Thursday, October 11, 2007
The Poodle Tray
Religion, If We Must
Lately, I feel like we might as well have Religion.
People, for the most part, have a hard time grasping algebra, never mind the complex ideas of existential existence, evolution, secular humanism, or how to happily make a delicious fish taco for no other reason than the joy it gives the maker.
When brilliant authors, like Richard Dawkins, write their screeds against religion, they take a completely logical stance. But life is not completely logical. And again, people have a hard time happily making tacos. Plus, since we, like Dawkins, are able to logically assess the ignorance of the masses, doesn’t it then become logical that ignorance needs its solace?
I accept religion as the great soul softener if it aids in mollifying hard souls who will then reach out and take care of the old and the infirm. It makes sense that older people become more religious and inculcate others because it serves them well. Kinder people won’t just toss grandma on an iceberg flotilla. Old people have a lot at stake with Religion. Let them promulgate and benefit.
Religion is not for me. But then, I live in big American cities and I’m not poor and I can go to LAX and fly around and I have never known a day of hunger or serious disease. I don’t need some caring father figure in the sky to take care of me. But lots of people do.
I believe the destruction of Religion will only come when there are far fewer people on earth, when everything is truly mechanized, when human beings only follow their bliss and this is all accepted as a fine way to live. Until then...water rationing, And God.
People, for the most part, have a hard time grasping algebra, never mind the complex ideas of existential existence, evolution, secular humanism, or how to happily make a delicious fish taco for no other reason than the joy it gives the maker.
When brilliant authors, like Richard Dawkins, write their screeds against religion, they take a completely logical stance. But life is not completely logical. And again, people have a hard time happily making tacos. Plus, since we, like Dawkins, are able to logically assess the ignorance of the masses, doesn’t it then become logical that ignorance needs its solace?
I accept religion as the great soul softener if it aids in mollifying hard souls who will then reach out and take care of the old and the infirm. It makes sense that older people become more religious and inculcate others because it serves them well. Kinder people won’t just toss grandma on an iceberg flotilla. Old people have a lot at stake with Religion. Let them promulgate and benefit.
Religion is not for me. But then, I live in big American cities and I’m not poor and I can go to LAX and fly around and I have never known a day of hunger or serious disease. I don’t need some caring father figure in the sky to take care of me. But lots of people do.
I believe the destruction of Religion will only come when there are far fewer people on earth, when everything is truly mechanized, when human beings only follow their bliss and this is all accepted as a fine way to live. Until then...water rationing, And God.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Junior High Gym Locker
When I finally got to go to Junior High School, I was so excited. An actual SCHEDULE. I love schedules. It makes you feel like you are part of something important. It was very exciting. It was also a time for smoking all kinds of things, drinking what was available and figuring out, at least somewhat, what sex was all about. Exciting times, being twelve, and getting on that bus to Junior High.
What I did not anticipate, however, was that I was going to have to share a gym locker. I understood that I had to take gym and the army-navy store sold the uniforms. Fine. What I did not know was that my somewhat filthy outfit was going to be hanging right next to someone else’s filthy outfit. Right there, in the locker room, in the basement of the school, stinking to high heaven.
Because I was about three feet tall, weighed six pounds, threw like a mouse girl and loathed playing with balls outdoors, I was not the most desirable companion in gym class. This, of course, landed me being picked second to last for all teams. The guy who was picked dead last? Gerry Schwartz, the very fat kid. The recoiling kind of fat.
When it came time to choose a locker mate, well, Gerry and I became a natural pair. Neither one of us dared to ask someone else to be our locker mate, nor did anyone ask either one of us. Our gym clothes moved in with each other that first week of school.
At first, it really wasn’t a problem. I was barely in puberty but had already sworn to a life of deodorant. I was sitting on the bench one day, in fifth grade, during a basketball game. I guess I had exerted myself during practice and I smelled like an orangutan. I told my father (and very soon after told him I was never playing basketball again) and we got some Tussey.
So, in Seventh Grade, my first week of Junior High, I had a clean gym outfit (blue shorts and white T) and I didn’t really push too hard, didn’t sweat much, and was wearing my anti-smell chemicals.
Gerry was another story. He clearly had not discovered the personally sweetening properties of flecked aluminum in white stick or spray. And let’s all just admit it—Fat people sweat a lot. After jogging around the field, doing some jumping jacks, squat-thrusts, and other things that were actually just fine with me, I’d hang in the field during whatever game we were playing and just stay out of the way. I was dry as a bone upon completion. Gerry, after the calisthenics, tried to play a little in the game. And Gerry sweated like a Sooey-Pig.
Back in the locker room, we were both embarrassed about our bodies. I still looked like I was nine years old. And Gerry was just rotund, with huge, sagging breasts. We’d both undress very slowly and wait for the others to clear out before we put our regular clothes back on. Neither one of us ever showered, though Gerry really could have used many. I’d hang my shorts and T-shirt on one hook and Gerry would hang his dripping, musky, fetid garments on the other.
The next time we would come back to gym class (about every two days), there his stuff would be...dry now...but crusty and sweet.
Over time, I just accepted it. In fact, I played a trick on myself, convincing myself that, “Yeah, it’s just a smell. It’s pretty nice actually. It IS sort of sweet. And I like skunks.” We were supposed to bring our gym clothes home at the end of each week to get them washed. I followed rules and always brought mine home. Gerry, he always watied at least two weeks, sometimes three. It was awful.
For a while, I really liked Gerry. He had a very warm smile. He had nice, straight hair. He probably would have been very cute, now that I think about it, had he lost eighty pounds. He took being made fun of in stride. He smiled, laughed it off.
I figured I was with this smelly fat kid, I might as well like him. And he did have his good smile and hair and a sort of even, good natured temperament. I even thought that it would be kind of cool if we became really good friends.
But it didn’t take long for me to realize he was completely emotionally hiding inside his blubber and I saw that his shame and pain over his size was something he had been dealing with his whole life and so he had developed a way of not really being honest about anything and thus, really couldn’t form friendships. And the dishonesty became troubling to me. If I asked him to bring his stinking gym clothes home to wash them, he’d say, “Sure,” and then he wouldn’t. But I always forgave him in the way you forgive people with great infirmities. I thought—if he’s this fat, there must be other things that are really wrong with his family. Maybe they’re poor and don’t have detergent.
Within a few months, I became friends with the hardened, smoking, cool crowd of the seventh grade. My sister was friends with all their older siblings in the ninth grade, so we younger hippies formed a pack in response. Gerry remained a smiling fat kid, standing at the locker, putting on his filthy clothes week after week. I internally distanced myself from the whole experience, figured out that one day I would not have to take gym any longer, and that this whole thing would pass. After figuring out things like this, I'd rush out to "the shed" to smoke a Parliament.
Eventually, I didn’t leave my gym clothes in the locker with Gerry’s gym clothes. I couldn’t take it. I kept mine in my regular locker in the hall along with my books and lunch and just brought them with me to gym class. When I changed, I didn’t even put my regular clothes in Gerry’s locker. I thought of it as only Gerry's locker since he really chased me out with his stench.
During gym, I'd leave my regular clothes in another empty locker. We didn’t really have to share lockers. What we were sharing was locks, provided by the school. It was back in the day before you even thought about buying your own lock. So, I’d take the chance and leave my clothes unlocked. It was fine.
I wish I could have been friends with Gerry. I really did try to look for things, but he was too hidden and sad and I needed to be free and adventurous. As the year wore on and I would change at the gym locker that I was using, that would never be locked, Gerry would give me a funny look which said, “You abandoned me, just like every other kid who has ever known me has abandoned me, but I'm going to remain smiley and nice and that's how I'm going to survive. You look like you're heading for trouble with that pack of Parliaments. We used to share lockers, but you dumped me, but I’m glad you didn’t try to steal the lock away from me because I like having my own locker and my own lock. I don't mind the smell at all. I don’t get you either and we were never going to be friends anyway.”
What I did not anticipate, however, was that I was going to have to share a gym locker. I understood that I had to take gym and the army-navy store sold the uniforms. Fine. What I did not know was that my somewhat filthy outfit was going to be hanging right next to someone else’s filthy outfit. Right there, in the locker room, in the basement of the school, stinking to high heaven.
Because I was about three feet tall, weighed six pounds, threw like a mouse girl and loathed playing with balls outdoors, I was not the most desirable companion in gym class. This, of course, landed me being picked second to last for all teams. The guy who was picked dead last? Gerry Schwartz, the very fat kid. The recoiling kind of fat.
When it came time to choose a locker mate, well, Gerry and I became a natural pair. Neither one of us dared to ask someone else to be our locker mate, nor did anyone ask either one of us. Our gym clothes moved in with each other that first week of school.
At first, it really wasn’t a problem. I was barely in puberty but had already sworn to a life of deodorant. I was sitting on the bench one day, in fifth grade, during a basketball game. I guess I had exerted myself during practice and I smelled like an orangutan. I told my father (and very soon after told him I was never playing basketball again) and we got some Tussey.
So, in Seventh Grade, my first week of Junior High, I had a clean gym outfit (blue shorts and white T) and I didn’t really push too hard, didn’t sweat much, and was wearing my anti-smell chemicals.
Gerry was another story. He clearly had not discovered the personally sweetening properties of flecked aluminum in white stick or spray. And let’s all just admit it—Fat people sweat a lot. After jogging around the field, doing some jumping jacks, squat-thrusts, and other things that were actually just fine with me, I’d hang in the field during whatever game we were playing and just stay out of the way. I was dry as a bone upon completion. Gerry, after the calisthenics, tried to play a little in the game. And Gerry sweated like a Sooey-Pig.
Back in the locker room, we were both embarrassed about our bodies. I still looked like I was nine years old. And Gerry was just rotund, with huge, sagging breasts. We’d both undress very slowly and wait for the others to clear out before we put our regular clothes back on. Neither one of us ever showered, though Gerry really could have used many. I’d hang my shorts and T-shirt on one hook and Gerry would hang his dripping, musky, fetid garments on the other.
The next time we would come back to gym class (about every two days), there his stuff would be...dry now...but crusty and sweet.
Over time, I just accepted it. In fact, I played a trick on myself, convincing myself that, “Yeah, it’s just a smell. It’s pretty nice actually. It IS sort of sweet. And I like skunks.” We were supposed to bring our gym clothes home at the end of each week to get them washed. I followed rules and always brought mine home. Gerry, he always watied at least two weeks, sometimes three. It was awful.
For a while, I really liked Gerry. He had a very warm smile. He had nice, straight hair. He probably would have been very cute, now that I think about it, had he lost eighty pounds. He took being made fun of in stride. He smiled, laughed it off.
I figured I was with this smelly fat kid, I might as well like him. And he did have his good smile and hair and a sort of even, good natured temperament. I even thought that it would be kind of cool if we became really good friends.
But it didn’t take long for me to realize he was completely emotionally hiding inside his blubber and I saw that his shame and pain over his size was something he had been dealing with his whole life and so he had developed a way of not really being honest about anything and thus, really couldn’t form friendships. And the dishonesty became troubling to me. If I asked him to bring his stinking gym clothes home to wash them, he’d say, “Sure,” and then he wouldn’t. But I always forgave him in the way you forgive people with great infirmities. I thought—if he’s this fat, there must be other things that are really wrong with his family. Maybe they’re poor and don’t have detergent.
Within a few months, I became friends with the hardened, smoking, cool crowd of the seventh grade. My sister was friends with all their older siblings in the ninth grade, so we younger hippies formed a pack in response. Gerry remained a smiling fat kid, standing at the locker, putting on his filthy clothes week after week. I internally distanced myself from the whole experience, figured out that one day I would not have to take gym any longer, and that this whole thing would pass. After figuring out things like this, I'd rush out to "the shed" to smoke a Parliament.
Eventually, I didn’t leave my gym clothes in the locker with Gerry’s gym clothes. I couldn’t take it. I kept mine in my regular locker in the hall along with my books and lunch and just brought them with me to gym class. When I changed, I didn’t even put my regular clothes in Gerry’s locker. I thought of it as only Gerry's locker since he really chased me out with his stench.
During gym, I'd leave my regular clothes in another empty locker. We didn’t really have to share lockers. What we were sharing was locks, provided by the school. It was back in the day before you even thought about buying your own lock. So, I’d take the chance and leave my clothes unlocked. It was fine.
I wish I could have been friends with Gerry. I really did try to look for things, but he was too hidden and sad and I needed to be free and adventurous. As the year wore on and I would change at the gym locker that I was using, that would never be locked, Gerry would give me a funny look which said, “You abandoned me, just like every other kid who has ever known me has abandoned me, but I'm going to remain smiley and nice and that's how I'm going to survive. You look like you're heading for trouble with that pack of Parliaments. We used to share lockers, but you dumped me, but I’m glad you didn’t try to steal the lock away from me because I like having my own locker and my own lock. I don't mind the smell at all. I don’t get you either and we were never going to be friends anyway.”
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
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Subscribe, for the love of it.
In the upper right corner of this Blog-page, you can easily subscribe to OPEN TRENCH.
After you subscribe, Feedblitz will send you the latest blog entry every day in an easy to read format right into your inbox.
They won’t spam you.
They won’t give your email away.
They won’t secretly use your computer as an espionage lily pad.
And when you get your email, if you enjoy the blog entry and you want to make a comment, just click on the title and you will be sent directly to the regular OPEN TRENCH site.
It’s the next layer of things.
We all await the unifying theory.
Monday, October 08, 2007
M C
While watching the movie, Michael Clayton, I was absorbed, mostly. Though being a writer of a story or two, I was mentally poking at it with a stick, seeing what it was made of for most of the viewing.
There is a large problem. The climax is shown first and then they backtrack and show you how they get to that spot. You’ve seen this device before and it can work if there are lots of surprises along the way. Trouble is, as soon as they start back to square one, you kind of know exactly how it all will go down because of the climax that you saw. So you sit there for an hour and a half, slogging back to the scene you already saw near the beginning and you want to quietly whisper, “Okay, finally. Now let’s move on with the story.”
No one is talking about this as a problem? I think it’s a big one.
The acting is truly wonderful. Tilda Swinton as evil in full female flesh is quite enervating. Tom Wilkinson, a latter day Peter Finch from Network, is the nut who is causing all the trouble. George Clooney is the janitor/fixer. But what we quickly learn in this world of corporate greed, power and selfishness is that everyone is a version of janitor/fixer. And janitors do feel the need to clean up.
I don’t know. Hollywood seems to be congratulating itself for this movie. I think it’s just a big ol’ movie. Well done. But there’s a flatness to the story, a lack of twists, missing layers of onions to peel.
Sydney Pollack plays power very well. He is also one of the producers of the movie.
I sometimes feel sad that as Americans, we are mostly intrigued by the use and abuse of power. We are a nation of citizens who came here powerless in search of power. So it makes sense that the distribution and negotiating of power is what we mostly want to witness. But maybe juxtapose it against other human attributes without getting too cheesy?
I don’t like to have the time to pull back and think about the sociological underpinnings of a movie while I’m watching it. But with this one, I did.
Michael Clayton
There is a large problem. The climax is shown first and then they backtrack and show you how they get to that spot. You’ve seen this device before and it can work if there are lots of surprises along the way. Trouble is, as soon as they start back to square one, you kind of know exactly how it all will go down because of the climax that you saw. So you sit there for an hour and a half, slogging back to the scene you already saw near the beginning and you want to quietly whisper, “Okay, finally. Now let’s move on with the story.”
No one is talking about this as a problem? I think it’s a big one.
The acting is truly wonderful. Tilda Swinton as evil in full female flesh is quite enervating. Tom Wilkinson, a latter day Peter Finch from Network, is the nut who is causing all the trouble. George Clooney is the janitor/fixer. But what we quickly learn in this world of corporate greed, power and selfishness is that everyone is a version of janitor/fixer. And janitors do feel the need to clean up.
I don’t know. Hollywood seems to be congratulating itself for this movie. I think it’s just a big ol’ movie. Well done. But there’s a flatness to the story, a lack of twists, missing layers of onions to peel.
Sydney Pollack plays power very well. He is also one of the producers of the movie.
I sometimes feel sad that as Americans, we are mostly intrigued by the use and abuse of power. We are a nation of citizens who came here powerless in search of power. So it makes sense that the distribution and negotiating of power is what we mostly want to witness. But maybe juxtapose it against other human attributes without getting too cheesy?
I don’t like to have the time to pull back and think about the sociological underpinnings of a movie while I’m watching it. But with this one, I did.
Michael Clayton
Friday, October 05, 2007
Closeted Senator Stays Put
The thing that wouldn’t leave!
That’s Larry Craig. He’s sticking to his senate seat.
I’m all for his barnacle nature.
Though he is certainly a hypocritical lunatic, there is no law that can unseat him, unless 2/3 of the senate votes for his dismissal. Isn’t going to happen.
Tapping my toes for Larry. Let freedom ring.
That’s Larry Craig. He’s sticking to his senate seat.
I’m all for his barnacle nature.
Though he is certainly a hypocritical lunatic, there is no law that can unseat him, unless 2/3 of the senate votes for his dismissal. Isn’t going to happen.
Tapping my toes for Larry. Let freedom ring.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Time Regained
Thanks to Jeff Kaufman, who might as well be the King of Sycamore Avenue, I have finally taken care of my sluggish computer syndrome.
Okay, you know how your computer just isn’t as fast as it used to be? Well, that’s because it isn’t. You need it to be faster. Sure, you can slow down in other areas of your life. Take long strolls along the Seine. Watch the roses grow. Pet your animals. Chew completely.
But in order to do that, you need your computer to be zippy so you’re not wasting time.
I only had 512 RAM going. I needed to double it.
Here’s what you do to see if you can increase the speed of your computer. It was so simple, a slightly educated monkey could do it.
Right click on you’re My Computer, click on Properties. A list of info shows up.
The amount of RAM is listed at the bottom, right next to the speed (Hz) of your processor. You might have 256 RAM or 512 RAM or 1GB RAM.
Also, you have to know what your computer model is.
Figure these things out. Write them down or do a dance about them. Just, remember them.
Then, go to www.crucial.com
Follow their easy steps for Memory Upgrade. You put in the necessary info you have at hand, they let you know what the maximum amount of RAM you can have in your model. You buy the extra RAM (mine was only $40). They send it to you.
Then, you just slip it in. Every computer is different---but basically, there’s always some simple slot somewhere just underneath a panel and you click it in. If you don’t know where your slot is, you can certainly do an online search for it. It truly does just click in.
Jeff was the inspiration. My credit card was so convenient.
My computer now runs gazelle-fast...even when I type, the letters hit the screen faster. It’s a fucking miracle.
I went from 512 to 1GB.
I wish I did this three years ago.
Okay, you know how your computer just isn’t as fast as it used to be? Well, that’s because it isn’t. You need it to be faster. Sure, you can slow down in other areas of your life. Take long strolls along the Seine. Watch the roses grow. Pet your animals. Chew completely.
But in order to do that, you need your computer to be zippy so you’re not wasting time.
I only had 512 RAM going. I needed to double it.
Here’s what you do to see if you can increase the speed of your computer. It was so simple, a slightly educated monkey could do it.
Right click on you’re My Computer, click on Properties. A list of info shows up.
The amount of RAM is listed at the bottom, right next to the speed (Hz) of your processor. You might have 256 RAM or 512 RAM or 1GB RAM.
Also, you have to know what your computer model is.
Figure these things out. Write them down or do a dance about them. Just, remember them.
Then, go to www.crucial.com
Follow their easy steps for Memory Upgrade. You put in the necessary info you have at hand, they let you know what the maximum amount of RAM you can have in your model. You buy the extra RAM (mine was only $40). They send it to you.
Then, you just slip it in. Every computer is different---but basically, there’s always some simple slot somewhere just underneath a panel and you click it in. If you don’t know where your slot is, you can certainly do an online search for it. It truly does just click in.
Jeff was the inspiration. My credit card was so convenient.
My computer now runs gazelle-fast...even when I type, the letters hit the screen faster. It’s a fucking miracle.
I went from 512 to 1GB.
I wish I did this three years ago.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Double Edged WiFi VooDoo
As the Santa Ana condition worsens and my head pounds like a pumpkin against a wrought iron gate, I sit at the computer and I wonder how my life got so wired.
Wanting to get more blog traffic, I set up a MySpace page and a Facebook Page with links to this blog.
Which is fine. That didn’t take long. But then---there you are—looking at your dog-ugly MySpace page compared with all the other ones that are covered with jewels, music and sometimes even fur you can feel.
I covet those pimped out electric calling cards and I want to dive deep into this world of fabulous cyber sunflowers. Yet one must, I don’t know, stop at some point?
There is all this life to be lived. And it needs to be lived with people, not with pages that are somehow linked to people.
However, I did already hook up with a performance venue in town through this MySpace thing. Although my blog is as sober looking as a book binding, I do enjoy a bit of the carnival.
I think, like everything else, one must limit one’s time going down the rabbit hole of the pulsing www. There is something lovely about organizing one’s life, publicly, for all to consume. But then there is privacy. I fear that people are not experiencing anything when they are private.
I meditate just five minutes each morning. When I do that, I feel so happy.
Wanting to get more blog traffic, I set up a MySpace page and a Facebook Page with links to this blog.
Which is fine. That didn’t take long. But then---there you are—looking at your dog-ugly MySpace page compared with all the other ones that are covered with jewels, music and sometimes even fur you can feel.
I covet those pimped out electric calling cards and I want to dive deep into this world of fabulous cyber sunflowers. Yet one must, I don’t know, stop at some point?
There is all this life to be lived. And it needs to be lived with people, not with pages that are somehow linked to people.
However, I did already hook up with a performance venue in town through this MySpace thing. Although my blog is as sober looking as a book binding, I do enjoy a bit of the carnival.
I think, like everything else, one must limit one’s time going down the rabbit hole of the pulsing www. There is something lovely about organizing one’s life, publicly, for all to consume. But then there is privacy. I fear that people are not experiencing anything when they are private.
I meditate just five minutes each morning. When I do that, I feel so happy.
The Game is Over
No one is immune to being Awful.
When people pull out the victimization card as trump, I say bah!
You can be a slave, break free, become a very wealthy CEO and bully your underlings.
You can be the downtrodden poor in Seventeenth century Europe, take a boat to the new world and kill the natives to secure your farmland.
You can be a victim of the Nazi party, then settle into the West Bank and underpay the locals.
You can be abused as a child and then grow up and destroy anyone who gets in the way of your owning Michigan.
Spare me the tales of your past as target. Then lay down your wretched darts.
When people pull out the victimization card as trump, I say bah!
You can be a slave, break free, become a very wealthy CEO and bully your underlings.
You can be the downtrodden poor in Seventeenth century Europe, take a boat to the new world and kill the natives to secure your farmland.
You can be a victim of the Nazi party, then settle into the West Bank and underpay the locals.
You can be abused as a child and then grow up and destroy anyone who gets in the way of your owning Michigan.
Spare me the tales of your past as target. Then lay down your wretched darts.
Monday, October 01, 2007
Wild, Into It
Into the Wild
Based on the Krakauer book of the same name, adapted and directed by Sean Penn, this thing is something else.
First of all, you have to decide for yourself, “Is this kid on a spiritual journey or a suicide mission?”
The brain tries to figure out which one it is. Of course, it’s both.
Into the Wild is slow. No question. The horrendous couple next to us (whom we moved over for so they could be together) did grow bored, talked to each other, leaned into each other for some heavy petting with the general tone that sounded like, “Baby, don’t you worry, I’d never do anything weird like leave you and head out into the wild to find, I don’t know, myself, God, nature, Death.”
It’s a movie you have to be in the mood for. I hadn’t been to the movies in a few weeks, so I was quite ready. Plus, I just finished reading Richard Ford’s very good novel, The Sportswriter, which is glacial yet somehow its snail pace spoke to my inner, meditative mollusk. I have been in the mood for slow, in depth things. Maybe I’m officially ancient.
Into the Wild is lovely in its administration to detail. And the point of going into nature, kind of like Thoreau but more severe, means slowing down, taking it all in. However, the experience of shooting a film and making a film that really makes you feel that way are two different things. At times, it worked. Other times, it seemed kind of overwrought---with slow shots of sky, rock, cloud, bush, bear. Growl.
The acting was pitch perfect. This is the shining goodness. Emile Hirsch does an amazing job as a coming-of-age kid who has pushed down all his rage toward his awful parents and submitted to a higher calling. He is immediately likable and everyone who comes into contact with him is galvanized into loving him. Supporting turns by Marcia Gay Harden, William Hurt, Catherine Keener, newcomer Brian Dierker as Rainey, Vince Vaughn and especially Hal Holbrook are fully realized and completely joyful to behold. I will repeat it again: especially Hal Holbrook. One can smell Oskie.
If you want to slow down and take in a big movie that tries its best to engulf a few big ideas, go for it. It’s good to slow down. But one does wish Sean Penn was just a tiny bit better at making movies if he’s going to continue. And we know he is.
Warning: Nasty moose slaughter scene.
Into the Wild
Based on the Krakauer book of the same name, adapted and directed by Sean Penn, this thing is something else.
First of all, you have to decide for yourself, “Is this kid on a spiritual journey or a suicide mission?”
The brain tries to figure out which one it is. Of course, it’s both.
Into the Wild is slow. No question. The horrendous couple next to us (whom we moved over for so they could be together) did grow bored, talked to each other, leaned into each other for some heavy petting with the general tone that sounded like, “Baby, don’t you worry, I’d never do anything weird like leave you and head out into the wild to find, I don’t know, myself, God, nature, Death.”
It’s a movie you have to be in the mood for. I hadn’t been to the movies in a few weeks, so I was quite ready. Plus, I just finished reading Richard Ford’s very good novel, The Sportswriter, which is glacial yet somehow its snail pace spoke to my inner, meditative mollusk. I have been in the mood for slow, in depth things. Maybe I’m officially ancient.
Into the Wild is lovely in its administration to detail. And the point of going into nature, kind of like Thoreau but more severe, means slowing down, taking it all in. However, the experience of shooting a film and making a film that really makes you feel that way are two different things. At times, it worked. Other times, it seemed kind of overwrought---with slow shots of sky, rock, cloud, bush, bear. Growl.
The acting was pitch perfect. This is the shining goodness. Emile Hirsch does an amazing job as a coming-of-age kid who has pushed down all his rage toward his awful parents and submitted to a higher calling. He is immediately likable and everyone who comes into contact with him is galvanized into loving him. Supporting turns by Marcia Gay Harden, William Hurt, Catherine Keener, newcomer Brian Dierker as Rainey, Vince Vaughn and especially Hal Holbrook are fully realized and completely joyful to behold. I will repeat it again: especially Hal Holbrook. One can smell Oskie.
If you want to slow down and take in a big movie that tries its best to engulf a few big ideas, go for it. It’s good to slow down. But one does wish Sean Penn was just a tiny bit better at making movies if he’s going to continue. And we know he is.
Warning: Nasty moose slaughter scene.
Into the Wild
Friday, September 28, 2007
Hair Ye!
www.HAIRTIX.com
This afternoon, I got in my car which was parked near the hardscrabble intersection of Overland and the entrance ramp to the 10 Freeway. If you live in Los Angeles, you might recall this section of town as a place with many ramps, bridges, medians and weeds. In one of the medians was a man with a sign that read, “Vietnam Vet. Disabled. Just Hungry. Can you Help?” He limped. He was old. He continuously moved his jaw up and down as if he were chewing or something—the kind of action you see in an old Hitchcock movie when it wants to be made clear that “this old guy is sort of nuts and falling apart.”
I didn’t give him any money. I honestly only had twenties. However, I did have quarters. But I need those for parking. I felt bad for the guy, truly, but I did nothing to help him. Next, I had my privileged day and went to the theatre. Which woke me up.
We saw HAIR, the 40th anniversary production at the MET Theatre. HAIR is presented by the original Broadway producer, Michael Butler, a very affable guy whom we met in the very convenient $5 parking lot.
Guys, go see it. It’s fabulous. I have never seen the play before. Sure, I saw that Twyla Tharp movie of it (a few times) which was so 1979 does 1968. And I actually liked the movie. For the music. But the play is a much more enjoyable experience. The extremely loose nature of the narrative, the be-in philosophy, the fun sketchy bits, the lovely celebration of life, light, color and flesh really do work on your senses and your soul that by the end, when they drag the audience up onstage to clap to LET THE SUNSHINE IN, you are not only happy to go, you are pretty much in love with everyone in the room.
Of course, Galt MacDermot’s music is still the big star here. My favorite songs, both in composition and execution, were Ain’t Got No, Frank Mills, Black Boys/White Boys, Walking in Space & What a Piece of Work is Man. These, of course, are not the greatest hits, but that’s usual for my taste. Singing talent varies some, but it’s really not much of a problem. There are some standout singers. When you go, you can hear them for yourself.
The cast is gorgeous, talented, honest, generous, extremely present and filled with some kind of special love. To be in their presence, even if they were to be doing nothing more than humming the phone book, is worth the price of admission.
I do not want to give short shrift to Ragni’s and Rado’s script. It is infused with the full awareness of some positive life force, a wonderment that is especially coursing in the blood during the coming-of-age season in life. The writers juxtapose this natural, positive energy against a society that is willing to take these beautiful young adults and have them killed. It is really quite shocking, an enormous tragedy and obviously relates to today’s situation in Iraq. By the time the sardonic What a Piece of Work is Man is sung, overlooking the mock carcasses of a recognizable sampling of different groups of people who have killed each other during the last few centuries, you realize, intellectually, this is where the whole story has led and it's like being hit with a plank. Then, emotionally, you feel completely saddened by the fragile, confused psyche of the human species and its ability to twist into the insane direction of fear, greed and thoughtless carnage. This play makes you want to make sure that not only do you remain conscious every second of your life, but that your life, in fact, needs to also be about awaking consciousness in others.
Do I have to mention again how great the music is?
Really, go see the play.
Get your Wig Here
www.HAIRTIX.com
Personal Hair History:
I was too young to see the play when it came out. I remember, in Peekskill, my Uncle Gene had the album and it was totally taboo and we were not allowed to listen to it.
Years later, I was Berger in a production of HAIR at Harvard (Tufts and Harvard shared hams) which I had to quit because, basically, it was a terrible production, completely rewritten in the worst way. Then, in the late eighties in New York City, I was offered the role of Berger in a German touring production---but just to take over for a few weeks so the real Berger could have a Christmas break. I didn’t take the gig because my ego was bruised, being offered nothing more than a mere replacement jaunt. I did meet Ragni and Rado, the creators, during the endless days of auditions. Old, fun, nutty Hippies. Hard to tell exactly who was gay between them. The audition process was much like the play—sort of wild and without boundaries and I was put off by it. I didn’t get it exactly. I was never meant to be in HAIR, I guess. But often, I sit at the piano and pound out Easy to Be Hard or Walking in Space.
www.HAIRTIX.com
Thursday, September 27, 2007
I Fear Depression
I sit and wonder about the economy. How can we bleed all this money into an un-winnable war and not completely destroy our fiscal lives?
It’s one thing to pummel a country and then plunder their resources, like Georgie wanted to do in Iraq. But to just spend and spend and get nothing at all? It’s suicide.
Simple bookkeeping teaches us that we are headed for ruin.
And the nutjob in the White House continues whistling his tune like a deranged bird at 4PM sitting in a mossy tree.
Dead young men and women. So many dollars gone that could have been used for healthcare and engine innovation. Because a super rich kid with not one original idea in his head was handed the presidency.
As the Catholics say:
“Let Us Pray.”
It’s one thing to pummel a country and then plunder their resources, like Georgie wanted to do in Iraq. But to just spend and spend and get nothing at all? It’s suicide.
Simple bookkeeping teaches us that we are headed for ruin.
And the nutjob in the White House continues whistling his tune like a deranged bird at 4PM sitting in a mossy tree.
Dead young men and women. So many dollars gone that could have been used for healthcare and engine innovation. Because a super rich kid with not one original idea in his head was handed the presidency.
As the Catholics say:
“Let Us Pray.”
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
STANDING OVATION
A year ago, my play THE FAT OF THE LAND ran for six weeks in Hollywood.
Which was a big, full experience.
Here in Los Angeles, we have these things called Ovation Awards--which are really our local theatre awards, mini-Tony's if you will.
Dan Alemshah, who played Claudia Vestibule, the big hearted, multi-racial Tranny, received an Ovation award nomination. It is really very exciting and well, we're all so happy for this.
Congratulations Dan.
"I tried to sneak out the window, but I'm too big."
The Fat of the Land
Which was a big, full experience.
Here in Los Angeles, we have these things called Ovation Awards--which are really our local theatre awards, mini-Tony's if you will.
Dan Alemshah, who played Claudia Vestibule, the big hearted, multi-racial Tranny, received an Ovation award nomination. It is really very exciting and well, we're all so happy for this.
Congratulations Dan.
"I tried to sneak out the window, but I'm too big."
The Fat of the Land
More Judy
Thanks to a new friend (hello DB) I have been turned on to this website.
The Judy Garland Experience
I did not dare join, enter or even consider. That fabulous rabbit hole is not for me as I have deadlines and headlines to make. But go ahead and enter, if you dare. Apparently, there are some hilarious Joan Crawford postings on there where she steals some of Judy’s stage thunder.
One of my close straight friends (hello JK) cannot understand the gay male obsession with Judy Garland. He tries his theories out on us. He thinks maybe we want to be her or maybe it’s just that we want to be her. When we explain that she embodies the timeless hurt of gay people and that we really relate to her, it doesn’t compute. Maybe he cannot see the pain underneath The Acheson, Topeka and the Santa Fe?
Perhaps we, as a gay people, understand putting on a show to cover up pain. It’s what we do. And no one put on a better show than Judy. Vulnerable, strong, talented and just a really great singer with always a huge gay following, Judy inspired the Stonewall Riots on the night of her death. And for that, too, we love her.
The Judy Garland Experience
I did not dare join, enter or even consider. That fabulous rabbit hole is not for me as I have deadlines and headlines to make. But go ahead and enter, if you dare. Apparently, there are some hilarious Joan Crawford postings on there where she steals some of Judy’s stage thunder.
One of my close straight friends (hello JK) cannot understand the gay male obsession with Judy Garland. He tries his theories out on us. He thinks maybe we want to be her or maybe it’s just that we want to be her. When we explain that she embodies the timeless hurt of gay people and that we really relate to her, it doesn’t compute. Maybe he cannot see the pain underneath The Acheson, Topeka and the Santa Fe?
Perhaps we, as a gay people, understand putting on a show to cover up pain. It’s what we do. And no one put on a better show than Judy. Vulnerable, strong, talented and just a really great singer with always a huge gay following, Judy inspired the Stonewall Riots on the night of her death. And for that, too, we love her.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
The Gayest Concert Ever
In a disappointing tone I must say the Rufus Wainwright doing the Judy Garland Carnegie Hall Album at The Hollywood Bowl concert---was rueful.
The LA Philharmonic was sublime. It’s like the codgers in the orchestra were just waiting their whole lives for this night. They were as smooth and alive and clean as a tight ensemble, yet they were a whole orchestra. Amazing musicians.
But poor Rufus. He was not up to the task. He did keep apologizing. Frankly, it was as if he said at a bar one night, all drunk, “I can make a movie. Watch me.” And then he went ahead and it turned out to be the worst thing ever made.
Rufus couldn’t hit the notes. He cracked all night long. He could not act the songs. He behaved as if it was torture just getting the songs through his chords. By the end of the concert, even a visitation by Lorna Luft couldn’t really do much. Not that one thinks Lorna could. The evening devolved into a family living room fest with his sister singing and his mother at the piano and Rufus croaking out some more old standards.
It was sad. Someone should have stopped him.
There is a lot of stuff that happens because someone has a certain stature. His or her senators should keep a very watchful eye.
The LA Philharmonic was sublime. It’s like the codgers in the orchestra were just waiting their whole lives for this night. They were as smooth and alive and clean as a tight ensemble, yet they were a whole orchestra. Amazing musicians.
But poor Rufus. He was not up to the task. He did keep apologizing. Frankly, it was as if he said at a bar one night, all drunk, “I can make a movie. Watch me.” And then he went ahead and it turned out to be the worst thing ever made.
Rufus couldn’t hit the notes. He cracked all night long. He could not act the songs. He behaved as if it was torture just getting the songs through his chords. By the end of the concert, even a visitation by Lorna Luft couldn’t really do much. Not that one thinks Lorna could. The evening devolved into a family living room fest with his sister singing and his mother at the piano and Rufus croaking out some more old standards.
It was sad. Someone should have stopped him.
There is a lot of stuff that happens because someone has a certain stature. His or her senators should keep a very watchful eye.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Thursday, September 20, 2007
What's New With You?
One expert said about a confirmed meteorite crash this past weekend in Peru, “When a meteorite falls, it produces horrid sounds when it makes contact with the atmosphere. It is as if a giant rock is being sanded.”
It is a wonder to me that more people throughout history have not been crushed to death by meteorites.
I used to have a saying when I was in my twenties, living in New York:
“Your mother smells. Like Meteorites.”
I loved the insult because of its ambiguity. Who the hell knows anything, really, about meteorites?
The idea that a meteorite sounds like a giant rock being sanded would be quite a horrid sound. It is horrid sounds, sounds that are completely unfamiliar to us, that surely cause the most fear. If I heard a giant rock being sanded, heading my way, I’d practically vomit. Apparently, over two-hundred people near the crash site fell ill. I bet it was from the new experience.
It is a wonder to me that more people throughout history have not been crushed to death by meteorites.
I used to have a saying when I was in my twenties, living in New York:
“Your mother smells. Like Meteorites.”
I loved the insult because of its ambiguity. Who the hell knows anything, really, about meteorites?
The idea that a meteorite sounds like a giant rock being sanded would be quite a horrid sound. It is horrid sounds, sounds that are completely unfamiliar to us, that surely cause the most fear. If I heard a giant rock being sanded, heading my way, I’d practically vomit. Apparently, over two-hundred people near the crash site fell ill. I bet it was from the new experience.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Radical Children
During liberal upheaval, art is often so damn good. It has energy. It is young, muscular and demands color and attention. Even if a piece (any kind of piece) is not about the political movement, for it to survive during a strong time of changing energy, it must include this vector of jagged lightning.
During conservative periods, there is a lot of remake and pastiche. It becomes very academic. People feel safe. The rules are in place. Progress is glacial. MFA adjudicators make choices that reflect their personal tastes while declaring the importance of this or that piece with respect to “What is happening today,” or “Its place in the historical dialogue.” This is tired but it is valid since during conservative periods, people are more apt to slow down and think a little bit. Reflection isn’t a bad thing, but minds in reflection lack a beat. And you can feel it. It can leave you in your head and unsatisfied.
Ideally, one would live and create in a moderate society, with quick cycling fluctuations between liberal explosion and measured conservatism, at least in art. It would be thrilling to burst, rest, burst, rest. But societies have other ideas. In order to reach across continents, oceans and resistant minds, the sine waves of cultural environmental change often require a wavelength between fifteen and fifty years.
Fascinating are the people who start the upheaval at the end of a conservative era. I think we are in that period. It is time to take the youth seriously.
During conservative periods, there is a lot of remake and pastiche. It becomes very academic. People feel safe. The rules are in place. Progress is glacial. MFA adjudicators make choices that reflect their personal tastes while declaring the importance of this or that piece with respect to “What is happening today,” or “Its place in the historical dialogue.” This is tired but it is valid since during conservative periods, people are more apt to slow down and think a little bit. Reflection isn’t a bad thing, but minds in reflection lack a beat. And you can feel it. It can leave you in your head and unsatisfied.
Ideally, one would live and create in a moderate society, with quick cycling fluctuations between liberal explosion and measured conservatism, at least in art. It would be thrilling to burst, rest, burst, rest. But societies have other ideas. In order to reach across continents, oceans and resistant minds, the sine waves of cultural environmental change often require a wavelength between fifteen and fifty years.
Fascinating are the people who start the upheaval at the end of a conservative era. I think we are in that period. It is time to take the youth seriously.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Western Movie
There’s been a spate of Westerns on television and at the movies. Bully.
But what intrigues me most about the West in the United States, and I do live about as far West as you can go without moving to Hawaii, is the pioneering spirit.
People complain less in California than they do in other parts of the country. And I don’t believe it’s due to the better weather or grander space. Something happens to people when they take that wagon train/plane/1992 Geo Prizm across the country. It’s like, if you’re going to trek all the way across a continent, well, you better be in a can-do mood when you get to the other side. And for the most part, people are and they do.
Joan Didion famously wrote:
California is a place in which a boom mentality and a sense of Chekhovian loss meet in uneasy suspension; in which the mind is troubled by some buried but ineradicable suspicion that things had better work here, because here, beneath that immense bleached sky, is where we run out of continent.
But what intrigues me most about the West in the United States, and I do live about as far West as you can go without moving to Hawaii, is the pioneering spirit.
People complain less in California than they do in other parts of the country. And I don’t believe it’s due to the better weather or grander space. Something happens to people when they take that wagon train/plane/1992 Geo Prizm across the country. It’s like, if you’re going to trek all the way across a continent, well, you better be in a can-do mood when you get to the other side. And for the most part, people are and they do.
Joan Didion famously wrote:
California is a place in which a boom mentality and a sense of Chekhovian loss meet in uneasy suspension; in which the mind is troubled by some buried but ineradicable suspicion that things had better work here, because here, beneath that immense bleached sky, is where we run out of continent.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Premium LA
One Moment.
One Ride.
Saturday night, I was part of a sketch/show/happening/live venue thing in Hollywood with Bill Maher. I had a little singing thing to do in a mock evangelical choir. Bill Maher had a funny bit as a mock minister. A big fan, I am, of Bill M. But it’s not cool to bray in Hollywood. At one point during the evening, Bill stood across from me and we caught each other’s eye. I just acknowledged that he was present on earth. He returned the same look and seemed almost appreciative that I had the good sense to just be myself. It was very in the moment and I’m glad to have had it. Of course, I could be reading into it, but I don’t think so.
Sunday, a good friend of mine was in town from New York and she wanted to go to the beach to run and I was on my way to Santa Monica to see a play. I went with her in her car, pointed her toward the beach, saw the play and took the Rapid Transit 720 bus home along Wilshire Boulevard. The 720 bus is truly express and travels along the East-West spine, the busiest Boulevard in Los Angeles. I made it home in an hour. (A car would have taken about forty minutes at the most.) It was a very pleasant experience. I might be deluded, but I don’t think so.
One Ride.
Saturday night, I was part of a sketch/show/happening/live venue thing in Hollywood with Bill Maher. I had a little singing thing to do in a mock evangelical choir. Bill Maher had a funny bit as a mock minister. A big fan, I am, of Bill M. But it’s not cool to bray in Hollywood. At one point during the evening, Bill stood across from me and we caught each other’s eye. I just acknowledged that he was present on earth. He returned the same look and seemed almost appreciative that I had the good sense to just be myself. It was very in the moment and I’m glad to have had it. Of course, I could be reading into it, but I don’t think so.
Sunday, a good friend of mine was in town from New York and she wanted to go to the beach to run and I was on my way to Santa Monica to see a play. I went with her in her car, pointed her toward the beach, saw the play and took the Rapid Transit 720 bus home along Wilshire Boulevard. The 720 bus is truly express and travels along the East-West spine, the busiest Boulevard in Los Angeles. I made it home in an hour. (A car would have taken about forty minutes at the most.) It was a very pleasant experience. I might be deluded, but I don’t think so.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Tell Me You Love Me
We watched the new HBO show tonight, Tell Me You Love Me. It was taped.
Mostly, it’s a soap opera with very pretty white people in upscale homes. (Note to set designer: every home looks too much alike.) What was so unique about this television show is that it had actual sex in it. You don’t see actual penetration, but you do see lots of flashes of every body part. Breasts, for sure. Ball sacks, a plenty. Beave, a bit. Rod, absolutely—and at one point there was a full handjob complete with shooting sperm, I’m not kidding.
It was very strange to witness this kind of thing on television that was not running a DVD. I’m not at all prudish, so I was not bothered. But I had to ask in the name of entertainment, “Whatever for?”
This type of thing does not sexually arouse since all the sex is completely surrounded by upper class angst and life dissatisfaction, adhering to the evening soap opera format. So, to what affect is all this bosom heaving and knob gobbling?
When the show was over, I turned to Adam, my Recognized-by-the-State-of-California-Domestic-Partner, and I said to him, “I have a great show I want to pitch to HBO. I’m going to call it TOILET. It’ll be a nighttime soap opera except we will add in aspects of people’s toilet life. Pissing. Shitting. Showing people on the bowl. Inspecting logs. Talking about how good it feels to take a monster dump.”
Maybe people are bored with the human condition so the envelope is pushed in the silliest ways. Or maybe there IS something new under the sun, without having to get into people’s private parts (or, hypothetically, toilets), and people are just blind to it right now.
I also wonder what these actors must think about their jobs.
Mostly, it’s a soap opera with very pretty white people in upscale homes. (Note to set designer: every home looks too much alike.) What was so unique about this television show is that it had actual sex in it. You don’t see actual penetration, but you do see lots of flashes of every body part. Breasts, for sure. Ball sacks, a plenty. Beave, a bit. Rod, absolutely—and at one point there was a full handjob complete with shooting sperm, I’m not kidding.
It was very strange to witness this kind of thing on television that was not running a DVD. I’m not at all prudish, so I was not bothered. But I had to ask in the name of entertainment, “Whatever for?”
This type of thing does not sexually arouse since all the sex is completely surrounded by upper class angst and life dissatisfaction, adhering to the evening soap opera format. So, to what affect is all this bosom heaving and knob gobbling?
When the show was over, I turned to Adam, my Recognized-by-the-State-of-California-Domestic-Partner, and I said to him, “I have a great show I want to pitch to HBO. I’m going to call it TOILET. It’ll be a nighttime soap opera except we will add in aspects of people’s toilet life. Pissing. Shitting. Showing people on the bowl. Inspecting logs. Talking about how good it feels to take a monster dump.”
Maybe people are bored with the human condition so the envelope is pushed in the silliest ways. Or maybe there IS something new under the sun, without having to get into people’s private parts (or, hypothetically, toilets), and people are just blind to it right now.
I also wonder what these actors must think about their jobs.
Two Days in September
September 11, 1974
Today was really a bad day. I mean really. It was so boring. At the corner, it was beat. It was beat all over. I think I should gain about 10 pounds. Its really ridiculous how much I weigh. Well I'm going to sleep Well Goodnight.
September 12, 1974
You wouldn't believe how exciting today was. Keith and Chris were slitting on the fense at the corner and this fat guy who owns it told them to get off. Mr. Davansoe got into it and Keith was cursing at him and they ended up fighting the cops came and everything All the queer people were coming out and everything. They were all bitches. But the time the cops left we were all
September 11, 1974
We used to spend time loitering on a certain street corner in the neighborhood. We would sit on a split rail fence or across the street on cement stairs that were walled in by rock walls on both sides. I truly was emaciated.
September 12, 1974
Chris was my best friend. He now installs fences. Keith was retarded. We kept him around to buy alcohol. The fat guy owned the property with the fence. Mr. Davanzo owned the house with the stone wall and the cement stairs. We did run away before the cops arrived.
Today was really a bad day. I mean really. It was so boring. At the corner, it was beat. It was beat all over. I think I should gain about 10 pounds. Its really ridiculous how much I weigh. Well I'm going to sleep Well Goodnight.
September 12, 1974
You wouldn't believe how exciting today was. Keith and Chris were slitting on the fense at the corner and this fat guy who owns it told them to get off. Mr. Davansoe got into it and Keith was cursing at him and they ended up fighting the cops came and everything All the queer people were coming out and everything. They were all bitches. But the time the cops left we were all
September 11, 1974
We used to spend time loitering on a certain street corner in the neighborhood. We would sit on a split rail fence or across the street on cement stairs that were walled in by rock walls on both sides. I truly was emaciated.
September 12, 1974
Chris was my best friend. He now installs fences. Keith was retarded. We kept him around to buy alcohol. The fat guy owned the property with the fence. Mr. Davanzo owned the house with the stone wall and the cement stairs. We did run away before the cops arrived.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
The Bobber
When I was six years old, my father bought my brother and I matching fishing sets:
A drop line, two hooks, two sinkers, two bobbers each.
We were a simple people.
The drop line was a square of four red dowels of wood with strong green fishing line wrapped around the square. I remember it being a light string/cord.
The sinkers were silver and looked just like today’s sinkers, as well as the hooks.
The bobbers, red and white, were also standard issue. We had small ones. Not super small, but approximately one inch in diameter.
It was very exciting. We lived near a lake with three bridges over it. One bridge was over the small man-made damn that emptied into a stream. I am sure the damn was made for what must have been a farm. The bridge certainly looked like an old white wooden farm bridge. It was definitely older than the housing development where we lived. The lake also had a decent sized island in it, not that far from the land. A very old stone bridge connected the land to the bridge. The path across the bridge was made from dirt and rock and grass with what looked like old wagon wheel tracks. This was where we fished from. The third bridge was at the stream-feeding-in end. It was paved and modern and led to other parts of the neighborhood.
The first day we went fishing was extremely joyful. My father took my brother and I to the stone bridge with our tackle, freshly dug-up worms and a bucket for the fish we were certainly going to catch. The bridge had two arches over the water. This area of the lake was very calm, almost a little swampy, with dragon flies, lily pads, algae and fish! Not long into it, my line got caught on something and I pulled and pulled. I was able to salvage the hook and the sinker. But I lost the bobber. I watched it floating away. We threw rocks past it, hoping the ripple effect would scoot the bobber toward the shore, but it did nothing. The bobber kept floating further out into the lake. I was very upset. I kept throwing stones. My father told me not to worry about the bobber. But from family history, I knew I wasn’t going to get a replacement. My symmetrical set of two of everything was now all out of wack.
I do not remember if we caught any fish. We went home. I lay in bed that night crying (to myself) in a way that bordered on hysterical. I could not stop. It was maniacal. And I knew it was maniacal. I also knew it was only because my fishing set was no longer perfect. I became aware that there was something wrong with me for being so insanely upset about one lost bobber, that somehow it made me weak to allow this kind of reaction and over emotionalism. I eventually calmed down and thought to my six year old self, “Maybe it’s time to grow up. Things are not always going to be perfect. You can live with just one bobber.”
I’m not kidding.
A drop line, two hooks, two sinkers, two bobbers each.
We were a simple people.
The drop line was a square of four red dowels of wood with strong green fishing line wrapped around the square. I remember it being a light string/cord.
The sinkers were silver and looked just like today’s sinkers, as well as the hooks.
The bobbers, red and white, were also standard issue. We had small ones. Not super small, but approximately one inch in diameter.
It was very exciting. We lived near a lake with three bridges over it. One bridge was over the small man-made damn that emptied into a stream. I am sure the damn was made for what must have been a farm. The bridge certainly looked like an old white wooden farm bridge. It was definitely older than the housing development where we lived. The lake also had a decent sized island in it, not that far from the land. A very old stone bridge connected the land to the bridge. The path across the bridge was made from dirt and rock and grass with what looked like old wagon wheel tracks. This was where we fished from. The third bridge was at the stream-feeding-in end. It was paved and modern and led to other parts of the neighborhood.
The first day we went fishing was extremely joyful. My father took my brother and I to the stone bridge with our tackle, freshly dug-up worms and a bucket for the fish we were certainly going to catch. The bridge had two arches over the water. This area of the lake was very calm, almost a little swampy, with dragon flies, lily pads, algae and fish! Not long into it, my line got caught on something and I pulled and pulled. I was able to salvage the hook and the sinker. But I lost the bobber. I watched it floating away. We threw rocks past it, hoping the ripple effect would scoot the bobber toward the shore, but it did nothing. The bobber kept floating further out into the lake. I was very upset. I kept throwing stones. My father told me not to worry about the bobber. But from family history, I knew I wasn’t going to get a replacement. My symmetrical set of two of everything was now all out of wack.
I do not remember if we caught any fish. We went home. I lay in bed that night crying (to myself) in a way that bordered on hysterical. I could not stop. It was maniacal. And I knew it was maniacal. I also knew it was only because my fishing set was no longer perfect. I became aware that there was something wrong with me for being so insanely upset about one lost bobber, that somehow it made me weak to allow this kind of reaction and over emotionalism. I eventually calmed down and thought to my six year old self, “Maybe it’s time to grow up. Things are not always going to be perfect. You can live with just one bobber.”
I’m not kidding.
Monday, September 10, 2007
If This Stall's a Rocking'...
As vile as Larry Craig is for his hypocritical standing on family values/gay rights/etc.—I really do believe this gray haired natural homophobe from another generation needs to get off. From his charge that is.
First of all, placing cops in bathrooms to catch gay people doing anything at all just reeks of bad fish, Puritanism and Totalitarianism.
Secondly, why can’t you pick up someone in a bathroom? Total strangers eye each other across bars, Little League Games, the office, airplanes and then, very quickly, may end up in a romp. Can you arrest someone for trying? “Love those breasts. Wanna do me?”
Sure, if people are actually going at it in a bathroom stall, I guess a cop should have the right to break it up. But at what point is human contact illegal? If I hold hands with Adam, my RBTSOCDP* of fourteen years, in a men’s room and even say something to him like, “I can’t wait to go home tonight, watch TV, eat pork chops and then perhaps we can, you know...” can I be arrested? What if I gave Adam a peck on the cheek in that bathroom? What if a complete stranger finds Adam to be very adorable and they strike up a conversation in a bathroom and that stranger ruffles Adam’s hair and pats his hind as a joke and says, “Have a nice day, cutie.” Is that punishable? I should hope not.
There is something crazy going on here. Sure, I understand. You don’t want sex going on in public places. In our culture, for some reason, public sex has been collectively defined as a problem. I disagree with that notion. But I also understand that I’m in the serious minority opinion here. So, okay, I accept that people, all people, should not engage in public sex for the sake of order and let’s face it, aesthetics. However, when is something public sex? And when is something just a cry for public sex? Who draws that line? It’s so scary to know that the government has decided what that line is.
Additionally, if two men are in a bathroom stall going at it, wouldn’t it be much more polite to just let them finish up? Instead of taking them in for mug shots?
And finally, if men are free and easy enough to have sex all over the place, including bathrooms, bushes, rest stops and exit ramps, then shouldn’t we all just agree that men can kind of be just like that? Especially when it comes to two men together? Perhaps there should be pay stalls around, just for this purpose? Like those groovy Paris toilets of yore? (Which they did end up taking down because people were having sex in them. Even France has its limits.)
My suggestion to cops: People are sexual. Leave them alone. If you don’t want people having sex in bathrooms, do what the French do: Put an old lady in there with her mop and tip dish to watch over things. Nothing keeps the blood more even and a penis more flaccid than an old French lady.
*Recognized by the State of California Domestic Partner
First of all, placing cops in bathrooms to catch gay people doing anything at all just reeks of bad fish, Puritanism and Totalitarianism.
Secondly, why can’t you pick up someone in a bathroom? Total strangers eye each other across bars, Little League Games, the office, airplanes and then, very quickly, may end up in a romp. Can you arrest someone for trying? “Love those breasts. Wanna do me?”
Sure, if people are actually going at it in a bathroom stall, I guess a cop should have the right to break it up. But at what point is human contact illegal? If I hold hands with Adam, my RBTSOCDP* of fourteen years, in a men’s room and even say something to him like, “I can’t wait to go home tonight, watch TV, eat pork chops and then perhaps we can, you know...” can I be arrested? What if I gave Adam a peck on the cheek in that bathroom? What if a complete stranger finds Adam to be very adorable and they strike up a conversation in a bathroom and that stranger ruffles Adam’s hair and pats his hind as a joke and says, “Have a nice day, cutie.” Is that punishable? I should hope not.
There is something crazy going on here. Sure, I understand. You don’t want sex going on in public places. In our culture, for some reason, public sex has been collectively defined as a problem. I disagree with that notion. But I also understand that I’m in the serious minority opinion here. So, okay, I accept that people, all people, should not engage in public sex for the sake of order and let’s face it, aesthetics. However, when is something public sex? And when is something just a cry for public sex? Who draws that line? It’s so scary to know that the government has decided what that line is.
Additionally, if two men are in a bathroom stall going at it, wouldn’t it be much more polite to just let them finish up? Instead of taking them in for mug shots?
And finally, if men are free and easy enough to have sex all over the place, including bathrooms, bushes, rest stops and exit ramps, then shouldn’t we all just agree that men can kind of be just like that? Especially when it comes to two men together? Perhaps there should be pay stalls around, just for this purpose? Like those groovy Paris toilets of yore? (Which they did end up taking down because people were having sex in them. Even France has its limits.)
My suggestion to cops: People are sexual. Leave them alone. If you don’t want people having sex in bathrooms, do what the French do: Put an old lady in there with her mop and tip dish to watch over things. Nothing keeps the blood more even and a penis more flaccid than an old French lady.
*Recognized by the State of California Domestic Partner
Friday, September 07, 2007
What if You Felt Great?
I was just reading online about the new movie about the Apollo 11 mission to the moon: Buzz Aldrin, Neil Armstrong, Mike Collins, the first astronauts to make it there and back, safely.
Obviously, it was such a big deal. I remember the day they landed on the moon. I was standing in front of Steven Rinkoff’s house on Union Road in Spring Valley, New York and I looked up at a 4:00 moon and I thought, “There are people walking around up there.” But I also remember thinking that the idea of making myself think about something that was not obviously visible to me was very similar to making myself think about anything else that was not obviously visible to me. Ultimately, the abstraction of knowing that something was going on that I could not see did not make me actually feel any closer to it. In fact, I blankly felt, “Well, that’s going on up there. But I’m here and we can’t communicate. So, it’s really like any other day.”
Years later, I went to college and living on my dorm floor was the daughter of one of those astronauts. I won’t spell out her name here so she will not be able to Google it. It was not unusual to face the children of ambassadors, writers, inventors, and work-a-day physicians at my college. But there was something quite fascinating about living on the same floor as a woman whose father had been to the moon. She seemed like she was touched with some sort of special moon dust. She, at least, seemed kind of like something out of science fiction. She was also flat chested and depressed. Dean, who was a senior, lived in a single next door to her and he had a crush on her. I had a crush on Dean. I tried to steer his attention away from her, the daughter of a moon visitor. She knew what I was up to, but she didn’t mind because she was not that interested in Dean. Because of our Dean connection, we became friendly, though most of the other kids on the floor wouldn’t talk to her much because she really was quite morose with depression and possessed a personality that could most generously be described as “Southern Tragic”. At that time in my life, I was not the happiest soul, either, so I was a bit drawn to her. However, I was much more optimistic than she seemed ever capable of, so I was cautious. Besides, she did not seem to have the hookup for intimate friendship.
As often happens with the disaffected and the miserable, I saw an ad for a Communist Party meeting at Harvard and I decided that I just had to go. I started asking around, seeing who wanted to join me. Understand, this was at the height of the Reagan era and students were celebrating their inner CEO, looking askance at my bong, and planning for lives of professional sameness. The astronaut’s daughter was the only one who showed any excitement to go to a Communist Party meeting. She said she would go with me. Friday night.
I thought, “How cool. Here she is the daughter of this man who has actually been on the moon. And she is more depressed than I am. And she is going to go with me to a Communist Party meeting. In Harvard Square. Maybe.”
When the evening came for the meeting, I knocked on her door and she opened it, in her yellow, flannel, lightly floral nightgown. She said she was sick and couldn’t go. I could tell she was either faking illness because she got cold feet or she was, maybe, just really depressed. I could also tell that she knew full well that this was the night and she had not forgotten about it. Her refusal to go proved to me what I had always suspected about her--that she was not a real rebel, nor was she brave. She was just like everyone else at my pre-professional college. Watching her ass. Making sure she didn’t do anything wrong. I stood at her door and I pushed her for the truth. I really wanted to know why she didn’t want to go. Then, by the darting of her eyes and the clenching of her hand against the edge of the open door, it became clear to me that there were millions of reasons why she did not want to go. Without divulging the words (but by observing her behavior) I could tell she did not want to go because she thought better of it after agreeing; that when she agreed, it was only on a lark and not something she took seriously; that I was a weirdo for wanting to go at all; that it was a pain for someone who is depressed to get dressed on a Friday and schlep down to Harvard Square; and lastly, because of who her father is, a hero.
Of all these things that I saw flash through her eyes, she only said one thing to me, the ultimate trump card that would end my inquiry as to why she was in flannel and not all pumped up for the big event, “I can’t go because of my father.”
I nodded my head in total understanding. But I gave her a look that meant, “You have to get out from under this famous father shadow or you are doomed.”
It was the only time she ever mentioned her father to me. She did know, though, that everyone talked about her only in terms of who she was: the daughter of a moonraker.
I walked away from her door. She went back to bed in her flannel nightgown. I decided not to go to the meeting either because I had no one to go with. Plus, there was a good movie playing at the pub and I didn’t really feel like going down to Harvard Square either. And furthermore, I was relieved that she bailed on me because I didn’t have to go, either. I was also afraid, having a mini-red-scare, post McCarthyism metabolism spike going on in my lizard stem. That passed.
Then, I felt very insignificant because her father had been to the moon and my father had mostly been to Paramus. But then I felt relieved about my father. I would never have an excuse to not do something because of who my father was. Nothing hangs over me. I am wonderfully free. Even if I ever become very depressed, I cannot use my father as a copout.
I do not think she ever finished college. In fact, she had a nervous breakdown and had to leave school. I remember the day the ambulance came to haul her off. She was the second one that year. The first one was an older, goofy looking guy, back in the fall. I felt kind of sad about it. But I also felt that if she had gone to the Communist Party meeting, not to become a Communist, but to just stand up and say, “Fuck it. I can go to a Communist Party meeting whenever I feel like it,” she might not have had that nervous breakdown. In my world view, I felt like I was her savior but she chose not to be saved.
It was also rumored that she had one shriveled ovary which caused her to have this low register voice and a bit of a tomboy demeanor. The guys on the hall nicknamed her “Estro” , short for estrogen, more specifically meaning a deficiency of estrogen. They never said it to her face, but I am sure she heard about it from someone.
Obviously, it was such a big deal. I remember the day they landed on the moon. I was standing in front of Steven Rinkoff’s house on Union Road in Spring Valley, New York and I looked up at a 4:00 moon and I thought, “There are people walking around up there.” But I also remember thinking that the idea of making myself think about something that was not obviously visible to me was very similar to making myself think about anything else that was not obviously visible to me. Ultimately, the abstraction of knowing that something was going on that I could not see did not make me actually feel any closer to it. In fact, I blankly felt, “Well, that’s going on up there. But I’m here and we can’t communicate. So, it’s really like any other day.”
Years later, I went to college and living on my dorm floor was the daughter of one of those astronauts. I won’t spell out her name here so she will not be able to Google it. It was not unusual to face the children of ambassadors, writers, inventors, and work-a-day physicians at my college. But there was something quite fascinating about living on the same floor as a woman whose father had been to the moon. She seemed like she was touched with some sort of special moon dust. She, at least, seemed kind of like something out of science fiction. She was also flat chested and depressed. Dean, who was a senior, lived in a single next door to her and he had a crush on her. I had a crush on Dean. I tried to steer his attention away from her, the daughter of a moon visitor. She knew what I was up to, but she didn’t mind because she was not that interested in Dean. Because of our Dean connection, we became friendly, though most of the other kids on the floor wouldn’t talk to her much because she really was quite morose with depression and possessed a personality that could most generously be described as “Southern Tragic”. At that time in my life, I was not the happiest soul, either, so I was a bit drawn to her. However, I was much more optimistic than she seemed ever capable of, so I was cautious. Besides, she did not seem to have the hookup for intimate friendship.
As often happens with the disaffected and the miserable, I saw an ad for a Communist Party meeting at Harvard and I decided that I just had to go. I started asking around, seeing who wanted to join me. Understand, this was at the height of the Reagan era and students were celebrating their inner CEO, looking askance at my bong, and planning for lives of professional sameness. The astronaut’s daughter was the only one who showed any excitement to go to a Communist Party meeting. She said she would go with me. Friday night.
I thought, “How cool. Here she is the daughter of this man who has actually been on the moon. And she is more depressed than I am. And she is going to go with me to a Communist Party meeting. In Harvard Square. Maybe.”
When the evening came for the meeting, I knocked on her door and she opened it, in her yellow, flannel, lightly floral nightgown. She said she was sick and couldn’t go. I could tell she was either faking illness because she got cold feet or she was, maybe, just really depressed. I could also tell that she knew full well that this was the night and she had not forgotten about it. Her refusal to go proved to me what I had always suspected about her--that she was not a real rebel, nor was she brave. She was just like everyone else at my pre-professional college. Watching her ass. Making sure she didn’t do anything wrong. I stood at her door and I pushed her for the truth. I really wanted to know why she didn’t want to go. Then, by the darting of her eyes and the clenching of her hand against the edge of the open door, it became clear to me that there were millions of reasons why she did not want to go. Without divulging the words (but by observing her behavior) I could tell she did not want to go because she thought better of it after agreeing; that when she agreed, it was only on a lark and not something she took seriously; that I was a weirdo for wanting to go at all; that it was a pain for someone who is depressed to get dressed on a Friday and schlep down to Harvard Square; and lastly, because of who her father is, a hero.
Of all these things that I saw flash through her eyes, she only said one thing to me, the ultimate trump card that would end my inquiry as to why she was in flannel and not all pumped up for the big event, “I can’t go because of my father.”
I nodded my head in total understanding. But I gave her a look that meant, “You have to get out from under this famous father shadow or you are doomed.”
It was the only time she ever mentioned her father to me. She did know, though, that everyone talked about her only in terms of who she was: the daughter of a moonraker.
I walked away from her door. She went back to bed in her flannel nightgown. I decided not to go to the meeting either because I had no one to go with. Plus, there was a good movie playing at the pub and I didn’t really feel like going down to Harvard Square either. And furthermore, I was relieved that she bailed on me because I didn’t have to go, either. I was also afraid, having a mini-red-scare, post McCarthyism metabolism spike going on in my lizard stem. That passed.
Then, I felt very insignificant because her father had been to the moon and my father had mostly been to Paramus. But then I felt relieved about my father. I would never have an excuse to not do something because of who my father was. Nothing hangs over me. I am wonderfully free. Even if I ever become very depressed, I cannot use my father as a copout.
I do not think she ever finished college. In fact, she had a nervous breakdown and had to leave school. I remember the day the ambulance came to haul her off. She was the second one that year. The first one was an older, goofy looking guy, back in the fall. I felt kind of sad about it. But I also felt that if she had gone to the Communist Party meeting, not to become a Communist, but to just stand up and say, “Fuck it. I can go to a Communist Party meeting whenever I feel like it,” she might not have had that nervous breakdown. In my world view, I felt like I was her savior but she chose not to be saved.
It was also rumored that she had one shriveled ovary which caused her to have this low register voice and a bit of a tomboy demeanor. The guys on the hall nicknamed her “Estro” , short for estrogen, more specifically meaning a deficiency of estrogen. They never said it to her face, but I am sure she heard about it from someone.
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Galvanize Your Life
Is courage just the awareness that gestures, journeys, lives have intrinsic shape, and must, one way or another, be completed? That there is a path to be followed, literally to the death? Awareness is harsh but better than being unaware, never sensing a path. Better than a life of stunts, false starts, dead ends. Better than the irredeemable ugliness of the halfhearted. Better than feeling there is no shape to anything. The world knows itself.
--Peter Behrens, Author, The Law Of Dreams
--Peter Behrens, Author, The Law Of Dreams
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Hollywood Purity Ball
One of the enjoyable things about living in Hollywood is that there really are lots of talented people doing all sorts of wacky crap.
Thank goodness.
Friends of ours pulled together a mock Hell House a couple of years ago. A Hell House is one of those Christian sideshow places where they set up rooms that depict, live, how you will suffer in hell if you do things like get an abortion, have premarital sex, do drugs, have gay sex etc. It was quite something, with fake flying guts, people roasting in hell, all kinds of sinners being tortured by Satan. You name it. (Isn’t it great that you actually have to capitalize the S in Satan for it to be spelled correctly?) Hollywood Hell House We were involved with this for a bit but then we kind of fell through the cracks and missed being in it because of time constraints, scheduling.
However, this time around, the commitment is much smaller and the concept much easier to produce. So Adam, my Recognized-by-the-State-of-California-Domestic-Partner, and I are going to be in the funny, nerdy, no-soul all-white choir doing a pop medley about the importance of keeping your virginity as part of the evenings scripted shenanigans. The gist: if you are a girl, you really must pledge your intact hymen to your Daddy until the day you get married.
If you want to check out this event, buy some tickets at the link below. We’ll be performing just one night, September 15. A guest star like Bill Maher will most likely be there, performing live. If not him, someone like him.
It’s all tongue in cheek. (Better than tongue in vagina?)
Purity. Ball.
Hollywood Purity Ball
Thank goodness.
Friends of ours pulled together a mock Hell House a couple of years ago. A Hell House is one of those Christian sideshow places where they set up rooms that depict, live, how you will suffer in hell if you do things like get an abortion, have premarital sex, do drugs, have gay sex etc. It was quite something, with fake flying guts, people roasting in hell, all kinds of sinners being tortured by Satan. You name it. (Isn’t it great that you actually have to capitalize the S in Satan for it to be spelled correctly?) Hollywood Hell House We were involved with this for a bit but then we kind of fell through the cracks and missed being in it because of time constraints, scheduling.
However, this time around, the commitment is much smaller and the concept much easier to produce. So Adam, my Recognized-by-the-State-of-California-Domestic-Partner, and I are going to be in the funny, nerdy, no-soul all-white choir doing a pop medley about the importance of keeping your virginity as part of the evenings scripted shenanigans. The gist: if you are a girl, you really must pledge your intact hymen to your Daddy until the day you get married.
If you want to check out this event, buy some tickets at the link below. We’ll be performing just one night, September 15. A guest star like Bill Maher will most likely be there, performing live. If not him, someone like him.
It’s all tongue in cheek. (Better than tongue in vagina?)
Purity. Ball.
Hollywood Purity Ball
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Pier To Peak
A half marathon was in play this weekend. I did it with some friends. It was thirteen miles---which was not such a big deal. (And I didn't do it for time, but only for completion)...What was ridiculous about it was it had a four-thousand feet elevation gain. Pier to Peak means it began at sea level at the pier in Santa Barbara and then ratcheted up four-thousand feet above sea level through a couple of micro-climates...ending in pine forest thirteen miles and four hours later. Crazy stuff.
I cruised hard up until mile seven. At that point, I said to my party, "Save yourselves. I can't go that fast."
So, I finished the last six miles alone and kind of delirious. It really is extreme--to decide to haul your ass, nonstop, up a four-thousand foot mountain over thirteen miles. You start seeing the Infant of Prague, the Virgin Mother, maybe some aliens.
I held up pretty well. I was not affected by the extreme heat. I was annoyed by the small black flies that were coming at my face for moisture? Salt?
Plenty of water and designer energy bars kept me afloat.
It was the hardest physical thing I've ever done. I recommend such a thing. It's transcendental...at a biochemistry level, of course. It chases away all thought. It simply becomes about "move, move, move, move, move, move, move, move, move, move, move, move"-- which sounds dull but really isn't.
And the sense of accomplishment. Followed by huge cheeseburgers. It's so peaceful.
I cruised hard up until mile seven. At that point, I said to my party, "Save yourselves. I can't go that fast."
So, I finished the last six miles alone and kind of delirious. It really is extreme--to decide to haul your ass, nonstop, up a four-thousand foot mountain over thirteen miles. You start seeing the Infant of Prague, the Virgin Mother, maybe some aliens.
I held up pretty well. I was not affected by the extreme heat. I was annoyed by the small black flies that were coming at my face for moisture? Salt?
Plenty of water and designer energy bars kept me afloat.
It was the hardest physical thing I've ever done. I recommend such a thing. It's transcendental...at a biochemistry level, of course. It chases away all thought. It simply becomes about "move, move, move, move, move, move, move, move, move, move, move, move"-- which sounds dull but really isn't.
And the sense of accomplishment. Followed by huge cheeseburgers. It's so peaceful.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Guydaho Meet Guyowa
So many people mix up the I states. Eventually, one understands that the one that matters most is Illinois. Indiana is often forgotten. Then, there’s the endless confusion of the geographical locations of Idaho and Iowa. So many people switch them, or just lump them together as “Somewhere out there”. But today, they have a little something in common: Guys on Guys. For real.
Larry Craig. What is most annoying is how up in arms people are about some old guy wanting a beej in a bathroom. It was a sting operation. Someone wanted to hurt the guy for being gayish. Nasty world. There are men all over creation (or at least in the Macy’s bathroom in Herald Square) who hook up in bathrooms and either get their business taken care of right there, or head off to some other bathroom where there are fewer onlookers. One of the perks of being gay is quick and easy hookups. Jealous cops.
Robert Hanson. Heartening, and just in on Yahoo:
A county judge struck down Iowa's decade-old gay marriage ban as unconstitutional Thursday and ordered local officials to process marriage licenses for six gay couples. Gay couples from anywhere in Iowa could apply for a marriage license from Polk County under Judge Robert Hanson's ruling.
Way to go Iowa. Of course, appeals will happen. Idaho could learn a little something from Iowa. Nevertheless, guess what, I states? You are loaded with homosexuals. Time to relax about it, enjoy it even, get married, or go fuck in a toilet for goodness' sake.
Larry Craig. What is most annoying is how up in arms people are about some old guy wanting a beej in a bathroom. It was a sting operation. Someone wanted to hurt the guy for being gayish. Nasty world. There are men all over creation (or at least in the Macy’s bathroom in Herald Square) who hook up in bathrooms and either get their business taken care of right there, or head off to some other bathroom where there are fewer onlookers. One of the perks of being gay is quick and easy hookups. Jealous cops.
Robert Hanson. Heartening, and just in on Yahoo:
A county judge struck down Iowa's decade-old gay marriage ban as unconstitutional Thursday and ordered local officials to process marriage licenses for six gay couples. Gay couples from anywhere in Iowa could apply for a marriage license from Polk County under Judge Robert Hanson's ruling.
Way to go Iowa. Of course, appeals will happen. Idaho could learn a little something from Iowa. Nevertheless, guess what, I states? You are loaded with homosexuals. Time to relax about it, enjoy it even, get married, or go fuck in a toilet for goodness' sake.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Free Pants: From Brad Pitt's Ass to Mine
When I first saw the torso of Brad Pitt in Thelma & Louise, I understood immediately how I could never measure up and become a movie star. Of course, there was also his hair. And then there was the face.
Part of my joy of living in Hollywood is I get to do production accounting. Oh sure, it’s glamorous. Vendors to pay. Quick Books Pro. Reconciliations. Filing. I have learned to trick the system into giving me very specific reports. Exporting to Excel gives me the tingle. I have done this for years. Luckily, it has devolved into weekly Wednesdays, only. For international companies.
I continue with my tale.
Every other Wednesday I work for a company that produces commercials for the Latin market. The Wednesdays in between, I work for a company that produces commercials for the Japanese market. You know how stars won’t be in American commercials, but they’ll appear in Japanese ones (Bill Murray in Lost in Translation). We have worked with Madonna, Guy Ritchie and Brad Pitt for years. It’s bizarre. I’ve never met any of them, but I cut checks to “their people.” I have never signed a confidentiality agreement, so I can tell you this: Brad Pitt gets a SAG contribution toward his Pension Plan (oh, about 10% of his full fee) for two days of work that is enough money to buy a brand new house, cash, in the Midwest.
The commercial that we usually shoot with Brad Pitt is for Edwin Jeans. He works a day or two, makes his 10 times the amount of a new house in the Midwest and moves on. These commercials in Japan are very successful.
Usually, when the shoot is over, there really isn’t much swag. (Though at my Latin production company, I’ve come home with cans of soda and Christmas lights.) But this year, for some reason, we were left with two enormous boxes of Edwin Jeans. These suckers are expensive. I was lounging about in the office in my Perry Ellis workout shorts and old sneakers. The executive producer was out today. I was planning a quick data entry afternoon followed by an escape to the gym. As I was leaving, the admin guy (little Japanese kid. Sweet, but very messy, let’s call him Nao, which is his name.) and I were saying goodbye when I noticed these two boxes for the first time. I asked him, “Are those Edwin Jeans?” I guessed the brand since I was punching in expenses for two hours for the Edwin Jeans job and what else, on earth, could they be? And Nao answered, “Yes. Take some.”
It was like odd Christmas in LA in August. At first I thought, “I will never fit into Brad Pitt’s size. I better try on a pair.”
I took the 33 X 33 jeans and zipped around the corner, dropped my Perry Ellis pig shorts and yanked up the Brad Pitt pants. And they fit. A bit snug. But not uncomfortable.
Could this be possible? Me in Brad’s jeans together at last? My ass a Brad Pitt ass?
I ransacked the boxes. “Are you sure I can take as many as I want?”
And Nao said, “Yeah. Sure. We got so many this year.”
Certainly, one would think Brad Pitt’s legs would be longer than mine. And his waist must be thinner, no?
Okay, the pants do bunch up a bit at my ankles. I’m really a 32. After Yoga. But there I was, tucking into his 33 waist jeans and they fit. I took eight pairs.
But something struck me as I was sifting through the box. Obviously, any rational person would realized there was no way Brad Pitt could have worn all these jeans during the shoot. There were just too many. Then, I saw a pair that had serious dirt marks on the knees. They could not have been factory made. It was real dirt. So I figured, “Brad must have worn this particular pair during the shoot.” The other peculiar thing about this particular pair: At the back, the waist was taken in about two inches and held together with two large safety pins. Sigh.
Part of my joy of living in Hollywood is I get to do production accounting. Oh sure, it’s glamorous. Vendors to pay. Quick Books Pro. Reconciliations. Filing. I have learned to trick the system into giving me very specific reports. Exporting to Excel gives me the tingle. I have done this for years. Luckily, it has devolved into weekly Wednesdays, only. For international companies.
I continue with my tale.
Every other Wednesday I work for a company that produces commercials for the Latin market. The Wednesdays in between, I work for a company that produces commercials for the Japanese market. You know how stars won’t be in American commercials, but they’ll appear in Japanese ones (Bill Murray in Lost in Translation). We have worked with Madonna, Guy Ritchie and Brad Pitt for years. It’s bizarre. I’ve never met any of them, but I cut checks to “their people.” I have never signed a confidentiality agreement, so I can tell you this: Brad Pitt gets a SAG contribution toward his Pension Plan (oh, about 10% of his full fee) for two days of work that is enough money to buy a brand new house, cash, in the Midwest.
The commercial that we usually shoot with Brad Pitt is for Edwin Jeans. He works a day or two, makes his 10 times the amount of a new house in the Midwest and moves on. These commercials in Japan are very successful.
Usually, when the shoot is over, there really isn’t much swag. (Though at my Latin production company, I’ve come home with cans of soda and Christmas lights.) But this year, for some reason, we were left with two enormous boxes of Edwin Jeans. These suckers are expensive. I was lounging about in the office in my Perry Ellis workout shorts and old sneakers. The executive producer was out today. I was planning a quick data entry afternoon followed by an escape to the gym. As I was leaving, the admin guy (little Japanese kid. Sweet, but very messy, let’s call him Nao, which is his name.) and I were saying goodbye when I noticed these two boxes for the first time. I asked him, “Are those Edwin Jeans?” I guessed the brand since I was punching in expenses for two hours for the Edwin Jeans job and what else, on earth, could they be? And Nao answered, “Yes. Take some.”
It was like odd Christmas in LA in August. At first I thought, “I will never fit into Brad Pitt’s size. I better try on a pair.”
I took the 33 X 33 jeans and zipped around the corner, dropped my Perry Ellis pig shorts and yanked up the Brad Pitt pants. And they fit. A bit snug. But not uncomfortable.
Could this be possible? Me in Brad’s jeans together at last? My ass a Brad Pitt ass?
I ransacked the boxes. “Are you sure I can take as many as I want?”
And Nao said, “Yeah. Sure. We got so many this year.”
Certainly, one would think Brad Pitt’s legs would be longer than mine. And his waist must be thinner, no?
Okay, the pants do bunch up a bit at my ankles. I’m really a 32. After Yoga. But there I was, tucking into his 33 waist jeans and they fit. I took eight pairs.
But something struck me as I was sifting through the box. Obviously, any rational person would realized there was no way Brad Pitt could have worn all these jeans during the shoot. There were just too many. Then, I saw a pair that had serious dirt marks on the knees. They could not have been factory made. It was real dirt. So I figured, “Brad must have worn this particular pair during the shoot.” The other peculiar thing about this particular pair: At the back, the waist was taken in about two inches and held together with two large safety pins. Sigh.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
The Bushed Administration
All the rats have left the sinking ship with the exception of the two largest rodents—they’re just too bloated down in the hold to move. (Is it Condi who keeps them there?)
Cheney and Bush lay about as voracious ballast, eating cheese with their clawed paws. They scamper with no other purpose than to eat as much as their sharp little teeth can chew.
The flea hosts! The scared boys in old man flesh suits! Rat flesh! Failures.
Bush seems to not even care how poorly everything has turned out since his party stole the election for him in Florida. What a waste.
But life is not neat. People need to learn things. In the process, there is often mayhem and death. This is the only acceptance I can muster for these lost years.
Exhausted dogma. Exhausted administration. Nothing left behind but bodies and debt.
One more whiskered rat needs egress. Condi, limp over to the gunwales. And jump. You’ve done nothing for this world.
Cheney and Bush lay about as voracious ballast, eating cheese with their clawed paws. They scamper with no other purpose than to eat as much as their sharp little teeth can chew.
The flea hosts! The scared boys in old man flesh suits! Rat flesh! Failures.
Bush seems to not even care how poorly everything has turned out since his party stole the election for him in Florida. What a waste.
But life is not neat. People need to learn things. In the process, there is often mayhem and death. This is the only acceptance I can muster for these lost years.
Exhausted dogma. Exhausted administration. Nothing left behind but bodies and debt.
One more whiskered rat needs egress. Condi, limp over to the gunwales. And jump. You’ve done nothing for this world.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Sometimes...You Just Go
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Lush,Rainy Day in Queens
Monday, August 20, 2007
A Friendly Welcome
Heading East w/ Go@Blogger.com
Friday, August 17, 2007
New Format Highlights all Blog Entries
Blogger (brought to you by Google) has updated its layout formatting. I resisted doing the update since it required reentering the links and any other third party HTML that had to be added. That part turned out to be very simple. The new interface makes it so.
What is more interesting but much more work is the new feature that allows you to label each blog entry. You make up your own categories (squid, butter, Cheney) and go to your ‘dashboard” and start labeling. It takes forever. I have 615 blog entries, beginning January, 2005. I have labeled about a third of them.
So go ahead and look at the right side of this entry and see the heading “Subject Categories”— Now pick one or two! If you are feeling introspective today, click on “Internal Memo” and “Advice”.
If you are up in arms over the state of the union, click on, “Social Studies” and “War and Peace”.
It’s a great way to catch up on the blogs you’ve missed---but only in the areas that interest you today.
Enjoy!
What is more interesting but much more work is the new feature that allows you to label each blog entry. You make up your own categories (squid, butter, Cheney) and go to your ‘dashboard” and start labeling. It takes forever. I have 615 blog entries, beginning January, 2005. I have labeled about a third of them.
So go ahead and look at the right side of this entry and see the heading “Subject Categories”— Now pick one or two! If you are feeling introspective today, click on “Internal Memo” and “Advice”.
If you are up in arms over the state of the union, click on, “Social Studies” and “War and Peace”.
It’s a great way to catch up on the blogs you’ve missed---but only in the areas that interest you today.
Enjoy!
Thursday, August 16, 2007
August 16, 1974
I swam at Devils Ditch and I swam a a swimming whole in hillburn. All Sally's friends came over tonight. They ate everything. Well I'm going to sleep now Goodnight
At the end of my street flowed the mighty Ramapo, a river of waste effluents, stuck logs and crayfish. I spent many summers down at Devils Ditch--with a rope swing and everything else. During major flooding, we would jump off a large steel industrial bridge and float down the river to Devil's Ditch. You can also imagine every other kind of thing that went on down there. It all happened. Some of the guys still live in their parent's basements.
At the end of my street flowed the mighty Ramapo, a river of waste effluents, stuck logs and crayfish. I spent many summers down at Devils Ditch--with a rope swing and everything else. During major flooding, we would jump off a large steel industrial bridge and float down the river to Devil's Ditch. You can also imagine every other kind of thing that went on down there. It all happened. Some of the guys still live in their parent's basements.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Schweinvisor Rove Haiku
Snout for small minds
Squeals a white house to failure,
The gray pig runs home.
Squeals a white house to failure,
The gray pig runs home.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Snow Nigger
I was watching Weeds tonight. Enjoyable show.
A bounty hunter from Alaska, presumed Inuit, played opposite one of the main characters of the show. The Inuit was referred to as a Snow Nigga by this main character. This was rendered humorous because the first we hear of it is when the Inuit thug says, “I’m not your Snow Nigger.”
The show is brave when it comes to portraying clashing ethnicities and classes. But aren’t the browner folks still stepping and fetching for the pure viewing pleasure of the whiter folks in the audience? The show is, clearly, for the consumption of a white, educated bunch. It’s so suburban hip, it kind of hurts. Or what is even more ridiculous is, since I am of a certain age, color and socioeconomic group, I think it’s hip.
I can never know what it is to be anything but white. I watch the black actors on this show and how they are used to point up the naïve, privileged life of the very white and beautiful Mary Louise Parker and I cannot know, at all, how they feel playing these roles, or if they even give a damn how they come off. It is comedy. But is it the comedy, perhaps, that in a hundred years from now, will make us cringe?
Comedy calls for alienation and anger at its foundation. A strong world point of view is required, too. Without that, you end up with one of those dull sitcoms. And who wants to watch one of those? I’d rather have the less pc show even if the aesthetic morality is questionable. But it occurs to me that in order for the show to work as a comedy, I really have to relate to Mary Louise Parker and her crew, completely, separate from the shady element. And I do. At the expense of the supporting, gun toting characters with very dark hair and dark brown complexions, sometimes Armenian, occasionally Eskimo.
As long as I have lived in this country (my whole life) I have really not come any closer to feeling what it is to be from a different race. I intellectually understand there are major differences but I do not have any daily understanding in my emotional life. All I ever feel is, “I’m due. Gimme it. And when you’re done with my floors, make sure you rinse the mop good.” And I double the salary at Christmas.
Just a couple of generations away from house cleaners and milkmen, I understand that I did not come from the ruling elite of Europe. However, I would never be referred to as a Snow Nigger or any other kind of nigger. Potato Nigger? Pasta Nigger? I don’t think so.
A bounty hunter from Alaska, presumed Inuit, played opposite one of the main characters of the show. The Inuit was referred to as a Snow Nigga by this main character. This was rendered humorous because the first we hear of it is when the Inuit thug says, “I’m not your Snow Nigger.”
The show is brave when it comes to portraying clashing ethnicities and classes. But aren’t the browner folks still stepping and fetching for the pure viewing pleasure of the whiter folks in the audience? The show is, clearly, for the consumption of a white, educated bunch. It’s so suburban hip, it kind of hurts. Or what is even more ridiculous is, since I am of a certain age, color and socioeconomic group, I think it’s hip.
I can never know what it is to be anything but white. I watch the black actors on this show and how they are used to point up the naïve, privileged life of the very white and beautiful Mary Louise Parker and I cannot know, at all, how they feel playing these roles, or if they even give a damn how they come off. It is comedy. But is it the comedy, perhaps, that in a hundred years from now, will make us cringe?
Comedy calls for alienation and anger at its foundation. A strong world point of view is required, too. Without that, you end up with one of those dull sitcoms. And who wants to watch one of those? I’d rather have the less pc show even if the aesthetic morality is questionable. But it occurs to me that in order for the show to work as a comedy, I really have to relate to Mary Louise Parker and her crew, completely, separate from the shady element. And I do. At the expense of the supporting, gun toting characters with very dark hair and dark brown complexions, sometimes Armenian, occasionally Eskimo.
As long as I have lived in this country (my whole life) I have really not come any closer to feeling what it is to be from a different race. I intellectually understand there are major differences but I do not have any daily understanding in my emotional life. All I ever feel is, “I’m due. Gimme it. And when you’re done with my floors, make sure you rinse the mop good.” And I double the salary at Christmas.
Just a couple of generations away from house cleaners and milkmen, I understand that I did not come from the ruling elite of Europe. However, I would never be referred to as a Snow Nigger or any other kind of nigger. Potato Nigger? Pasta Nigger? I don’t think so.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Land Use and Slavery
It does not change. It gets a little better. But it’s still a huge problem.
Land Use Management. People still want to grab land, any land, for themselves. If you can enslave the people who are already on that land to do the work for you--to develop and distribute the resources to you, all the better.
Arabs of Chad are in Darfur, grabbing scrubby farmland. The United States is in Iraq, grabbing oil land. The Israelis and Palestinians fight over rocks and sand in the name of Yahweh and Allah. The Japanese no longer do it, but for centuries they went after Korea and Manchuria...because, why not? Napoleon—nut. North and South America were the biggest land grabs in recent history. I was stopped at an intersection today, looking at a group of three women of European descent. One of them was quite old in olive green support hose and a pleated navy blue skirt. She had a very determined WWII energy about her. She had endured it all. She was appealing in an old world way. She seemed so very English or German or some other Northern European breed standing there on the hot sidewalk, put together, yet disheveled. She seemed so out of place in the brutal, pounding sun of Los Angeles, like a missionary. I really felt like she should go home. All the rest of the white people should follow. I’d go back.
But it’s so difficult now. Who wants to give up all the discount stores, movie theatres and amusement piers? Europeans came here, determined, to satisfy their appetites. Any other human type beasts be damned.
Remember when you were a child and you wanted your sister’s candy? You’d take a look at your sister and imagine her to have the equivalent heft of the button on the pillow of a side chair. She was nothing compared to that peanut butter cup. So you’d march over to her side of the playroom and just take it from her. And all hell would break loose.
This is what we do.
Why we still do it and expect any results other than all out war, I have no idea.
Land Use Management. People still want to grab land, any land, for themselves. If you can enslave the people who are already on that land to do the work for you--to develop and distribute the resources to you, all the better.
Arabs of Chad are in Darfur, grabbing scrubby farmland. The United States is in Iraq, grabbing oil land. The Israelis and Palestinians fight over rocks and sand in the name of Yahweh and Allah. The Japanese no longer do it, but for centuries they went after Korea and Manchuria...because, why not? Napoleon—nut. North and South America were the biggest land grabs in recent history. I was stopped at an intersection today, looking at a group of three women of European descent. One of them was quite old in olive green support hose and a pleated navy blue skirt. She had a very determined WWII energy about her. She had endured it all. She was appealing in an old world way. She seemed so very English or German or some other Northern European breed standing there on the hot sidewalk, put together, yet disheveled. She seemed so out of place in the brutal, pounding sun of Los Angeles, like a missionary. I really felt like she should go home. All the rest of the white people should follow. I’d go back.
But it’s so difficult now. Who wants to give up all the discount stores, movie theatres and amusement piers? Europeans came here, determined, to satisfy their appetites. Any other human type beasts be damned.
Remember when you were a child and you wanted your sister’s candy? You’d take a look at your sister and imagine her to have the equivalent heft of the button on the pillow of a side chair. She was nothing compared to that peanut butter cup. So you’d march over to her side of the playroom and just take it from her. And all hell would break loose.
This is what we do.
Why we still do it and expect any results other than all out war, I have no idea.
Friday, August 10, 2007
The Edge of Death
The Homo sapiens specie has, for most of its existence, lived on the precipice of possible sudden death. This is what we know.
Sure, we settled down as farmers back in the day, and that must have done a thing or two to our evolution, at least culturally, but basically, it’s been a kill or be killed world for so long and for that world are we wired.
We watch harsh sports and we ride roller-coasters and we go to scary movies. These are pretty harmless and seem to me to be wonderful adaptations as a way to keep the inner survivalist alive.
But then, we still conduct business and manhandle the planet in a way that puts us at great risk. Journalists write about how we are in denial about our negative behaviors. But I don’t believe we are in denial. I believe the fight for acquiring wealth in the face of ruinous, perilous competition has always been the activity human beings have used to stave off death, even if it means causing death, even if it means causing death to the self.
It’s maladaptive. It’s why species are so tragically funny.
Rolling along the streets of Los Angeles today in my 1992 Geo Prizm during rush hour, I could not help but see all these people in various states of survival and antagonism. Driving in Los Angeles has turned a corner over the past two years. It has become aggressive and competitive. The exhaust is killing us. But humans love it. They love to feel like their lives are threatened and to fight against this threat. Maladapted. Maladapted. It’s not even our fault. The evolutionary experiment has brought us to this point. We are in the Petri dish. We are the species that likes to live on the edge of death. Problem with the edge is, you’re right at the edge.
Sure, we settled down as farmers back in the day, and that must have done a thing or two to our evolution, at least culturally, but basically, it’s been a kill or be killed world for so long and for that world are we wired.
We watch harsh sports and we ride roller-coasters and we go to scary movies. These are pretty harmless and seem to me to be wonderful adaptations as a way to keep the inner survivalist alive.
But then, we still conduct business and manhandle the planet in a way that puts us at great risk. Journalists write about how we are in denial about our negative behaviors. But I don’t believe we are in denial. I believe the fight for acquiring wealth in the face of ruinous, perilous competition has always been the activity human beings have used to stave off death, even if it means causing death, even if it means causing death to the self.
It’s maladaptive. It’s why species are so tragically funny.
Rolling along the streets of Los Angeles today in my 1992 Geo Prizm during rush hour, I could not help but see all these people in various states of survival and antagonism. Driving in Los Angeles has turned a corner over the past two years. It has become aggressive and competitive. The exhaust is killing us. But humans love it. They love to feel like their lives are threatened and to fight against this threat. Maladapted. Maladapted. It’s not even our fault. The evolutionary experiment has brought us to this point. We are in the Petri dish. We are the species that likes to live on the edge of death. Problem with the edge is, you’re right at the edge.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
The Big Question
“How do I want to feel?”
This is the big question. It’s just the same old idea that has sold, like, a jillion self-help books. “Think positive,” and “Be grateful,” and “Live a life that is loving and nonjudgmental,” “Think positive,” “Be Happy,” etc.
But it just seems so much more active to me and so much easier to remember to simply ask, before I go into any stressful situation or even any neutral situation, “How do I want to feel?” and steer things toward that outcome. This includes deciding for a longer range that no matter what, I am going to enjoy the day or even better, the lifespan.
I am an especially reactive person. This is not so much because I don’t like people, it’s more because I am porous. So, whatever people are feeling, I pretty much feel what the other people are feeling, in real time. I don’t do this on purpose and I don’t know where this comes from. But since so many people are unhappy, nasty, judgmental, afraid, anxious, depressed, you name it—I feel it, immediately, from anyone who surrounds me. It’s a bit much. Add in my own propensities toward fear and worry and despair. Blech.
So, it is essential I ask myself, “How do I want to feel?” before all encounters with people, actions, even inanimate objects. I will feel closer to how I want to feel if I make a declaration of what that is.
“How do I want to feel?” Ask yourself five times today, before you do something, especially something dull or irritating, how you want to feel. It’s an easy thing to remember and takes very little effort.
Additional breaking news: 12:59 AM, an earthquake came through just as I finished editing this entry. I immediately decided that it would be exciting and fun. And it was.
4.5 quake. About 24 miles away. People in the Northwest San Fernando Valley must have felt it pretty good. My house did a little shaking with a bit of noise and then settled down. Could a real big one be on its way? And how about that tornado in Brooklyn? It’s so much fun!
This is the big question. It’s just the same old idea that has sold, like, a jillion self-help books. “Think positive,” and “Be grateful,” and “Live a life that is loving and nonjudgmental,” “Think positive,” “Be Happy,” etc.
But it just seems so much more active to me and so much easier to remember to simply ask, before I go into any stressful situation or even any neutral situation, “How do I want to feel?” and steer things toward that outcome. This includes deciding for a longer range that no matter what, I am going to enjoy the day or even better, the lifespan.
I am an especially reactive person. This is not so much because I don’t like people, it’s more because I am porous. So, whatever people are feeling, I pretty much feel what the other people are feeling, in real time. I don’t do this on purpose and I don’t know where this comes from. But since so many people are unhappy, nasty, judgmental, afraid, anxious, depressed, you name it—I feel it, immediately, from anyone who surrounds me. It’s a bit much. Add in my own propensities toward fear and worry and despair. Blech.
So, it is essential I ask myself, “How do I want to feel?” before all encounters with people, actions, even inanimate objects. I will feel closer to how I want to feel if I make a declaration of what that is.
“How do I want to feel?” Ask yourself five times today, before you do something, especially something dull or irritating, how you want to feel. It’s an easy thing to remember and takes very little effort.
Additional breaking news: 12:59 AM, an earthquake came through just as I finished editing this entry. I immediately decided that it would be exciting and fun. And it was.
4.5 quake. About 24 miles away. People in the Northwest San Fernando Valley must have felt it pretty good. My house did a little shaking with a bit of noise and then settled down. Could a real big one be on its way? And how about that tornado in Brooklyn? It’s so much fun!
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Bust it Up
The Pakistan/Afghanistan border is approximately eight-hundred miles long, not counting undulations.
Since this area cannot be policed due to its tough terrain, it remains a land of outlaws. The governments of Pakistan and Afghanistan cannot control the terrorist types who inhabit the caves and dells of this mountainous region.
My suggestion: sixteen nuclear warheads spaced fifty miles apart along the border. This is not because I want to kill millions of people. Since this area is sparsely populated, not many people will perish. But what this will do is make the area uninhabitable for a while. Why not say “Bombs Away!”? It’s already a pretty nasty place to live. Sixteen nuclear warheads will make it completely unpleasant and one of the world’s nastiest killing clubs will be disbanded.
Then, Cindy Sheehan could swallow large quantities of plastic explosives, put herself in a circus cannon on Pennsylvania Avenue, have herself kaboomed into Bush’s office and when she lands, detonate her nifty cell-phone bomb detonator and suicide-murder George Bush.
After, the border, Bush and Cindy are all gone, let’s all go to the Fringe Festival in Edinburgh to see Jihad: The Musical.
At this point, I’m ready for this whole farce to be reduced to a floor show. Apparently, the play has received very good reviews.
Since this area cannot be policed due to its tough terrain, it remains a land of outlaws. The governments of Pakistan and Afghanistan cannot control the terrorist types who inhabit the caves and dells of this mountainous region.
My suggestion: sixteen nuclear warheads spaced fifty miles apart along the border. This is not because I want to kill millions of people. Since this area is sparsely populated, not many people will perish. But what this will do is make the area uninhabitable for a while. Why not say “Bombs Away!”? It’s already a pretty nasty place to live. Sixteen nuclear warheads will make it completely unpleasant and one of the world’s nastiest killing clubs will be disbanded.
Then, Cindy Sheehan could swallow large quantities of plastic explosives, put herself in a circus cannon on Pennsylvania Avenue, have herself kaboomed into Bush’s office and when she lands, detonate her nifty cell-phone bomb detonator and suicide-murder George Bush.
After, the border, Bush and Cindy are all gone, let’s all go to the Fringe Festival in Edinburgh to see Jihad: The Musical.
At this point, I’m ready for this whole farce to be reduced to a floor show. Apparently, the play has received very good reviews.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Like New
When I was a kid, like most kids, the world was very alive to me. Plants pulsed. Ducklings were so cute and furry, my heart would shake when I saw them. Rocks, even, seemed alive with their mica and quartz all glinting. Fish. Frogs. Turtles. All of it, so alive. And when spring came! The azaleas. I would walk to certain houses just to see the buds covering the bushes. East coast azaleas are large and densely packed with blooms. It was so vibrant and crazy. We did not have an azalea bush, but we did have large stands of bearded Irises. They’d come up in early spring, even when there was still morning frost. I would go outside and just stand in the front yard and stare at them. They had been planted by the developers of the neighborhood. I would wonder who the developers were and if they knew how brilliant it was to plant all those irises. The earliest bloomers, the forsythia, with their common yellow stalky blooms, even they were a thrill forming loose borders between properties, pricking the eyes with their saturatioin.
Grass was very green.
Maples were all joy. You could make those noses with the helicopter seeds.
But then, you get older, and what can happen is, everything can seem so dead. It’s not really death, it’s more like all the living things become objects in the world along with all the nonliving things. You just have to negotiate around things. The mind plays tricks, it seeks efficiency in movement and for this it can make everything seem dead.
After a hard night of birthday partying, I was sitting in a chair in my backyard and the non-fruiting decorative pear tree sprang to life. It was fabulous. I was so thrilled to feel life in the leaves. Remembering this, the life in things, makes the day so much better. It also lets you off the hook. The world is so alive. No need to control it. Let it be. Let it pulse.
Grass was very green.
Maples were all joy. You could make those noses with the helicopter seeds.
But then, you get older, and what can happen is, everything can seem so dead. It’s not really death, it’s more like all the living things become objects in the world along with all the nonliving things. You just have to negotiate around things. The mind plays tricks, it seeks efficiency in movement and for this it can make everything seem dead.
After a hard night of birthday partying, I was sitting in a chair in my backyard and the non-fruiting decorative pear tree sprang to life. It was fabulous. I was so thrilled to feel life in the leaves. Remembering this, the life in things, makes the day so much better. It also lets you off the hook. The world is so alive. No need to control it. Let it be. Let it pulse.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Delaying It
I think I have to stop having sex until I start making money.
It’s a basic reward system.
Until then, I’ll just listen to Lily Allen’s Everything’s Just Wonderful.
It’s a basic reward system.
Until then, I’ll just listen to Lily Allen’s Everything’s Just Wonderful.
Friday, August 03, 2007
Birthday Wishes
I’m ancient.
In its way, it’s rank. There are upsides.
I go to the gym for a few weeks, wear an old t-shirt and I amuse myself thinking I’m still young. But then, there it still hangs, the paunch, mocking.
Vanity was always ugly. Now, it’s tragic.
The plus to all this getting older is you do gather a lot of information. You do good things with some of the information. Sometimes, you use the information to torture yourself.
It is also possible to have assets at this age. Real ones that you can sell. This is decent recompense for the strain of all that planning and working.
You maintain great relationships that are very reliable, if you are not crazy. This is wonderful. Though, not having to work so hard to have people in one’s life, one can slide a bit toward complacency. But then there is the depth mixed with humor that can arise from such well formed friendships and that’s better than trying to impress someone new.
By the time a person reaches my age, he has eaten so much, yet there is still so much more to be eaten.
I have not yet been to Asia, Africa, Oceania, South America or Alaska.
I still hate liver.
My feet haven’t aged much.
My Recognized-by-the-State-of-California-Domestic-Partner, Adam, bought clips to hold the screens in today, snug against the window jams, so now the flies and mosquitoes can’t get in. This is great.
Life’s a pleasure, and then you finish up.
In its way, it’s rank. There are upsides.
I go to the gym for a few weeks, wear an old t-shirt and I amuse myself thinking I’m still young. But then, there it still hangs, the paunch, mocking.
Vanity was always ugly. Now, it’s tragic.
The plus to all this getting older is you do gather a lot of information. You do good things with some of the information. Sometimes, you use the information to torture yourself.
It is also possible to have assets at this age. Real ones that you can sell. This is decent recompense for the strain of all that planning and working.
You maintain great relationships that are very reliable, if you are not crazy. This is wonderful. Though, not having to work so hard to have people in one’s life, one can slide a bit toward complacency. But then there is the depth mixed with humor that can arise from such well formed friendships and that’s better than trying to impress someone new.
By the time a person reaches my age, he has eaten so much, yet there is still so much more to be eaten.
I have not yet been to Asia, Africa, Oceania, South America or Alaska.
I still hate liver.
My feet haven’t aged much.
My Recognized-by-the-State-of-California-Domestic-Partner, Adam, bought clips to hold the screens in today, snug against the window jams, so now the flies and mosquitoes can’t get in. This is great.
Life’s a pleasure, and then you finish up.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
The Youth
My nephew and his girlfriend are visiting ancient Uncle Donald this week. My nephew, Daniel, is looking at UCLA as a possible college choice. The kids are hanging out in LA, shopping, going to the beach. It’s perfectly enjoyable to have them as company.
What is so interesting about these kids (and I’d like to say all kids, but I can only talk about these kids) is how bright and informed they are. My nephew is also extremely affable and well behaved. Top of his class type. And driven, in a practical way. Easy, breezy, fun and a good eater!
But these kids (and now I do talk about all kids) are so YouTube and daily feel the oppressive lens of the Digicam, I feel bad for them. It’s like, they’re so afraid to be spontaneous because they may appear foolish. Something about having the whole world watching you, online, can really diminish the being-in-the-moment the Buddha has offered. I wonder what it means for them as future adults. What is so interesting is not only does everything change with each generation, but really, EVERYTHING. Sure, the biology is the same, but the manifestation is completely controlled by popular culture and technology.
What is so interesting about these kids (and I’d like to say all kids, but I can only talk about these kids) is how bright and informed they are. My nephew is also extremely affable and well behaved. Top of his class type. And driven, in a practical way. Easy, breezy, fun and a good eater!
But these kids (and now I do talk about all kids) are so YouTube and daily feel the oppressive lens of the Digicam, I feel bad for them. It’s like, they’re so afraid to be spontaneous because they may appear foolish. Something about having the whole world watching you, online, can really diminish the being-in-the-moment the Buddha has offered. I wonder what it means for them as future adults. What is so interesting is not only does everything change with each generation, but really, EVERYTHING. Sure, the biology is the same, but the manifestation is completely controlled by popular culture and technology.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Don't Resist Homer
Tonight, I took my nephew and his girlfriend to see The Simpsons Movie. Go. It’s really funny.
Is there any need to talk about it?
Okay, everyone knows the characters. Worldwide.
The story about the EPA taking over the town by covering it with a dome is confusing, unless, I guess, Fox thinks the EPA is totalitarian. Okay, maybe they do.
Who cares. It’s all about the gags. The gags are sustained at a dense level throughout the movie. I just sat there and smiled for an hour and a half. State of bliss. Go, be happy.
Is there any need to talk about it?
Okay, everyone knows the characters. Worldwide.
The story about the EPA taking over the town by covering it with a dome is confusing, unless, I guess, Fox thinks the EPA is totalitarian. Okay, maybe they do.
Who cares. It’s all about the gags. The gags are sustained at a dense level throughout the movie. I just sat there and smiled for an hour and a half. State of bliss. Go, be happy.
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