Friday, June 29, 2007

The Coasts

After a delay of two hours, I flew back to Los Angeles. Lots of weather in New York City had backlogged take-offs. Once the plane got going, it seemed that I got to California very quickly.

New York is a great city. But the cliché about the weather in California is quite true. It’s just mountainously more comfortable here. However, the intense humidity of New York seems to make for happy sinuses.

New York and Los Angeles are sister cities. There’s a lighter strain of purpose out here in the West that makes interactions at the cash register much more enjoyable than the disappointing experience of facing the surly, angry poor in New York. The downtrodden at the mouth of the Hudson are quite something. The downtrodden in LA can simply go to the beach.

Whenever I show up for a week or longer in New York, my pea brain imagines that I have moved there for good. It’s like a whole new life. I get excited for a day, followed by a strange depression—like, have I moved here, really? What happened to my whole other life? Then, I realize I haven’t moved back to New York, and things even out. So just like in LA, I do some work, I spend time with friends. I go to bed at 4AM. It’s all the same.

Both cities are actually quite ugly. You have to make an effort to find the pleasing neighborhoods. My cab ride from midtown Manhattan to my apartment in Queens is mostly along Northern Boulevard. Nothing on earth is more hideous, yet, interestingly, many boulevards in Los Angeles are built with the same aesthetic in mind. None.

Primarily, people in both cities are working hard, going after what they want. In LA, you can flounder more with less judgment. In New York, you can get stuck in a groove...because change there seems more daunting. You can certainly indulge yourself with great food and entertainment in both places, things being cheaper in Los Angeles. On average, the accessible entertainment is better in New York, the accessible food is better in Los Angeles.

Glad both cities exist. Neither one is Paris.

Thursday, June 28, 2007

Sylvia Plath's New York

For those of you, like me, who have read Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar more than two times, you may recall how she describes New York City in the very early morning before anyone is out of bed. She writes that before the streets fill up with people and cars the smells of nature from New Jersey waft across the Hudson and fill up the concrete canyons. She describes it, obviously, in her words and to much greater effect.

I finished dinner at 10:30 with a very old friend of mine who lives on Broadway and 99th Street and I decided to walk a bit before getting in the humid hell tube of the 1 train. When I arrived at 89th Street, there was a serious stench of skunk. It actually smelled like a skunk had gotten loose and sprayed the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Was it from New Jersey? Or was it just the off-gassing smell of the brand new purple industrial carpet gleaming from the store front in front of me? No matter, it reeked of true skunk and I thought of Sylvia.

Natural experiences are so important. No matter what side of the river you live upon.

We experienced big thunder storms today. I remember as a child these storms used to clear the air and reduce the humidity. After these storms today the sticky mess still does not abate. Now, one no longer has to imagine what it must be like to live among the inner drippings of the sloughing uterus of a feverish ring-tailed monkey that lives at the equator.

Tuesday, June 26, 2007

The Coop Circus

What is it about groups of people in New York banding together in business that naturally leads to corruption? Lack of resources? Fear? Who knows!

Tonight was the yearly Coop (Ko Op) board meeting for my building out here in the wilds of Jackson Heights, Queens, New York. For the unsuspecting, a Coop is a strange real estate entity that is set up for a group of people who live in a building to own the building together. So, no landlord. Ownership. But, you actually own shares in the corporation that owns the building depending on your square footage. And, as is the case in our building, the original person who owned the building (called the sponsor) can retain a certain amount of units, and thus, shares, but is supposed to relinquish them over time to paying customers (our dude has not done this and this makes him wrong.) Lastly, each year, as many people as possible who can attend, do attend the annual meeting for voting new members to be the head of the Coop board. Ours is structured so we vote for five members of the Coop board. The sponsor, who still owns 46% of the building, gets four members. So what hangs in the balance is voting for five members of a nine volunteer member panel that makes all the decisions that affect the well being, both physical and fiscal, of this building that takes up a complete city block.

Tonight, in a basement of a gray stone Methodist church in Jackson Heights, it was like Paris in 1798. Mad men screaming! – Mostly a Russian guy who seemed to be angry in general. “You are criminals! Criminals! Shut your mouth! Shut your mouth!”

A deaf guy who kept yelling, “I can’t hear you! Speak into the mike!”

Accents from all over the globe were furious! They came to this country to be free and to move up the ladder of opportunity. Instead, they were forced to keep quiet, paying medium sized maintenance fees for work that seems to never happen---painting, roofing, repairs. Finally, these people stood up tonight and said, “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore!”

Five new people were nominated for the five open positions. Three of the old board members were nominated, also --one of them was one of the scary Goombas who interviewed us when we first applied to join the Coop. His big gray curly head and tattoos bobbing above a huge belly that hung over his shorts, makes one think of a Santa Claus summering in New York because he’s just gone mad.

The new members standing up for the open spots are for big change, fiscal responsibility, communication, transparency. The old members of the Coop board always claimed to care about fiscal responsibility and making the building nice and getting the sponsor to relinquish apartments for sale. But, they may have fallen under the spell of the other four members who are from the Sponsor’s end. We’ll never know the real story.

The Coop board member who did appear the worst to me was this horrendous man, and former president of the board, perhaps a Columbian, who announced in his two minute campaign presentation, “What do you think? If you want to get things repaired it costs money. And where do you think the money comes from? It does not piss out of your pockets. You only have problems dropping out of your asshole.”

His tone and choice of diction guaranteed I would not vote for him. Besides, he was the president and didn’t even live on the premises and snagged a foreclosed apartment for his son. Insider animal.

Meanwhile, a luscious, black temptress in a wig and nine inch nails behind the desk, handing out ballots, couldn’t really do her job (my particular ballot was lost and she had to fashion me a new one from a ballot of someone who did not attend)—but she decided, for some reason, that I could possibly be her new boyfriend. I didn’t disagree, but I also didn’t pursue it.

I felt bad for the two Goombas who have been on the board for a while who were being publicly attacked. Is it really their fault that the Coop is allegedly corrupt? Maybe the four sponsor’s Coop board members are just awful thugs and they coerced them into doing their bidding, making contracts with workers that do not work but love money anyway.

Interestingly, one of the four sponsor’s Coop board members, though not present, had his name announced. Let's say Tony Sagliano. That’s the same name as someone I went to elementary school with in the wretched burg of Spring Valley, New York. My neighborhood was one of those 1960’s developments loaded with blue collar Italians and Orthodox Jews from the outer boroughs of New York in pursuit of sylvan happiness. I could not stomach either group and spent five years in isolation playing the guitar, reading my Charlie Brown books and nursing my black mollies that contracted Ick. Of my few forays into socializing, I did spend some time playing records down the street with Tony, “I’m your Venus, I’m your fire, a-your desire.” We listened to records together a couple of times on his portable record player. But he grew sick of me.

Tony was cute with a buster brown haircut, a perfect little body and face. He was an average, disruptive, popular student. The funky teachers of second and third grade couldn’t resist his attractive charm and let him get away with anything. He was a bit of a bully. Cocky. He acted the role of mini-Roman leader. He treated me okay. But one time in summer camp (one summer he went to the same cheap summer camp I went to)—he punched me in the face. I forget why. Maybe I was trying to be fun and cool and instead I was being obnoxious and strange. Anyway, he hit me pretty hard.

Tony Sagliano moved away in the fifth grade. His father got a job with a limousine company that was totally mob? At least that's what my mother said. We went to see their new house. It was quite something for a limo driver---what with the built-in pool in the backyard, the whole place filled with big, new furniture. His mother, Josie, wore blond Doris Day wigs, lots of make-up and smoked Parliaments. We only went to their shag palace one time. I never saw him after that.

I think he’s one of the sponsor Coop board members of my building.

But maybe not. Tony Sagliano is a common name in these parts.

After returning to my apartment, I went into the hallway to empty some trash when Ann from next door caught me mid-dump. She’s been in this country for many years, but still retains her Scottish accent. She reaffirmed her belief that she and many Coop owners maintain: that the current Coop board members are corrupt animals and need to be replaced. That all this work we paid for never got done. That the roof still has problems. And what happened to our three-hundred-thousand dollar reserve? She went on and on. I’ve noticed that Scottish people are very talkative. In Germany, we spent six hours speaking with Scottish folks while drinking gallons of beer at the Hof Brauhaus. They just didn’t shut up. Of course, Cummings is a Scottish name.

This Blog entry has been edited to protect the innocent.

Monday, June 25, 2007

North Adams


There is something about western Massachusetts. There are not many small towns in this country where you can visit or live where you will be surrounded by progressive, intelligent people. Berkshire County reminds me of another great area of this country for good living with sharp people: the few coastal counties north of San Francisco. Similar sensation going on.

Lucky for those of us who find it lucky that these places exist.

My best friend, Megan, bought a house the size of an elephant herd in North Adams. It has three floors with enough room for living and renting and a huge two story garage for an art studio. It’s a lot of house.

It was constructed during the Victorian rambling-up-the-hills era when North Adams was a prosperous mill town. Brilliant place.

Vermont is five minutes away.

New York City is three hours by car.

When speaking with the local people, they generally come off clear headed with very subtle, twinkling senses of humor. Frank responses to most inquiries are refreshing and fundamentally pleasing.

Of course, it’s also beautiful.

This is not news to many people. But to me it was affirming since one does not often find this when tooling around The United States.
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Thursday, June 21, 2007

Passing Strange

Goats and sheep surely must have been dancing together all over creation today as the news spread that I was up at 8:15 AM. I committed to going to an open Broadway chorus call for a revival of Guys & Dolls. Being a middle-aged tenor who can pass for mid-century gangster, I figured I was not too delusional attempting this. Part of me imagined I could get a job and stay here for a while, bringing in some okay greenbacks. Part of me was being romantic, keying into one of my childhood dreams. Part of me was being realistic about landing a gig as I have been singing publicly to decent effect lately. And part of me just wanted to see if I could commit to getting up with the local Queens farmers and stick to such an uncomfortable plan. The audition went off with no great consequence. I moved on.

Aperture, the gallery that is connected to the magazine, was having a show of Civil Rights era photographs by Bruce Davidson (commissioned) and others (who just did it at their whim). Fascinating photos. These black people were pissed. And wouldn’t you be? One-hundred years after the Civil War had ended and then what? Moving.

A quick jaunt back to Queens to just, I don’t know, sit.

Then, back out to a fabulous play called Passing Strange. Now, who on earth has heard of a guy named Stew? I mean, he’s from California and he’s really right there, not far from where I live. I was clueless. He’s this pretty cool cat who founded a pop rock group in LA called The Negro Problem. He’s bright as hell. Born and raised in moderate middle class comfort in Los Angeles, the play’s story focuses on how he discovers that he’s an “artist”, a musician, and heads off to Amsterdam and Berlin and apes the downtrodden black American—to much European support and awe. (Not unlike Tracey Chapman’s m.o. when I went to college with her in Boston.) There is a lot of irony here. I think what sums it up in the piece is when the young character is asked by an interviewer, “Do you consider that the entire source of your work comes from being black?”

His response is, “Yes and No, so Yo.”

It’s post James Baldwin with a tiny dash of In Living Color and a level of intelligence that will not dip down.

The show is ninety-five percent sung (yes, I calculated it) with a band of five (including Stew as the narrator) and a brilliant cast of six. The musicians and the actors were out of this world talented. The actors were particularly beautiful. I just sat there and thought, “These black people are the true Americans, the ones who have really been through the whole horrible thing. And they’re hot. Everyone should have one.”

The ensemble played multiple roles to great effect and no one was afraid to ironically flash the big black bug-eyes or overdone toothy grins of yes’m-year. Again, the performers had such a profound awareness of the exact pitch in all their characters, whether they were Berliner anarchists, toked-out Amersterdammies, or what have you. The music was upbeat, driving and right on, as far as this soft-hit white guy who likes a good driving musical was concerned. The end the play became a bit obvious with its family ties thing. But art isn’t easy and we all do things to unify our stories. Let’s face it---the human race has been powered by work and family (the best cultures are ones that have liberal philosophies with a populace that continues to work hard with an eye toward human connection—Me thinks.) So it is no surprise that the family thing rears its head in a big way in many stories. With this tilt, the irony faded which I found disagreeable. But American audiences usually cannot endure irony from stem to stern. They often find such things morally unmooring which quickly translates into box office poison. Too bad. But this did not spoil the first eighty-nine percent of brilly brill brilliance.

If you’re in New York, this is something worth experiencing. If it comes to a civic center near you, check it out.

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

The Year of Magical Thinking

It’s always great to have a great friend who can get you damn good seats at a show. Thanks Martha! Martha is the girlfriend of my best friend, Megan. They hooked up a couple of years ago. By pure coincidence (since Martha is from California and Megan and I are from New York), it turns out that Martha actually went to our high school for two years before she moved to California. They did not know this before they hooked up. I was friends with her brother.

So, Martha moved to California and then came back to New York, eventually. And I moved to California from New York and now I mostly live in California and spend about six or eight weeks each year in New York. And Megan lives in New York but would like to have a desert house in California. And The Year of Magical Thinking, starring Vanessa Redgrave, written by Joan Didion based on her book, is about a woman who sallies between New York and California as she deals with the death of her husband and her daughter.

Most of you have read the book or at least heard of it. Fabulous book. The play was the book, simply shared. It was hard for me to just experience the play as a play since I know the book so well. But Vanessa Redgrave was luminous, as always. And actually, the whole time she was up there I kept thinking, oddly, that she was, in fact, Joan Didion and I thought, “I hope when the play is over I get to meet her,” meaning Joan Didion. But what I really should have been thinking was Vanessa Redgrave, not Joan Didion. I was also stuffed with hot open turkey sandwich (Hi Todd).

Well, after the play was over, I did go backstage and sat at a little café table called “Café Didion”—a little resting area for Joan (the real one) to sit during rehearsals...maybe for Vanessa, too. In any event, I sat there while Martha was finishing up her work and as the small crew and cast of one were exiting, singing en masse something from West Side Story, they walked right by and Martha introduced me to Vanessa Redgrave. Quick, simple chat. But nice to have had it. Martha and I stood on the stage of the Booth Theatre looking out at the empty seats. It’s nice to stand on a Broadway stage. Ghost light. Has that promising, expansive feeling.

Martha and I went back to her place, (an amazing new apartment on the twenty-fourth floor of Manhattan Plaza with a river view practically out to Pennsylvania) and we drank white wine with ice and yakked.

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

Warm Your Heart

And Power Up

Courtesy of Daniel Kaufman, cool electric internal communications dude.

John From...

Saw John From Cincinnati. The first episode. And there he was—the gay guy referred to as the suicidal fruit.

We gay guys are still the freaks. Or the court jester, on a good day.

Perhaps the problem is the structure of drama, in general. If you have to have conflict, then often, it is best to have a stable of bad characters to cause that conflict. For the sake of expediency, it’s even better to have recognizable bad characters in that stable.

Milch was known for not holding back anything in Deadwood. Let him have at it with this surfer thing.

As a gay guy, I am a little nutty. And I have played the jester. But I grow weary.

There is truth to every stereotype. But how lazy to keep dragging them out. I mean, Milch can go for it. But I’m bored.

Monday, June 18, 2007

The Dumb and The Sexist

Hillary...there’s time. She can do it.

The common complaint is that, “She’s so arrogant.”

Stupid people find smart people arrogant. Your basic American likes a simple president. Someone with a drawl, the kind of guy you can have a beer with. Maybe even a black tooth.

I find Hillary to be spirited. I don’t see the arrogance. She is assured.

I think this gun-toting, Super Bowl of a country is simply uncivilized and loathes the idea of a woman running it. Migrating to this country is a very pushy act. That’s how most of us got here. If the classic idea of female energy is hearth and home, then leaving your old country to start anew in America is more likely to be collectively experienced as a very male action. Our country’s social energy source is primarily unchecked, blatantly competitive male ID. Women, obviously, have pushed way to the front of many things, mostly using historically male tactics...And I say, “Thank Frigging Goddess!” for the gender balance. But still, this aggressive hell cauldron of a place has a long way to go with understanding what this all means. Women in power is still misunderstood, often misused and certainly threatening to your average citizen, male or female.

Someone is going to figure out how Hillary can pull this off. Hillary can figure out how to pull it off. That’s the challenge for her, personally. If she can find a way to move our dark ages, non-brilliant populace into a more enlightened century, and get enough people to vote for her to ultimate victory, the sociological advancement of these United States will benefit us all in ways we cannot yet even imagine. Hillary can do it. She’ll run it well.

Friday, June 15, 2007

The Eastern Solution

Say what you want about China, but at least they’re practical. After reaching a billion people, they put in a one child per family law.

Since all wars are fundamentally about perceived lack of resources, shouldn’t we all follow China’s lead in curbing population? For the sake of peace--

Thursday, June 14, 2007

The Stadium

Tonight, I went to a Dodgers/Mets game with a friend/baseball fan who is visiting from out of town. Young men and women in army fatigues were handing out small, free American flags at the entrance. For waving? To the television cameras? How could I not refuse the offer? I found the crowd at the game terrifying. I do not understand the choosing of sides, the release of aggression, the repetitive chant that “New York sucks” or the filthy masses gnashing on hotdogs, spilling beer and doing the “wave”. The wave is particularly troubling to me, with its group think choreography generated from the same neurological dark matter that gave rise to goose stepping--though admittedly executed in a lighter tone.

While looking at these trashy people, some drunk, one thin-angry man holding his three week old baby, Hispanic men chanting something about being Americano, I could only think of the Nazi Parade grounds outside of Nurnberg. This led me, naturally, to thinking of shards of words from the Sylvia Plath Nazi poems. I thought of the “Peanut-crunching crowd” from Lady Lazarus and the “Luftwaffe” from Daddy.

Being outside of the experience and finding it so unappealing, I felt like a small boy. Not unlike the small boy in the row in front of me who got his leg stuck between two of the hard plastic retractable seats, and unable to figure out how to dislodge his leg, he began to cry. His father, the thin-angry one holding the three week old baby, noticed his son crying after the mother pulled his leg out from its pinching entrapment. The mother asked her small son in reference to his leg, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

And the father quickly replied, dismissively, “He doesn’t say anything, he just cries.”

I looked at these people and thought, “If there was a tragedy in this stadium and I was the only one who knew how to get them out of there, would they listen to me? Or would they just swirl their uninformed thoughts in a prideful rage and remain paralyzed in non-action until they and their children died?”

Alienated, but not grim, and even light hearted with the recognition of my outsider status, I fell in love with what is fine on earth. I admired the diamond shaped mower markings in the outfield. The cement ground of the stands was truly covered with peanut shells. And like Sylvia, I wanted to rise up and eat men like air.


Lady Lazarus

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

And Then What?

So say Roe V. Wade was repealed. Then what? There are going to be women who will still certainly have abortions. Some will be botched and end in death like in the good old days. Weren’t they great, those days?

And then, of course, thousands will be performed with no trouble at all. Will the police go around and find these women who have had illegal abortions and throw them in jail? Will they throw the doctors in jail?

As the overcrowded planet becomes even more uninhabitable with the endless millions of throbbing human beings, must we continue to prize wanton pregnancies?

If the statistics are true and one in five conceptions does in fact end in an abortion, well, that is pretty over the top. But how could you possible enforce a law that attempts to end abortion?

Are these religious people out of their minds?

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Hillary for President

She is the only candidate pushing for universal health coverage.

Hillary, 2008. End of story.

Monday, June 11, 2007

The Sopranos

That was it?

For years I imagined that could be the possible ending. Knowing there is talk of a movie, well, this series finale leaves things wide open for such a thing. But was it done for that reason only?

It was a commendable choice, of course. Modern. But so unsatisfying. Ah. No wonder writers return to Aristotle's Poetics for a boost in dramatic structure.

Mr. Chase, I just don't know. I'm gonna go eat some manicotti (monnygawt).

Friday, June 08, 2007


Okay. I’ve been cranking it. I wrote a new thirty page play about the hypocrisy of art funding with disgusting sexual overtones. I produced and wrote and sang in a cabaret fundraiser thing a few weeks ago about the history of Silverlake and it’s happening again this coming Monday night. Another one of my full length plays, A Good Smoke, had a public reading a few days ago that came off very well. I finished, finally, writing my original television pilot, Money, for my new agency, after months of notes from them. I also finished writing my screenplay about gay zombies, Oh, The Horror!, with my friend. Sent that to the agency, too. It’s been an extremely productive time.

And now I understand why people beg for Friday. I just want to lie down and sleep for three days. Truly.

We're heading out to Palm Springs tomorrow night. But you know what I really can’t wait for more than anything else? The Sopranos finale.

Thursday, June 07, 2007

He Could Have Had a G8

The Republicans in office are really businessmen representing a few very strong interest groups. They have no vision other than financial gain for a few old industries. After they are done skimming, they will pack it in and go home.

Karl Rove, who consistently lives by the polls, has admitted the Republican party is in the toilet. And he’s rather blithe. He had his time. Everyone in this administration did what they needed to do for their careers and for their bank accounts. And now it’s coming to a close. They really don’t care what happens when they are through. It was pure selfishness. Many fearful men followed them. Some grew very rich. Some did not get their religious agenda for an evolution-free America. Some went to jail.

The whole experiment was a huge failure. And the Neo-cons know it. But being ideologues, they are wryly distant about the whole thing, shrugging their shoulders. They are like little boys with chemistry sets who blew up the garage and then slink in the house with a “shucks” grin and hog down a comfy dinner.

While in Germany, Bush the lesser is doing nothing to come together with the other seven leaders. It’s more of the same. He talks a little about implementing a few things by 2008 or 2010, but he will be so out of office and cleaning brush fulltime that he is not really thinking about what he’s even saying. He just doesn’t care. Like a child in a fit of sloth, he sits tight. He loves his easy money. He is stasis in flesh.

Even if his actions are not motivated by plain selfishness, let's just say, why anyone would put the current short term economic goals over long term economic goals is beyond me. History will prove that being green at this point in time was the only feasible way to succeed. It will preserve the earth. It will obey the laws of physics. It will make for healthier human beings. It will spur innovation. Why someone would not get on board with this only proves his lunacy.

This president that we have suffered under for endless, painful years has no vision. He is the old man in the hardware store who just wants to stockpile cash in the last couple of years before he retires with the least amount of effort, stuck behind his pride that smacks of, “I’ve been doing it this way all these years. Who is anyone to tell me to change?” Rearranging the old hammers to the back of the store for the new hammers that are ergonomically superior is just too much trouble for him and even considering the movement aches his petty pride. Small, indolent men in positions of power are invidious traitors who hurt every soul they manage to control.

Oh, Bush: Resign. Go clear brush, you lazy slob. And let the world get on with it.

Wednesday, June 06, 2007


I’m pushing all the cynics out of my life so I can be delusional in peace.

Tuesday, June 05, 2007

Relaxing with Illness

I have an idea

I need to write a book about what to do when you are waiting for your doctor’s appointment.

As things stand, it takes forever to get to see the doctor at a reduced price. You have to go to the certain place on the certain day when your certain doctor is actually there---

And even if we do move to a single payer plan, well, for sure, the Republicans will do everything they can to under fund such a thing to prove that it just doesn't work. Kind of like they did with the war (even though they actually wanted it to work). A cheap, sour people, these Republicans.

In either scenario, unless it is an emergency, one waits for the doctor.

So how about a book about what to do for yourself while you wait for days on end for your appointment? With chapter ideas like:

That Nasty Rash: A perfect reason for a three day soak in a bathtub of vinegar.

The Flu: Throw on the ice pack. Enjoy the hallucinations. By the time you get to the doctor, it’ll all be over.

Back Pain: Stop stressing and it’ll go away.

Abdominal Pain: It’s not your gallbladder but go ahead and do the olive oil/lemon juice cleanse anyway. It kills time.

Anxiety: Drink.

Overly Heavy Menstrual Flow: Sin and bear it. Rent Carrie.

Profound Migraine: You’ve all heard the wife’s tale about how to fix this one. Go for it.

Gash: Wrap it tight. Say goodnight.

Warts All Over: You’re probably a witch. Jump in a river and see if you sink or float. If you sink, you’ll drown. If you float, get out, dry off, have some eye of newt.

Generalized Doom: Walk a lot. Steal things.

Allergies: Change location. Steam. Wash your clothes and hair. Keep changing locations, steaming and washing. Eventually, you’ll end up in Iceland. It’s a better place.

Coated Tongue: Finally take your dentist’s advice and buy a tongue scraper. Scrape for three days. Rinse.

Numbness in the Extremities: Just a reaction to the Modern era. Rent old movies. Listen to Sixties, Seventies, even Eighties Pop.

Inexplicable Bad Breath: Throw away all your garlic, onions and socks (the latter is for fetishists only). No need for heavy salamis, either. Then, clean out the entire refrigerator followed by your whole filthy house. Suck on breath mints while working. Sugarfree.

Broken Toes: Think about what stupid thing you did that made this happen. Then think about all the other stupid things you do. Figure out why you do such stupid things. Is it for the attention? Are you just lazy? Or are you, actually, not so bright? Work on figuring out the answers.

So, perhaps there is a method to the madness of healthcare in this country. If it just takes too long to get an appointment, well, maybe you’ll just grin and bear it until the pain goes away and you'll cancel.

It wouldn’t make any sense to have a greater number of available doctors, now, would it? Because that would increase supply, so their fees would decrease. So we must keep the number of available doctors, like available barrels of oil, low.

In a single payer system, would it be better? Since the economic structure would change? So it would not be based on the lack of available physicians? Or am I just being naïve like a blind Canadian?

Monday, June 04, 2007

Advice to Writers

When listening to the feedback from critics, play developers and other interested parties:

Take their notes and eat them too.

Friday, June 01, 2007

Greed, Fear and Just Being Here

Isn’t it all just fear? This greed?

If this was truly a “Christian” nation—

Okay, scratch that---

If this was truly an evolved place, wouldn’t we just have it set up so people are safe
and their health care was in place?

The fear, the fear, the fear.

And the bullies, the bullies who use that fear to scramble and control most of the population. And people do it! Hey, nothing wrong with having an occupation. That’s lovely. But shouldn’t it be a little flexi? With all this technology on earth, couldn’t people work a little less, live a little more? Do what they want to do while still putting in their time, being responsible citizens? The truth is, the more people work, the more wealth there is. The more wealth, well, the more expensive things become. Hard to get ahead.
And then there’s all that fear...gluing people in.

I hear things like, “I want to do that but I never could. It’s too expensive.”


“But what if something awful happens?”


“I’m going to work real hard until I’m fifty-five, retire early, and then do what I want to do.”-- But honey, then you’ll be fifty-five.


“I’m doing it for my children.”


“I just hate those damn terrorists in Iraq and the Republicans are going to get rid of them for me, so I can sleep well at night.” ---The Republicans created them to scare you!

Fear, fear, more fear and fear some more.

Fear is a grabby gus. It grabs at you. It grabs at material goods. It just keeps grabbing and grabbing as it goes down kicking and screaming.

No more fear.

And the next time a quaking waif on a ski life wants me to acknowledge how sad and bad the world is and the bottomless goodness of Jesus Christ, I will. And then I’ll simply ask her, “Instead of loving Jesus so much, why don’t you just love me?” Or is that too scary?