --has tools. But honestly, what’s even better than her tools, is Barbara Deutsch. Sure, we talk about things like, “Shift to the side when making the pitch. It’ll change your energy,” and “Be a host, not a visitor,” and “If you feel unsafe, provide safety,” and “As far as money goes, make the ceiling the floor,” and “If you are a wreck, get somewhere private and say BRING IT ON while you punch your fist into the other open hand,” and “Make decisions as if you were twenty-one years old,” and “If you get some crappy rejections, you won’t melt,” and “If someone speaks to you in a disrespectful way and you let it ride, you are then training them to continue to treat you in that way,” and “Be interested, not interesting,” and “Whenever you have a repetative negative reaction during similar situations, just think of it as the alien monster on your face and say THERE’S THAT THING I DO, and the alien, so recognized, will slither off,” and “Go into the positive pain of things that you want to avoid,” etc., and they are all great things. And I use them. But what’s even better is that Barbara is genuine, she’s a true champion. And somehow, it doesn’t seem like an act. She seems to really like to help people. It’s a fascinating experience. And all the neurotic, cool people are doing it.

On Thursday, my old friend, George, from my childhood, came to visit for a long weekend. It was pretty amazing. Something about hanging out with your best pal from the early years is just so sweet and reduces life to its simplest components. Plus, it helps that George is really cool, knows who he is, is a solid, loving presence on earth for his two sons and his wife and in-laws, is extremely curious and clear headed and articulate and is totally game. When I moved to Suffern as an eleven year old and having had a history of very few friends (other than my guitar and my fish), George showed up and he quickly wedged his way into the life of my brother and I. Soon enough, the three of us would build forts, put pennies and bullet shells on the train tracks for the trains to flatten, collect things, take busses to the good shopping center in New Jersey, shoplift, smoke cigarettes and everything else. George went to the Catholic school right across the street from our public school. He got out about fifteen minutes before we did and he’d wait for us in the parking lot in his maroon Catholic school uniform and we three would walk home together. When I was a sophomore and he was a freshman in high school, we shared a locker. George was always pretty happy and easy going. He still is. He bought two stuffed monkeys for his kids at the Arclight gift shop.

Revolution

I would feel so much safer and happier if my house would plummet in value and other people could buy homes. In desirable places.

I would feel so much safer and happier if the poor people in this country had health care that would really care about their health. So then, I would be surrounded by people who were at least starting from a neutral place.

I would feel so much safer and happier if the wage I earned for anything at all was closer to the wage everyone else earned.

I would feel so much safer and happier if I was not measured by how rich I am and I was not shamed for how rich I am not or anything else like that.

I would feel so much safer and happier if people would give the homeless what they need: homes.

I would feel so much safer and happier if a virus wiped out the need for people to control each other with weaponry.

I would feel so much safer and happier if the economy of our country was not based on spin and acquisition and the enslavement of needy nations.

I would feel so much safer and happier if I could walk down the street and look people in the eye with ease and positive regard without feeling the possibility of recriminations or gun shot wounds.

I would feel so much safer and happier if the air that I breathe was not green.

I would feel so much safer and happier if all those S.U.V. commercials would not be aired on television.

I would feel so much safer and happier if Uncle Bucky Bush was found guilty on charges of war profiteering.

I would feel so much safer and happier if the federal government would treat me as a citizen with the same rights as married men and women.

I would feel so much safer and happier if people would recognize how God cannot save them from living paycheck to paycheck.

I would feel so much safer and happier if people would try something else. Anything else.

Coming Out of the Closet

I admit it. I've been seeing a Career Champion.

It's true. It's so 2004, I know. But it seems to be helping. There she is, this warm, intuitive woman, holding court in her condo in The Valley. And we, as a group, sit around and talk about what we are each trying to accomplish. And this woman, Barbara is her name, homes right in on what's going on, what you need to do, what the block is and even more importantly, how to adjust your perception of the situation.

For me, a gloomy gus, worrying about getting old and having accomplished nothing, this is extremely helpful.

The first evening I went, I was critical. I found fault with the silly LA-ness of it all, the condo-feel of it all, the sunshine-pounding-up-the-ass of it all, but I tried her techniques, and they worked.

I was able to get through more phone calls, emails and meetings than ever before. Even having fun doing it.

Results: My plays are being shuttled to Steppenwolf. I have two readings coming up. The door is open at a publishing company for my book. And most importantly, I don't feel like I've been dragged through the mud. I feel, somehow, intact. This is very new.

Interesting.

Worth the effort.

And, somehow, the condo in the valley is starting to take on a certain charm and warmth of spirit.

Neocons are Weird

Beyond being aggressive, greedy morons, what has come to light these days is that Neocons are just plain odd.

If you met a guy in a bar and he told you that he thought it would be a great idea to go into Arab territory and try to make them over in our image, you'd just think that guy was weird.

If you met another guy in a bar and he told you that global warming is just a theory, you'd think that guy was downright freaky.

If you met yet another guy in a bar and he told you that the only way to achieve any goal is to stick to your guns, no matter what reality was telling you, you'd just feel bad for the obsessive schnook.

These guys are bizarre. They are weird, freaky, obsessive oddballs. And the nation is waking up to just how weird they are.

March 21, 1974

I bought a venus fly trap. It's gonna be cool. Today was the first day of spring. It rained. It's rained every first day of spring for 4 years now.

Santa Bummer

This weekend, we made our yearly visit to Santa Barbara to see our wonderful friends, Joe and Vibeke. They live on top of a hill, surrounded by live oaks. Every minute with them is pure grace and enjoyment. The view to the North is enormous, looming mountains. The view to the South is The Pacific Ocean. The property is a designated conservancy, so the trees are very old, twisted and huge and the whole experience of being in this environment is what one might think it is to live in a painting of a natural idyll.

And now, the war.

Joe’s neighbor, an elderly woman who owns many acres that are not yet developed, has a son who is in the military and works in special operations. He told Joe, over a year ago, “Don’t believe anything they tell you. This is a Civil War.”


Saturday night, we went to a wine tasting party. Which was great, spirited fun. The house was beautiful, a Spanish revival. The man of the house was a wonderful chef with three piercings in each ear lobe, the decorative baubles having made the lobes floppy over the years. The food he served was mostly Middle Eastern and delicious. The attending wine tasters (and we tasted eleven wines) were of various races and dispositions. The uniting joy of the evening was wine #9. Amid the revelry, a healer, Lissa, laid her hands on my upper chest and cured my acid reflux. I am not sure she knew I needed healing in that area, but her hands went to the pain, automatically, and so I am happily cured.

And now, again, the war.

Lissa and I spoke at length. She is extremely intuitive. And being an intuitive—and I share some intuitive qualities (which might be why intuitives come at me in droves)— Lissa and I spoke, sans boundaries, at length. We eventually landed on my “big shift” that is about to happen and how I should just let it happen. But before we got there, she and I talked about how painful it has been to live in a country that is in the throes of an aggressive war. We are like children who cannot take the truth. It’s too upsetting. It is too painful.
One thinks of My Lai.

My Lai

No More. Friends, no more war.

Basement, New York 1974

Welcome to the Neighborhood

So often people will ask, "Where do you live in LA?"

And easily enough, I can say, "Hollywood," or "Just off Melrose," or "Near Melrose and La Brea," and that's all pretty good. But my little neighborhood of four blocks does not feel like Hollywood, exactly, nor does it feel like Melrose (We're on the quietish end). What it does feel like, sort of, is Hancock Park, which is adjacent to us on the East side.

Sure, our houses are much smaller. But the vibe, the air, the well maintained front yards, just sort of feels like a mini Hancock Park.

So from now on, when someone asks me where I live, I'm going to say, "Hancock Park Junior."

Jewrina My Dreams

Two big Hoorays for the Juden!

First of all, Gloria Steinem on Bill Maher. She’s still sassy, smart, pulled together and right on. You look at her and all you can think is, “You did it, sister.”
Gloria Steinem was the keynote speaker at my alma mater not long after I graduated. I remember getting a copy of her speech from Tufts. And I was quite impressed.
Here it is:

Tufts Commencement



I think men are still unnerved by her. It’s fascinating.


And

Happy Purim!

Today, while on my five mile neighborhood walk that passes by the homes of many an Orthodox Jew, I saw all sorts of rabble rousing going on. Kids in costumes. Faces painted with funny designs. Children all excited like it was Halloween. Houses were shaking with old Hebrew folk songs. Visitors entered the houses singing. It was so fun. I stopped a mother and her gussied up kids and I asked her, “What is the name of this holiday?” And she said “Purim. That’s why everyone is dressed up so crazy.” She was the happiest Orthodox woman I’ve ever met. She appeared joyful when talking about her scampering children. I think these Orthodox people should celebrate Purim bi-monthly. Way to go, Esther!

Just a Note about a Society Based on Competition

I believe the ills of competition outweigh the gains.

Now, I am not saying that competition is not inherent in most relationships, in a web-like fashion. It is. And to let it run free, might be the best thing.

But people suffer greatly because of it. Physically and mentally. Free market? Sure. But in the end, when there are thousands of homeless men living in the streets of downtown Los Angeles, doesn't it seem like, well, one should help these losers? When asthma afflicts one out of every three children in industrialized farming areas, the children are weakened. Is this their fault? In a man-driven evolutionary experiment, are we choosing for certain types of resistant lungs?

Do we set up a society that breaks people down and then we blame them for being broken?

There's a strain of Calvinism in our nation which righteously blames the weak for their weakness. This is too bad. Sure, the weak are weak. But is it their fault? Could they have ended up otherwise? And can we all go to work and eat our big fat hamburgers knowing that there is all this suffering going on?

It's just so brutal.

I am no savior. And I have done nothing to help the throngs of suffering humans. I am looking at the big picture. When we, as a society, won't truly help the drug addicts, the alcoholics, the mentally ill stragglers on the streets, the kids who can't breathe the air, then who are we? It seems that the enormous amount of privately held money really should be taken and used for these people. It seems that the enormous amount of privately held money is a form of theft. And it needs some serious recirculation. Especially these days. The richest people in this country are the richest ever. Poverty levels are rising every day.

This must be changed. There must be redistribution. End of story.

As far as incentive goes. It won't be harmed. Future Edisons and Einsteins really want to figure things out. Those people are motivated by very strong forces, stronger than the thrust of the market economy. And if business is thwarted a bit, because heavy taxation reduces incentive, then I say, "GOOD!"

Ask the Dust

We didn’t want to see a movie about guns or car chases. But we also wanted to see something big and luscious.

So, we went and saw Ask the Dust. At the Arclight. First of all, the best thing about Los Angeles is the Arclight movie theatre. The assigned seating, the restaurant in the enormous train-station-like lobby, the sound system, the Goobers.

The movie is written and directed by Robert Towne (Chinatown) and is based on John Fante’s masterpiece, Ask the Dust. It has mood, mood, mood. Shot on location in South Africa in a rebuilt 1930’s Bunker Hill with City Hall CGI’d into it, the whole thing is so evocative of that desperate era.

Colin Farrell, as writer Arturo Bandini, is ridiculously cute and gives off fine ass shots. Salma Hayek, as waitress Camilla Lopez, is a gorgeous wonder, in full naked beauty in the bedroom, the ocean, you name it. It’s sexy, moody, lovely, and the acting is fine. Not amazing, but very good. Salma being the stronger of the pair. Colin with the better hair.

The basic idea is both of these characters (a Spic and a Dago) want to find wealth and whiteness in Los Angeles. And they fall for each other. Their alienation from a prejudiced society pushes them together. Their emotional needs and anger provide the glue. Arturo’s money as a writer provides the means. But what lurks in this tale? I dare not ruin it for you!

A very unstrung Idina Menzel plays an odd extra love interest, with burnt thighs, the hysteria of a Jewess having fallen from East Coast middle class society into a career of housekeeping in Long Beach. She is desperate and has quite a run-in with a sizable earthquake.

So very rarely do we get to see adult movies. This one is not perfect. Takes a bit to get going. But you’ll be thankful for the slowness. You’ll love old timey Laguna Beach and floppy downtown Los Angeles.

Great music. Beautiful Art Direction.

Romantic, desperate, lovely, grainy and sexy. Worth it.


Ask the Dust

March 10, 1974

Mommy came back from the Poconos. We recorded spooky noises. Good night.

Gas Sign Suction Cup

Today, while driving along Beverly Boulevard in the cleanest, most wonderful winter air, I passed a gas station and a man was using a very long pole with a suction cup on the end of it to move the numbers around on the price sign.

He moved the numbers from the Super Unleaded up to the Leaded. He moved the Super Premium up to Super. It struck me funny to see gas prices rise right before my eyes.

The suction cup worked on the Physics principle of suction, unsurprisingly. The poler slammed the suction cup down and the air was pushed out, so the air pressure outside the cup became greater than the pressure inside, thus making a clamping experience. Then, after he moved the number into the next position, the operator pressed on something near his hand on the pole and the suction was released. He repeated this a few times, moving the numbers into new positions. And the numbers called out from their new locations, announcing to the world the increased cost of fuel.

I hope gas prices continue to increase. Maybe fewer people will drive. Or maybe not. There is so much mass transit in New York City, yet the streets are always clogged with cars.

Peekskill, NY 1966

Peru & You

A very close friend, Joe Braunwarth, and his two children, Zak and Maya, have ventured off to Peru for an extended visit of a few months. This is their blog.
Please enjoy it. The permanent link will remain on my blog.


Escape from Reality

Tsotsi: Baby on Board

South Africa. You can have it!

The setting of Tsotsi is so grim that the story gets lost within it.

Looking at that mess that is the extreme poverty of South Africa, one can only say, “Sure, Tsotsi finds his heart, not unlike the Grinch, after he ends up with this baby. And he does change. But damn, that South Africa is a mess. Someone do something!”

I must admit, I have felt somewhat answer-free lately when it comes to the big questions in life: Why are we here? Why is there suffering? Why don’t I look better in shirts with collars? And having no answers does lead to a certain level of discomfort. (Religion really is the opium of the masses. Pass me the works!)

So, this movie, in its full glory, was just so tough on my particular system. Random pain meted out by a thoughtless universe? Yikes on that shite!

However, the acting is nuts-amazing. And there are about three moments of pure kindness in the movie that make you cry. And seeing that Africa, in any movie at all, is always interesting.

Athol Fugard is quite a sturdy writer. And these savages do grow into nobility.
Not for the squeamish.

Maryland Basement, mid-1970's

The Truth

When considering the path of mankind's journey, Truth is something we revere as long as it is firmly set in the past.

In the present, it is the billions of lies that push life forward.
"That shirt looks good on you." "You're doing a great job." "We must fight for freedom." "I Love you."

Then, someone has to figure out the truth among all the constant lying so it can be recorded. Hopefully, the historians and the artists who are doing that job are very discerning.

The Celtic Round

I write a dream or ode or villanelle,
About the Irish who drink life to end
(I think I love to face this frothy hell.)

The songs of Danny, a sheep, an old bell,
The rain, the strain from Spain, darkens us then.
I write a dream or ode or villanelle.

On green hills we drink, smoke with sadness, dwell
On the perfect stripes of feathers from a hen
(I think I love to face this frothy hell.)

Old man’s tears for a carcass in the kell
Or the child late married--twenty plus ten.
I write a dream or ode or villanelle.

Life hovers wet as air above a soft well.
We hear the songs around every hard bend
(I think I love to face this frothy hell.)

I have dreamed of castles to build or sell
But there are smaller things the sky will lend.
I write a dream or ode or villanelle
(I think I love to face this frothy hell.)

Civil War

As soon as the Neo-Cons started the lies about WMD and made their push to invade a country that was never a threat to us, it became SO CLEARLY EVIDENT that this action would lead to one thing: Civil War

It was the first thing that came to my mind.

Since I am not a political pundit, but merely a guy who can sometimes connect the dots within a large landscape, I think it would not be overreaching to assume that Civil War was one of the outcomes the Neo-Cons considered. A Civil War, of course, will bring Iran into the quagmire in a very earthy way. All along in this circus, was the plan to fail with security? To maybe even foment mosque attacks so an even bigger mess of Civil War would tease Iran into the big top? And if so, was it not Right-Wing mad genius to bide their bumbling time while things got even worse so the enormous problems of both Iraq AND Iran could ultimately be met in one big, horrible blood bath? (Knocking out two countries in the Axis of Evil?) Is this not the End-of-Days, clash-of-the-cultures that the earth has been waiting for since Byzantium collapsed?

And in our arrogance, are we not the horrible pigs who are the only ones powerful enough on this earth to do all this? Perhaps bringing the Middle East into the post-Renaissance?

I am not saying I agree with any of it. But, could this have been the intent all along?

And if so, do we have any faith that this plan will work?

We do not understand these people of the camels and chickpeas. As this conflict grows more insane, I do not have faith that we can make things over in our grabby image.

Where the HELL are we going?

My Brother's Ear

Though gerbils would have eaten a child such as me, my human mother dutifully took it upon herself to make sure I survived. I appreciated her deep caring for me in that little yellow house on the downward sloping property in that sleepy rural neighborhood of my youthy youth. My brother and I shared a bedroom in the finished basement, next to the playroom. My sister had her own room upstairs across from my parents’ bedroom. We had a living room with 1960’s stick lamps, a tweed couch and a sharp-edged kidney-shaped Formica coffee table that my brother once fell onto while jumping on the couch with my sister and me. He landed on the nasty edge of the brown kidney which split his ear clean through the cartilage about one centimeter (I was born metric) above the lobe. The edge of the ear, bleeding like a split ear, separated where the split occurred and as if some special ear tension had held the ear together. The severe cut allowed the now two separate pieces of cartilage to move far away from each other. This gave the appearance that a part of the ear was missing, at least to the doctor but not to me (I was a born diagnostician).

At the emergency room, we were sent home to look on the floor for a lost piece of ear. My sister found a piece of fuzz under the couch and declared proudly and with sheepish hope that she had found the lost part of her brother’s ear. She wanted to be helpful and she also wanted to be noticed. My parents explained to her that it was fuzz. The phone rang and the doctor explained to my parents that upon closer inspection, my brother did not lose a piece of his ear, that his ear had actually separated and they sewed the ear back together and we could stop looking for the missing piece. I knew the whole search for the ear was silly as I saw my brother hit the table and nothing flopped away from his head that looked like flesh. Sadly, to this day, I am not sure if he just fell off or if I pushed him off or if my sister and I pushed him or we were all pushing each other, but I felt terribly guilty about this whole ear mess and I knew there was no missing ear section and if my sister thinks fuzz is flesh, then give her the prize and I’ll go back to my room which made me feel even more guilty. I knew the search was a waste of time and I naturally sported a disaffected attitude while I imagined my brother practically bleeding to death in the hospital. Though having the clarity of one who spends many nights lying under an icing of Vicks, I just knew this ear accident was nothing more than a cut ear, there was no missing piece and everything was going to turn out fine. And it did. This whole ear incident made me even more resistant to horseplay. I stayed indoors but off the furniture. I played records, read books, took very safe walks, got sick, grew weak and pale and cankered.

My Man is a Fool for Kitchen Resurfacing

Long live the kitchen.

Long live Adam.

Long live old New York stoves.

One Full Week Without the Ball and Chain

Adam, my Recognized-by-the-State-of-California Domestic Partner, went to Queens to scrape, sand and paint our kitchen.

I do not remember another time when I have been left alone in California for such a long time. I usually travel and leave him behind to feed the dog and cats.

I missed him and such, but as I like to stay focused on the positive, I will share the two best things about his one week of absence:

1) The television was never on. To have that kind of quiet is pretty much heaven on earth. It's better than a load of virgins in the after life. It's pure peace and beauty.

2) Trader Joe's is the best thing on earth. Adam loaded me up with foodstuffs before he left. Mostly from Trader Joe's. How did people survive before this company existed? Potstickers ready for nuking. Pureed soups ready for heating up. Bags of pre-washed spinach ready for steaming. All fresh and delicious.


Tomorrow, Adam comes home. The food will still be good. The television, well, not much I can do about it. At the end of the day, it's what ends up buying us the food.

I Was Once Seventeen

And apparently had very bad taste in hats.

OLE

You have to see it. My friend, Mary, suggested we go. I pushed for Cock and Bull, instead. How wrong was I!

The Matador:

1) Well acted
2) Funny
3) Great design
4) Writing was very good (though completely ridiculous and winking at itself)
5) Overlay themes keep you surprised
6) Fun, going to Mexico City
7) Great that Pierce Brosnan pulled this off
8) Hope Davis has a very layered hair cut


I have always been resistant to the work of P. Brosnan. Mostly because when I first moved here, I waited tables for a few weeks and five minutes before a lunch shift ended, Pierce waltzed in and lit a cigar and started a Chess game and we all had to wait around for him to finish before we could leave. It was so obvious that the restaurant should have been closed, but this big ego dude didn't care. It was upsetting.



The Matador

I Love Widgets

I am not a shill for Yahoo. But Dan Kaufman, my friend, introduced me to Widgets and I have to say, I love them. Little special things that sit on your desktop. I particularly like Picture Frame--which randomly presents pictures from your files in a cute little box. I also love my Weather Widget.

I can only imagine that these things are sitting on my desktop collecting all sorts of information about me. But hell, at least I get to see the thousands of pictures I have taken and I always know what the weather is in Jackson Heights, Queens.

Maybe this is nothing new to you. But they are to me. Check them out. You hate them, you can delete the Yahoo Widget Folder from your computer.


DOWNLOAD WIDGETS FROM YAHOO

Morning Becomes No One

Make Hay while the sun shines? Why? It’s so much hotter then. And who the hell buys hay?

During the day, people are up to no good. In Los Angeles, I spend my days with the shades drawn and the curtains pulled tight. I loathe the sun. It pierces my skin. I often joke that I have a touch of the Lupus. I just can’t stand it on me. Never could. Wears me out. Not to mention, I do not like to acknowledge the daylight hours. I thought I might do a little better in France.


I am not a morning person. And on a recent trip to Paris it became clear to me that I’m not much of an afternoon person either. The problem with the daylight hours is everyone is so busy working that I find it detracts from my main belief of physical infrastructure: Everything that exists for my consumption (and yours) and my pleasure (and yours) magically appears by machines and spontaneous generation. Human beings pass their time solely in the pursuit of pleasure and fulfillment. Of course I am very aware that my thinking is delusional, but isn’t it a better delusion than the huge clothing corporations who trick themselves into believing it is fine for small children to ply the needle? In fact, as I will state again and again, I do believe all work could be given to machines while the living enjoy the day. Since this has not yet come to pass, I refuse to pay attention to the day, much like a mother will ignore her screaming brat in hopes that the behavior will disappear. In my quest to change the world I have taken what may seem passive to others, but to me it feels like the most obvious choice of bravery. While others rally as the sun hits their windows (or cardboard home) I stay in bed as long as possible. This is my personal revolution and I entice you to join me for there is power in numbers and believe me, sleeping late is better than getting up.

And what about all that noise? Why are garbage trucks so clamorous? Like passive aggressive carpenters, do they assault our ear drums by purposefully avoiding being considerate? Do these garbage trucks rattle and bang in order to arouse me from my hotel bed? They are six floors below my window, yet it is as if they are collecting refuse in my bathroom. And what a small bathroom it is! These French don’t waste space on their ablutions. This, of course, should have been clear to me as I have noticed upon close inspection their hair, which barely hangs as it greasily sticks to their frozen heads mere centimeters above their frayed Hermes scarves and their duck liver stained Channel suits. Are the small bathrooms, these torture chambers like wet pens for veal, the reason they don’t last through the full act of personal hygiene? Are they just too cramped? I don’t believe so. I am a middle sized human and I get along just fine. I am about the size of most Frenchmen and certainly larger than most Frenchwomen. There is no lack of water in the country. And from the store windows I have noticed they make as many kinds of soap as they do cheese. In the end, one can only wonder, why are the French so dirty? But more importantly, why are they so unfunny? And this brings us back to the point at hand which is the morning and its abusive act of rattling us out of our beds.

This rattling certainly must make for a cranky society. This holds for all societies, but maybe has a lesser affect on Americans as we have always been a culture of farmers and religious zealots, both of whom must get up early to catch the worm. But we’re talking about Paris and there are no farmers here and certainly no one believes in God. And one would think that a post-religious society would at least have a street sense of irony, but this has remained undiscovered in my view. I have never met a more serious bunch and let’s face it, they have every reason on earth to be joking. They have been on the fade since the First World War. Their beautiful language does not hold the same sway in the world as English. Their music is bad. And they’ve been eating the same food for centuries. In truth, their empire is gone. The only thing that remains are the palaces and these have all been turned into museums or government offices. And they are filled with very busy, very serious workers who get up in the morning and go to their travail with neither smiles nor song. Here, in a country that is so teeming with beauty, the sunlight pelting the fountains and monuments, and everyone is so glum. Even in spring. It hurts the non-Latin heart to see such grimness in such a bountiful, beautiful land. They do stay up late for dinner and for this I am very grateful as I despise eating my main meal of the day until after the movie. And there I am in a restaurant loaded with Parisians snarfing on oysters and paté and bread and choucroute and saucisson piled to the golden rafters. I cannot imagine they are in bed sooner than One A.M. However, unlike me, they have to go to the office to make French decisions, go to the boulangerie to make French pastries, go to the pharmacie to fill French prescriptions (most of them anti-depressants, I am so sure) and all this could be so completely avoided if they just stayed in bed and let the machines do it.

Now, I am not one to propose taking away a job that someone likes to do. One person’s torture is another person’s boucherie. So, if they want to be bureaucrats, bakers and candlestick makers, be my guest, but after staying up late at night digesting all that animal fat, wouldn’t it make more sense to stay in bed until at least, I don’t know, noon? The mornings would be quiet and I bet the French would feel much more rested and perhaps have time to laugh a little? It takes a well rested person to be in a good mood. So my suggestion to our friends in Gaul is to pull those covers over your heads and fart a little and please, by all means, do not collect the garbage before my maid empties my trash and believe me, she isn’t coming into my room before thirteen o’clock. If the French begin the revolution, which really is their main role in Europe, certainly the rest of the E.U. will follow and we Americans who are opposed to sunlight can all move there and let the farming and the religion continue in full daylight as is necessary. If you have any opinions on this subject, I advise you to call me, though please don’t try to reach me before three-o-clock.

Valentine's Day, Sixth Grade, 1974

I got Valentines from two girls and my teacher. The bird one is from my teacher who I call owl eyes cause she wears big glasses. The other two are from one dog named Robin Guootius. And another card was from a girl named Sheryl. But I threw it away. Well I got little candy hearts from dad. Goodnight.

Living for the Rodents

I've been very busy lately.
One might even say productive.
And not just in a vacuum.

There have been meetings, requested manuscript mailings, a publisher, an agent awareness and other rubs with life enhancing possibilities--

However,

What I have found to be the most soul edifying within the past few days has been figuring out the fingering and perfecting a jazzy version of Muskrat Love on the ukulele.

February 10, 1974

Our night table tipped over and my picture plant broke. I have to buy a new pot. Oh well. Goodnight. I had a nice day.

My memory of this event is a little foggy. Perhaps I had taped a picture to a flower pot? Vaguely, I remember some sort of art project in school where we took a picture of ourselves and somehow got it to stick onto clay that would air dry and then was painted.

Plug: And the World Goes 'Round

Friends, I am reprising my role as Mr. Cellophane. Haven't I always been transparent?
Back in Little Rock, Arkansas, in 1994, I was in this show. The best part about it: visiting Eureka Springs. Cool town.

Full details below. Note: Friday nights are mostly for subscribers and would-be board members. So, if I were you, I'd go Saturday night or Sunday afternoon.
Also note: If you go on March 5, you will be out in time for the Oscars.

I can tell you this about And the World Goes 'Round. It's Kander & Ebb music (Chicago, Cabaret, etc.). A bevy of really good singers will entertain you. I will be singing, playing piano, plucking the guitar and rubbing up against an ample bosomed woman in the song, Money Makes the World Go 'Round. A jazzy rendition of Cabaret in the style of Manhattan Transfer is probably the most interesting musical number. There is dancing. The performers are haggish and faggish. This show was a bit tired when I did it twelve years ago. But hell, it's self contained and cheap to produce. And there it is.
The lights will be dim. The seating will be at tables for four in a large, open brick warehouse that used to be a sweat shop.

The sponsor is Pinky Vodka and as this is a fund raiser, the pushy wait staff will be encouraging you to buy plenty of Pinky-based drinks. Money raised will be used to convert the really cool space into a theatre. Worth seeing this hangar before it gets converted. And we're right behind an Armenian social club for men(or are those hairy beasts women? Who knows?) One of the "guys" was smoking from a tobacco filled hookah on the sidewalk the other night. I wanted to snatch it from him.

Come on down. You might as well.

AND THE WORLD GOES 'ROUND INFO

Confession

I hate Radiohead.

I tried. A few people told me, "You'd really like them."

I bought Ok Computer a while back.

Someone bought me Hail to the Thief.

Having only listened to the CDs one time each (sort of) well over a year ago, I decided, during our reorganization of our CD collection (we tossed the old CD racks and bulky jewel cases and put the CDs in thin sleeves, in boxes) to give them another try.

I'm just not there. Yeah, yeah, I know. Post-apocalyptic. And alienation. And down-with-everything. I just can't.

And the same tone again and again. It's like a skit from Saturday Night Live.

And the song titles?

Climbing Up the Walls (I sure did.)

Sit Down. Stand Up. (This one was so reptitive and foolish, I had to lay down.)

We suck Young blood (Why bother?)


I know this youngish guy who writes music and records it in his apartment. He's a decent musician. His stuff is just like this Radiohead nihilism.

I guess we could be headed for total ruin and the only thing to do is to whine and feel awful. But man, I'd rather listen to the moronic stylings of the Bee Gees.

Things I Considered over the Weekend

1. Pride is the greatest stupidity of the human species. Christianity offered the whole "turn the other cheek" thing. Of course, this idea has been flouted by everyone on earth, including the frigging Christians.

2. Iran, in their stupid posturing, will soon be toast. Why not, at this point?

3. The Arabs want Israel to be toast. I feel more afraid for Israel now than I have ever felt in my life.

4. After WWII, Palestine was, indeed, colonized. And no whimpering Zionist can convince me otherwise. However, it's a done deal. Why doesn't the West drop its mantle of righteousness, apologize for inconveniencing a bunch of horrendous, backward Palestinians and give them their own country...including the tasty bits in Jerusalem that they really want? And then, if they keep bombing Israelis, the entire country of Palestine can be obliterated. Right? I am so sick of living on the earth with this problem unresolved. Resolve it. If you have to obliterate millions of people to do it, fine with me. I've got mall shopping to do.

5. Why is George Bush suddenly figuring out that oil is the problem? And why is he the slowest dope on earth? And who are these millions of Americans who voted for him, twice? How stupid are they, really? And why do I live anywhere near them, never mind sharing the same government?

6. Arnold and his big ideas. Failures. Where's my fucking subway to somewhere?

7. Why gay people continue to file federal income tax returns is beyond me. Since gay people are not, usually, suffering in any great way, financially, and since gay people can vote, there really isn't much to do in the way of civil disobedience. However, gay people got cash. The only way to hurt this government is to refuse to give it any money. They'll feel it. If you're gay, why not put your house in a trusted relative's name and stop filing federal income tax returns?

8. San Diego has its problems. High in the suburban hills, one can hear the constant churn of freeway traffic.

9. The feminist movement was so quick and so effective. Why don't you women file away those torn ticket stubs from Brokeback Mountain that you all loved so much, and rally around the gay people and get us past this static hump?

10. Theatre is heart breaking. It could be so much more. Most of it panders and remains wretchedly timid and uninteresting.

11. That Grizzly Man was crazy. Bears like to eat nuts. What was so surprising?

12. Felicity Huffman is very talented.

13. Eating nonfat, plain yogurt every day keeps the good fauna going.

14. February is such a short month. It always feels like a sprint.

15. Why do writers in The New Yorker and now The LA Times, insist on using all those annoying Latin phrases, when they could just as easily use words like, "for services rendered" or "for free"?

16. There is nothing better than good chocolate.

17. When you die, you just return to the year before you were born. Don't sweat it. Think of it as going back in time. You'll feel so much younger.

18. Those wooden blinds for the New York apartment aren't going to order themselves. Get cracking.

19. If India and China are such economic threats, then why are those people so poor?

20. Will Joni ever put out another CD worth listening to?

February 3, 1974

I wanted to go skating but the ice aint thick enough. Well I'm a saying.
Goodnight.

Basically

The Palestinians are anti-Zionists.

It's that simple.

The dilemma will never be resolved.


Maybe it's time to give Arizona to the Jews? We can put in some imitation landmarks. A grave of Sarah here. A wailing wall there. A mount or two. Call it an imperfect, yet workable solution. Change Phoenix to Echnavivitch.

Be done with it already. I love the Jews. I could love them with much less worry if they were all safely living within a day's drive from Tucson.

Every Day I Get the Same Email Offer

Fuck her to Death with Generic Viagra

I'm pretty sturdy. But this does get to me.


Could it be the word "fuck"?
Sure. It's pretty strong. Not your usual word in an email sales pitch.

Could it be the word "her" puts me off?
Yeah. I'm not so interested in her.

The phrase "Fuck her to Death"?
Seems pretty misogynistic. Even to me. Degrading. Angry.

And then with "Generic Viagra"?
Makes the whole thing sound so cheap.


I think I will forego the offer. I choose Not to Fuck her to Death with Generic Viagra.