April Fools!
I remember well when our good friend David K would call us on April 1 with a gigantic hoax. One year, he got Adam to believe that he owed an enormous amount of extra dues to the WGA. It wasn't until Adam started throwing fits on the phone that David let him in on the prank and did the ol' April Fools! yell.
I am not a prankster. I do not like surprises, rubber chickens, whoopie cushions, garage door openers that squirt water in my face. Though these things are simply juvenile, they do have a whiff of cruelty about them.
However, if someone really does go to great lengths to pull a huge prank, there is art in that and maybe worth the trouble.
April really is the cruelest month, not so much because it begins with this silly "holiday," but because it is spring and it is still cold. The flowering trees do not start up until mid to late April. Spring does not really take hold until May. But I digress. Back to silliness.
I do not like Renaissance festivals or body paint. I do not like people in furry outfits. April Fools Day feels like the silliest thing ever. And maybe, just maybe, it is good for little kids to learn that lying can be a bit fun-hearted. I don't know.
Don't let anyone fool you today. And if they do, it better be worth it.
Monday, March 31, 2014
Thursday, March 27, 2014
This Blog Entry is Brought to you by J. Kaufman
Thanks, J.K.!
Look at this link that compares castle prices to shithole NYC apt. prices, and vomit.
http://themetapicture.com/castles-vs-apartments-in-nyc/
Provided by J. Kaufman, we are all lucky to have such a clear picture.
My friend, B.F., who is not my B.F. but a good friend, has been boasting about living in the greatest city in the world, publicly, and chiding all those who do not live here. Perhaps it is the barely erupting spring that has pushed him into optimistic boosterism. Have your pride, and have a good time.
But the reality of New York, supplied by J.K., is a weird real estate madness, fueled by weird market madness, that makes this city pretend it is a collection of Versailles. Be delusional as you will, all you can hear from inside all the other Versailles around are screams that sound something like, "I went to Yale and have a masters degree in _______ and now I have to live with cockroaches the size of Donuts??" or "Go fuck yourself!" or "I just hate my life. My bonus was only 450K this year!" Things like that.
I love New York, mostly for the trains and subways that whisk you along and through rivers, bays, oceans and mountains. It is enjoyable to never drive and to see a lot of things and people all around. But there is a misery quotient here, measurable in real estate woe and weather horrendosity (don't judge me) that is not only pathetic but borders on tragic.
With that, we do have a density of experience...but it was a mathematical fluke. This density was earth-formed, bounded by watery limits, infused with historical arrivals and was, basically, London's West-Pond money printer gone nuclear. It was not great men that made this place, but great chance and timing. Although, all the stories that are bandied about, on the stages, in the magazines, in the papers, verbalized on the streets, spit out a monster self-congratulations. I say, go slap a bearded hipster, sell your box, take the cash to Europa, and live in a castle. So what if the taxes will kill you. If you stayed in New York, you would have worked yourself to death anyway.
New York, you are interesting. But you're just too expensive. And for that...you create hacks, drones, depressives, fearful shut-ins and exhausted workaholics without an ounce of creativity. Take that. And keep me entertained and busy until I go live in a castle.
I do love the geography. A lot comes together here. It must have been amazing Pre-Columbian.
Look at this link that compares castle prices to shithole NYC apt. prices, and vomit.
http://themetapicture.com/castles-vs-apartments-in-nyc/
Provided by J. Kaufman, we are all lucky to have such a clear picture.
My friend, B.F., who is not my B.F. but a good friend, has been boasting about living in the greatest city in the world, publicly, and chiding all those who do not live here. Perhaps it is the barely erupting spring that has pushed him into optimistic boosterism. Have your pride, and have a good time.
But the reality of New York, supplied by J.K., is a weird real estate madness, fueled by weird market madness, that makes this city pretend it is a collection of Versailles. Be delusional as you will, all you can hear from inside all the other Versailles around are screams that sound something like, "I went to Yale and have a masters degree in _______ and now I have to live with cockroaches the size of Donuts??" or "Go fuck yourself!" or "I just hate my life. My bonus was only 450K this year!" Things like that.
I love New York, mostly for the trains and subways that whisk you along and through rivers, bays, oceans and mountains. It is enjoyable to never drive and to see a lot of things and people all around. But there is a misery quotient here, measurable in real estate woe and weather horrendosity (don't judge me) that is not only pathetic but borders on tragic.
With that, we do have a density of experience...but it was a mathematical fluke. This density was earth-formed, bounded by watery limits, infused with historical arrivals and was, basically, London's West-Pond money printer gone nuclear. It was not great men that made this place, but great chance and timing. Although, all the stories that are bandied about, on the stages, in the magazines, in the papers, verbalized on the streets, spit out a monster self-congratulations. I say, go slap a bearded hipster, sell your box, take the cash to Europa, and live in a castle. So what if the taxes will kill you. If you stayed in New York, you would have worked yourself to death anyway.
New York, you are interesting. But you're just too expensive. And for that...you create hacks, drones, depressives, fearful shut-ins and exhausted workaholics without an ounce of creativity. Take that. And keep me entertained and busy until I go live in a castle.
I do love the geography. A lot comes together here. It must have been amazing Pre-Columbian.
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
Remember when People were Funny?
Listening to Prosac? Make me Laugh!
There used to be a time when you could be a real fucking hardass depressive or anxious mess and you could turn it into a good time.
The true antidote to disastrous mental health was humor. Some people figured out that physical exercise helped. But really, humor always won the race.
You could find a clever way to complain about your dark abyss, and you sort of had to, because no one would put up with your whining miserable self loathing sun-starved hopeless ass otherwise. You had to get creative if you were going to be useful company. So you dug into the darkest reaches, took one good look at those miserable crags, and you figured, "I better turn this into an amusement park or I'm going to die alone on these sharp, empty rocks."
Anxious? That was easy. You just ran around screaming, "I'm a mess! I'm a mess! Let me tell you about _______." And you'd insert your latest neurotic tale and flap your fucking arms up and down and everyone had a good time at your expense. If you had a sense of proportion that is, and knew when to bring down the curtain.
We have all died on the rock of productivity and normative behavior. We want and want.
It was more fun when people were fucked up and sang about it.
There used to be a time when you could be a real fucking hardass depressive or anxious mess and you could turn it into a good time.
The true antidote to disastrous mental health was humor. Some people figured out that physical exercise helped. But really, humor always won the race.
You could find a clever way to complain about your dark abyss, and you sort of had to, because no one would put up with your whining miserable self loathing sun-starved hopeless ass otherwise. You had to get creative if you were going to be useful company. So you dug into the darkest reaches, took one good look at those miserable crags, and you figured, "I better turn this into an amusement park or I'm going to die alone on these sharp, empty rocks."
Anxious? That was easy. You just ran around screaming, "I'm a mess! I'm a mess! Let me tell you about _______." And you'd insert your latest neurotic tale and flap your fucking arms up and down and everyone had a good time at your expense. If you had a sense of proportion that is, and knew when to bring down the curtain.
We have all died on the rock of productivity and normative behavior. We want and want.
It was more fun when people were fucked up and sang about it.
BOX Premiere in Europe
Hello Friends,
Our short, BOX--Chris Dolman and I in cahoots--was acquired by TVShorts International, based in London and we had our broadcast premiere in Europe on March 2.
Other (older) news about BOX, below, including its many festival inclusions:
More news coming, soon, to supporters about how you can watch BOX at home.
BOX. It opened.
Monday, March 24, 2014
Thursday, March 20, 2014
A Tale of Three Cities
As I was leaving midtown Manhattan
after seeing a sweet little musical review called GREED, directed by pal, Chris
Scott, at New World Stages, I was reminded of when I was a student in Paris , having to always
leave the center of town to get back to my place on the edge of town. Though,
here in New York ,
it’s a little faster. (And go see GREED. Entertaining and talented stuff.)
In Paris ,
I lived at 61 Blvd Soult. It was on the ring road in the 12th. You
can see it here. There is nothing special about this building on the edge of
town. It could be a Miami Hotel.
But there was always something exciting about leaving it in
the morning and it was always exciting coming home. Leaving, because, well,
look at it. Who would want to stay there? But coming home at night was
interesting. You’d leave all that Paris
that you see in movies, on posters. And then you travel for 30 minutes and you
are on the edge of nowhere. Nowhere feels good. You can really get to know
yourself in nowhere. (Christopher Isherwood says Americans are more advanced
and more spiritual than Europeans because we have to come to terms with
ourselves living in unadorned boxes, whereas Europeans get distracted by all
the material beauty around them.)
I was only in Paris
for a semester because I was a science major and I did not have the time to
hang around, smoking Gitanes, for a full year. But the spring semester I was
there was one of those, “Yeah, I found out some things,” times of my life. It
brought me off the straight and narrow. Plus, I was a little crazy at 20 and I
used the time to pull myself together.
When I was coming home tonight, it had a similar feeling.
Early spring. Going home to another edge of another city. And it felt good. I
was tired. I just had to get there. And when I did, it was quiet and exciting.
To be somewhere that is on the edge, where you can be involved with just being
yourself and know that just five stops away is the center of a city. It’s a
good deal.
But, in LA, you can be right in the center of town and be
nowhere. And that, is why LA is so brilliant.
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
I Officially Declare
Any more language based art about people's inability to connect and ersatz Pinteresque alienation is over.
It's about connection now.
It's about connection now.
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Money
Besides basic tragedy, most news items are about money. Someone is about to make money. Someone made a lot of money. Someone has no money. A country grabs land so they can secure their money. Legislation to make sure someone keeps their money. Legislation to make sure the money is shared. Money here. Money there. Money.
I celebrate the free market. It's pretty creative.
But aren't we bored with all this? As a species? Endless conflict over money?
Which is really just endless conflict over--Who deserves what.
It's like sibling rivalry.
And so there are the people who shrug--"This is just how it is." And then everyone jumps along. Splat. Repeat. Deadening repetition.
I do not propose that I have an idea of how to do any of this differently. And I am not silly enough to think you can scratch it all out and come up with something else. But what I am proposing is this. Since money is ultimately shared--we all are in this huge system of money and we all use it--and money is often not shared, but squirreled off--I have mine, you have yours, now let's play nice or not at all--then why don't we just accept that we are part generous and part selfish and with that consciousness, force the issues into the light and maybe break up this pattern some? Because the issue isn't really money. It's more about whether or not you have any desire to share or not to share.
I am bored with people basically playing poker with each other, hiding their hand, grabbing what they can. But I am equally bored with the whining experts who try to shame people into giving people stuff for no reason other than it is morally a solid action. Both methodologies cause everyone pain.
I wish there was something we could do so that our narratives weren't so much about money. But then, that might be asking us to not be this particular species. I do hope when we are extinct that packs of dogs rise up and have a very different experience. They may be calmer and less neurotic. But it is impossible to know.
I celebrate the free market. It's pretty creative.
But aren't we bored with all this? As a species? Endless conflict over money?
Which is really just endless conflict over--Who deserves what.
It's like sibling rivalry.
And so there are the people who shrug--"This is just how it is." And then everyone jumps along. Splat. Repeat. Deadening repetition.
I do not propose that I have an idea of how to do any of this differently. And I am not silly enough to think you can scratch it all out and come up with something else. But what I am proposing is this. Since money is ultimately shared--we all are in this huge system of money and we all use it--and money is often not shared, but squirreled off--I have mine, you have yours, now let's play nice or not at all--then why don't we just accept that we are part generous and part selfish and with that consciousness, force the issues into the light and maybe break up this pattern some? Because the issue isn't really money. It's more about whether or not you have any desire to share or not to share.
I am bored with people basically playing poker with each other, hiding their hand, grabbing what they can. But I am equally bored with the whining experts who try to shame people into giving people stuff for no reason other than it is morally a solid action. Both methodologies cause everyone pain.
I wish there was something we could do so that our narratives weren't so much about money. But then, that might be asking us to not be this particular species. I do hope when we are extinct that packs of dogs rise up and have a very different experience. They may be calmer and less neurotic. But it is impossible to know.
Monday, March 17, 2014
So Damn Gay and Irish: Do the Math
Approximately 10% of all Americans have major Irish ancestry. At about 34 Million people, this is about five times the actual population of Ireland (6.8 Million).
Of these 34 million, it is safe to say that at least 3% of them are full-on gay. That's over a Million gay Irish people in the U.S. And let's face it, I am being conservative here. It could be double that.
So, you have over a million gay Irish people and you don't want them in your parade? Why, now?
You are phobic fecks!
Irish Americans, listen up. In Ireland, whenever there is a St. Patrick's Day Parade, the Gays are out and proud and stomping on their floats. As one Irish person put it, "Aren't all parades pretty much gay?"
If the gays in Ireland are having a good ol' time, why can't the gays on this side of the Guinness pond be included too?
I love being Irish, that is 3/8 Irish, myself. I would be half Irish if my father's mother's father had not been a Dietrich. But what's in a number? A lot.
In addition to the 10% of Americans who have major Irish ancestry, another whole boat load, not even countable, also have Irish ancestry. Next after the Germans, there is more Irish blood coursing through the veins of Americans than any other ethnic corpuscle. Being Irish is practically like being American. For God's sake, get over your foolishness and let a gay leprechaun in. We're magic.
Next year. 2015. Enough already. You bunch of drunken sods!
Of these 34 million, it is safe to say that at least 3% of them are full-on gay. That's over a Million gay Irish people in the U.S. And let's face it, I am being conservative here. It could be double that.
So, you have over a million gay Irish people and you don't want them in your parade? Why, now?
You are phobic fecks!
Irish Americans, listen up. In Ireland, whenever there is a St. Patrick's Day Parade, the Gays are out and proud and stomping on their floats. As one Irish person put it, "Aren't all parades pretty much gay?"
If the gays in Ireland are having a good ol' time, why can't the gays on this side of the Guinness pond be included too?
I love being Irish, that is 3/8 Irish, myself. I would be half Irish if my father's mother's father had not been a Dietrich. But what's in a number? A lot.
In addition to the 10% of Americans who have major Irish ancestry, another whole boat load, not even countable, also have Irish ancestry. Next after the Germans, there is more Irish blood coursing through the veins of Americans than any other ethnic corpuscle. Being Irish is practically like being American. For God's sake, get over your foolishness and let a gay leprechaun in. We're magic.
Next year. 2015. Enough already. You bunch of drunken sods!
Sunday, March 16, 2014
The New Guard: Paul Kouri
Friends,
This is my good friend who is making a stab at great governance. He's a well balanced Democrat with solid ideas and a killer work ethic. He also has a heart of gold and is smart like, well, you.
Oh let's face it. He's one of us! A person who wakes up every morning--who looks at the world and says, WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE??!! But instead of doing what I do, which is to do something else, he is doing something about it.
You won't be Sorry, if you head for Kouri.
Yours, in politics, sort of.
Don
PS--For those who need to know, I am a pragmatic moderate Democrat with both Socialist and Libertarian leanings. I believe different things can be put in different baskets and everyone will be better off for it. I can't say Paul is like me. But I can say Paul Kouri has his eye on all the baskets. And, Paul was the name of the witch's tarantula on Bugs Bunny.
This is my good friend who is making a stab at great governance. He's a well balanced Democrat with solid ideas and a killer work ethic. He also has a heart of gold and is smart like, well, you.
Oh let's face it. He's one of us! A person who wakes up every morning--who looks at the world and says, WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE??!! But instead of doing what I do, which is to do something else, he is doing something about it.
You won't be Sorry, if you head for Kouri.
Yours, in politics, sort of.
Don
PS--For those who need to know, I am a pragmatic moderate Democrat with both Socialist and Libertarian leanings. I believe different things can be put in different baskets and everyone will be better off for it. I can't say Paul is like me. But I can say Paul Kouri has his eye on all the baskets. And, Paul was the name of the witch's tarantula on Bugs Bunny.
Friday, March 14, 2014
Last Day of Frozen Hell
After Last Night's Rain
The Wind Blew In
Canada
Fucking Frozen
The End of It
Now
Done
Two Weeks Ahead
40's 50's
Haiku Gets Long
When You Are Completely Done
The Wind Blew In
Canada
Fucking Frozen
The End of It
Now
Done
Two Weeks Ahead
40's 50's
Haiku Gets Long
When You Are Completely Done
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
Nothin' Doin'!
Sometimes, you put on an ugly hat and cut a move.
Start at 7:20 when Alfalfa is assured of the love of his
object of affection.
She sets him straight ten seconds later.
I love how Georgia Jean Larue, ten years old, is Going
Hollywood and she already looks 47. Good
luck, girl. She should have left Alfalfa’s farm when she was 3. Maybe then she
could have played some aged action hero’s girlfriend.
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
Ragey Lady, I Love You
I was coming back from Brooklyn from my smarty writing group
of funsters, clanking over The Manhattan Bridge on the Q train, when I noticed
the lower middle to lower class woman sitting opposite and a little to the left
was glaring at me, hard, as I read Caryl Churhill’s Top Girls. Now, it’s a pink
tattered library copy and the title sounds sort of sexy and the only parts of a
woman’s body you see are the feet in serious white and black pumps.
So maybe that was why she had the look on her face? Like,
she thought I was reading smut, openly?
Anyway, I didn’t even know the cover looked like that until just now when it Tony Orlando and Dawned on me that maybe that was the problem. But maybe not. I don’t know.
Anyway, I didn’t even know the cover looked like that until just now when it Tony Orlando and Dawned on me that maybe that was the problem. But maybe not. I don’t know.
So I continued to Times Square and somewhere around 14th
Street I looked up from my book and I noticed this very angry woman staring at
me and I wondered, “Where have I seen this woman before?”
Of course, it was ten minutes ago on the bridge. I just sort
of forgot. I was tired. It was a long day. But did I really forget?
No, I got rid of her in my mind. I just pushed her out.
No, I got rid of her in my mind. I just pushed her out.
But then I noticed something, once I remembered that I knew
exactly who she was, the woman who had been sitting there all along. She was
pissed off but she was interested. She sort of wanted to know what I was doing.
She liked that someone was actually reading?
Who knows!
But she was angry. Real angry. And because she was paying
attention to me, or my pink book with the perhaps-smutty cover, or she figured
out I was doing some work because she noticed the book had a library catalog
number on it and I was taking notes, anyway, she would soften, then harden,
soften, then harden. Something was going on.
People are furious. I have always tried to ignore furious
people. I don’t want to be the object of rage. And though we are all capable of
deep murderous rage (so the psychological pundits tell us), I have tried,
mostly, to get the hell away from that side of myself.
But then there was this woman. And she was vacillating
between curiosity-warmth and raging-judgment. And she seemed to be surviving
that teeter-totter. So what I usually
want to write off as low-rent un-evolved public nasty person, because I am
actually afraid of that kind of thing, I sort of let in. I just looked at her
once or twice and all she got from me was, “I’m curious about you.” And I think
that was enough for her.
Thursday, March 06, 2014
Sucky, Fucky in Kentucky
This is quite heartfelt, yes.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xUqqUCPAOYg
I don't, though, exactly understand what the crying is all about. Is there something going on there personally? He mentions his daughter in the end. And he wants to be proud.
Maybe he is simply overcome with the heartfelt warmth of doing what he knows is right.
Or maybe he is crying over the greater pain of the human condition: this horrendous divide of opinion and people fighting over what really should not be a fight at all.
I do not know.
But it is clearly clear that the gay rights of gay citizens are pummeling the land from stem to stern. Another lost item--Kentucky--for the Socially Conservative Right. All the rest of you Rights, you Party-of-Lincolns, you Libertarians, you freedom seeking roustabouts---we all know you are with us, the entire Democratic Party. This is something we all agree on. Let it ring. Let it be done. Sea-to-Shining-Sea equality by 2015.
Churches--go on and marry no one you don't want to marry. We just don't care.
Kentucky. Yes. Kentucky.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xUqqUCPAOYg
I don't, though, exactly understand what the crying is all about. Is there something going on there personally? He mentions his daughter in the end. And he wants to be proud.
Maybe he is simply overcome with the heartfelt warmth of doing what he knows is right.
Or maybe he is crying over the greater pain of the human condition: this horrendous divide of opinion and people fighting over what really should not be a fight at all.
I do not know.
But it is clearly clear that the gay rights of gay citizens are pummeling the land from stem to stern. Another lost item--Kentucky--for the Socially Conservative Right. All the rest of you Rights, you Party-of-Lincolns, you Libertarians, you freedom seeking roustabouts---we all know you are with us, the entire Democratic Party. This is something we all agree on. Let it ring. Let it be done. Sea-to-Shining-Sea equality by 2015.
Churches--go on and marry no one you don't want to marry. We just don't care.
Kentucky. Yes. Kentucky.
Wednesday, March 05, 2014
Mr. Franco
Obviously, James Franco is a big fan of and for gay people. It is an enjoyable thing to know that he made this movie:
http://www.nytimes.com/2014/03/05/movies/interior-leather-bar-spun-from-recreated-lost-footage.html?ref=todayspaper
I have been following James on Instagram and it does look like he is actually posting, that it is him. Or at least, he is feeding things to someone who is posting for him.
He is very comfortable being himself, whether he is playing a straight guy or making an art film doc about Pacino's Cruising or a parody video with Seth Rogen, making out with him after a good long motor cycle ride.
The point, it seems, that James Franco is trying to make is that the old labels of gay and straight are sort of fading away. He plays with all of it. Good for him.
He is younger than me by a good chunk and when I look at him on Instagram, it is clear that he is as much in love with the images he is sending out as his fans are. In other words, he is experiencing a clear gayish narcissism. And why shouldn't he? He's lovely and bright. He is enjoying his own image. You feel it.
This pushes people to speculate as to what his sexuality is. And the point he most often makes is that it does not matter what anyone's sexuality is. This is a good point.
I sometimes get bleary when I consider it. The most defining horror of my youth and the later enjoyment of my adulthood was the exact parameters in which my sexuality was confined. I do maintain that had things been a little different culturally and had women been a little less scary to me, that I might have had a more ambi life. Well, in fact, I did have that kind of life in college. A fellow member in the drama department who eventually became a famous person, in angry response to my sleeping with his on-again-off-again ex-girlfriend, threw me into a costume rack and said one word, "Decide."
Which, of course, is funny. I had no idea he was even following my antics. Plus, his girl was fair game at the time. But my bed greed pissed him off. I ran into him years later on set and he was kinder than a pussycat. I did not bring up the incident.
James Franco looks at men having sex with both genders with equanimity. And also, perhaps, with a bit of a boner. We won't ever know. But the point he seems to be making is that there is a continuum. But even larger than that, he thinks all bigotry is a ridiculous load of bullshit.
It's guys like him that help us all out.
I just hope he's doing okay.
http://www.nytimes.com/2014/03/05/movies/interior-leather-bar-spun-from-recreated-lost-footage.html?ref=todayspaper
I have been following James on Instagram and it does look like he is actually posting, that it is him. Or at least, he is feeding things to someone who is posting for him.
He is very comfortable being himself, whether he is playing a straight guy or making an art film doc about Pacino's Cruising or a parody video with Seth Rogen, making out with him after a good long motor cycle ride.
The point, it seems, that James Franco is trying to make is that the old labels of gay and straight are sort of fading away. He plays with all of it. Good for him.
He is younger than me by a good chunk and when I look at him on Instagram, it is clear that he is as much in love with the images he is sending out as his fans are. In other words, he is experiencing a clear gayish narcissism. And why shouldn't he? He's lovely and bright. He is enjoying his own image. You feel it.
This pushes people to speculate as to what his sexuality is. And the point he most often makes is that it does not matter what anyone's sexuality is. This is a good point.
I sometimes get bleary when I consider it. The most defining horror of my youth and the later enjoyment of my adulthood was the exact parameters in which my sexuality was confined. I do maintain that had things been a little different culturally and had women been a little less scary to me, that I might have had a more ambi life. Well, in fact, I did have that kind of life in college. A fellow member in the drama department who eventually became a famous person, in angry response to my sleeping with his on-again-off-again ex-girlfriend, threw me into a costume rack and said one word, "Decide."
Which, of course, is funny. I had no idea he was even following my antics. Plus, his girl was fair game at the time. But my bed greed pissed him off. I ran into him years later on set and he was kinder than a pussycat. I did not bring up the incident.
James Franco looks at men having sex with both genders with equanimity. And also, perhaps, with a bit of a boner. We won't ever know. But the point he seems to be making is that there is a continuum. But even larger than that, he thinks all bigotry is a ridiculous load of bullshit.
It's guys like him that help us all out.
I just hope he's doing okay.
Tuesday, March 04, 2014
Career News: Face It
I have always been happiest when I put things in this exact order/subordination:
I am a person first. I am a career maker second.
Whenever I swap those, I get into wretched trouble.
Of course, what I have been mostly paying attention to as an adult is what it is to be a person. So it would make sense, in order for that to have any career value, to be a person first, anyway.
But even more importantly, if career comes first, then you are a career person and since you are what you do, then you are simply that and you slowly but surely become less interesting. Plus, you burn out and your ego gets inflated, takes a beating, rinse, repeat, blech.
Additionally, you could end up with a very skewed and sad perspective and a very strange face if you are single minded. Look at Goldie Hawn at the 2014 Oscars. She had an idea of her career, or something like that, coming first. She mutilated herself. If she had been a person first, she would not have ended up looking like ___________. There are so many sharp jokes that could be made at her expense. But really, sadly, she got caught up in a thought process that chucked herself first and put some misguided ambition in its place. It's not worth it. And it eats up your time and energy. And who you actually are.
Do not mutilate yourself. Anyone. Have a career. Second. Be a person. First.
I am a person first. I am a career maker second.
Whenever I swap those, I get into wretched trouble.
Of course, what I have been mostly paying attention to as an adult is what it is to be a person. So it would make sense, in order for that to have any career value, to be a person first, anyway.
But even more importantly, if career comes first, then you are a career person and since you are what you do, then you are simply that and you slowly but surely become less interesting. Plus, you burn out and your ego gets inflated, takes a beating, rinse, repeat, blech.
Additionally, you could end up with a very skewed and sad perspective and a very strange face if you are single minded. Look at Goldie Hawn at the 2014 Oscars. She had an idea of her career, or something like that, coming first. She mutilated herself. If she had been a person first, she would not have ended up looking like ___________. There are so many sharp jokes that could be made at her expense. But really, sadly, she got caught up in a thought process that chucked herself first and put some misguided ambition in its place. It's not worth it. And it eats up your time and energy. And who you actually are.
Do not mutilate yourself. Anyone. Have a career. Second. Be a person. First.
Friday, February 28, 2014
Cold and Clear
1. Arizona, you are a nutbag.
2. So much attack on people who post, tweet and look for approval. In a culture where competition and success are everything...how can you blame a person for looking for affirmation? Isn't it clear that people have been needing this for a long time? And as the population grows and the jobs shrink and the tenor of human interaction gets colder and meaner and the need for love remains constant, why wouldn't people be looking for some good rays of human warmth? Columnists call this behavior narcissistic. But isn't it narcissistic to have a column? These established writers are simply competing with the posters for attention. They unconsciously want to bring the posters down because they are taught to compete. And then--love deficit again. Thus, proving this point.
3. This winter, as we know, is horrendous. But you have to give yourself credit for getting through it. In complete awe of Canadians and all the United States citizens who live within 1000 miles of the 49th parallel. You go, girls. And you're probably going to have to keep those tights on through all of March, too.
4. The publishing industry is dead. Long live the publishing industry. It's actually getting interesting. On demand. E. Hard. Self. And they are all getting integrated. Oh, the slowness of business! But here we are, finally.
5. Theater is dead, too. Long live theater and the strange interactive thing it is becoming. It just proves that in the end, people like a good rib eye when they are watching Macbeth. And a potato with sour cream.
6. Marijuana is everywhere. I like it. But it makes me a bit crazy. So I kind of don't like it. Sparingly, sparingly, sparingly, kiddies. You wouldn't eat a whole bag of Smarties, either, would you?
7. Oscar weekend, or what we like to call it: the biggest holiday season of all in Los Angeles. Watch out for helicopters getting caught in your wig, friends.
8. It has nothing to do with race or size, but I can't help but sort of hate Africa right now. And strangely, what is exempt is South Africa. Change, turn, surprise.
9. No more time for boasting. Only time for doing.
10. I once wanted to be important. Now, I want to be important while having a good time.
2. So much attack on people who post, tweet and look for approval. In a culture where competition and success are everything...how can you blame a person for looking for affirmation? Isn't it clear that people have been needing this for a long time? And as the population grows and the jobs shrink and the tenor of human interaction gets colder and meaner and the need for love remains constant, why wouldn't people be looking for some good rays of human warmth? Columnists call this behavior narcissistic. But isn't it narcissistic to have a column? These established writers are simply competing with the posters for attention. They unconsciously want to bring the posters down because they are taught to compete. And then--love deficit again. Thus, proving this point.
3. This winter, as we know, is horrendous. But you have to give yourself credit for getting through it. In complete awe of Canadians and all the United States citizens who live within 1000 miles of the 49th parallel. You go, girls. And you're probably going to have to keep those tights on through all of March, too.
4. The publishing industry is dead. Long live the publishing industry. It's actually getting interesting. On demand. E. Hard. Self. And they are all getting integrated. Oh, the slowness of business! But here we are, finally.
5. Theater is dead, too. Long live theater and the strange interactive thing it is becoming. It just proves that in the end, people like a good rib eye when they are watching Macbeth. And a potato with sour cream.
6. Marijuana is everywhere. I like it. But it makes me a bit crazy. So I kind of don't like it. Sparingly, sparingly, sparingly, kiddies. You wouldn't eat a whole bag of Smarties, either, would you?
7. Oscar weekend, or what we like to call it: the biggest holiday season of all in Los Angeles. Watch out for helicopters getting caught in your wig, friends.
8. It has nothing to do with race or size, but I can't help but sort of hate Africa right now. And strangely, what is exempt is South Africa. Change, turn, surprise.
9. No more time for boasting. Only time for doing.
10. I once wanted to be important. Now, I want to be important while having a good time.
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
I Want to Say Something to the Ladies
First of all, there are so many jokes that could be made here so it is essential that we do not do that in this little message-in-a-bottle-thing-that-is-a-blog. Who even blogs any longer? Oh, me.
So, there I was, reading and reading about all these women who are upset and all these parents of girls who are upset about the images that are being fed to them...of women. Nice looking ones. Look. It's awful. No one denies that. It's all computer manipulation and other horse shit. But I want to put my foot down in one place. Can't the women in movies and on T.V. still be pretty? We all like to look at good looking people. Sure, we want them to be able to act, too. And be charismatic. And have that ability to behave so naturally that you think they are your best friend. All that. But sometimes, I've noticed, that when a young woman is attractive and she is real comfy with that (just like young men) then a lot of these other traits are more permissible. We give the more attractive, naturally, more attention. They often blossom under this positive gaze. Let them have it. Let them get rich on it. Let them enjoy it. Let them be beautiful. Would you stop a physicist from understanding String Theory or a cafeteria lady from screaming, "Eggs!" when she runs out of them in the steam table? I don't think so. As far as magazines go, the air brushing and slimming and all that, well that's just hell. But please leave me my good looking film and television actors. I'm getting old and loose and I like to be reminded of what it once was like. Hot is hot. It keeps us going. Some joy, please.
Now, let's hit abortion. I've talked about this before. If you are an atheist, and it seems I am, at least in any way that a religious person would define me by how I view how the world is here...then there is really no way that you can even begin to talk about when-a-soul-enters-a-fertilized-egg. There is only fertilization and non-fertilization. So, once there is a mash-up of an egg nucleus and a sperm nucleus, I don't see how you have anything else there BUT a future person. However. If it were me and some frigging future person invaded my body and I didn't want it, I'd simply kill it. Yeah. Kill. You're killing it. So kill it. And let's not pretend that it is anything less than that.
People kill and are killed and die and cause death every day. Sorry to be so callous. But there it is.
So here is my plea: Let women be beautiful. At least on the screen. (And PLEASE, let the men be beautiful, too, by all means.) And if you are invaded by sperm and it hits your egg and you have a new life in you and you don't want, Fucking kill it and let's all stop crying about it.
JR, a cafe owner in LA, once said so eloquently about Reproductive Rights, "Men just have to stop talking about it. Now!" She's right. Sort of.
But when it comes to beauty and Biology, I kind of can't stop talking about either one.
So, there I was, reading and reading about all these women who are upset and all these parents of girls who are upset about the images that are being fed to them...of women. Nice looking ones. Look. It's awful. No one denies that. It's all computer manipulation and other horse shit. But I want to put my foot down in one place. Can't the women in movies and on T.V. still be pretty? We all like to look at good looking people. Sure, we want them to be able to act, too. And be charismatic. And have that ability to behave so naturally that you think they are your best friend. All that. But sometimes, I've noticed, that when a young woman is attractive and she is real comfy with that (just like young men) then a lot of these other traits are more permissible. We give the more attractive, naturally, more attention. They often blossom under this positive gaze. Let them have it. Let them get rich on it. Let them enjoy it. Let them be beautiful. Would you stop a physicist from understanding String Theory or a cafeteria lady from screaming, "Eggs!" when she runs out of them in the steam table? I don't think so. As far as magazines go, the air brushing and slimming and all that, well that's just hell. But please leave me my good looking film and television actors. I'm getting old and loose and I like to be reminded of what it once was like. Hot is hot. It keeps us going. Some joy, please.
Now, let's hit abortion. I've talked about this before. If you are an atheist, and it seems I am, at least in any way that a religious person would define me by how I view how the world is here...then there is really no way that you can even begin to talk about when-a-soul-enters-a-fertilized-egg. There is only fertilization and non-fertilization. So, once there is a mash-up of an egg nucleus and a sperm nucleus, I don't see how you have anything else there BUT a future person. However. If it were me and some frigging future person invaded my body and I didn't want it, I'd simply kill it. Yeah. Kill. You're killing it. So kill it. And let's not pretend that it is anything less than that.
People kill and are killed and die and cause death every day. Sorry to be so callous. But there it is.
So here is my plea: Let women be beautiful. At least on the screen. (And PLEASE, let the men be beautiful, too, by all means.) And if you are invaded by sperm and it hits your egg and you have a new life in you and you don't want, Fucking kill it and let's all stop crying about it.
JR, a cafe owner in LA, once said so eloquently about Reproductive Rights, "Men just have to stop talking about it. Now!" She's right. Sort of.
But when it comes to beauty and Biology, I kind of can't stop talking about either one.
Monday, February 24, 2014
Gay Marriage and My Caddyshack Secret
Let us be warmed. The
New York Times is reporting so much on gay marriage, gay oppression,
hateful laws against gay people, gay sportsmen and the unalienable rights of
gay men and women to love how they need to love, that you’d think it was just a
liberal rag. ;)
I say, bring out your liberal rag if that rag is doing the
right thing. Which it is, of course. Clearly, the paper has an agenda, and that
agenda at its furthest reaches have almost nothing (but everything) to do with
each other: To give me a greater tax
break, and to stop African governments from torturing, imprisoning and killing
its gay citizens.
I do hope in a few hundred years, a gay woman in Nigeria can
marry her girlfriend without reprisal. Or much much sooner.
And now these:
And for a bonus:
Long live Harold Ramis. In addition to seeing Animal House about 900 times (I was a
kid looking forward to college), my greatest memory of Mr. Ramis’ work,
unhappily, was of Caddyshack, which I
saw at one of the last drive-ins to exist with some best friends from high
school. We were in a large customized van. There was a whole lot going on. I
barely drank anything when I was younger, so I do believe the culprit was food.
My stomach went south and there was a certain disgusting mess that accumulated
in my drawers. I felt it coming on and I thought I was in charge. But I was
wrong. I waddled over to the drive-in bathroom, hoping nothing would reach past
my socks and into broad moonlight to expose me. I made it. Naturally, the
horrendous toilet was without toilet paper so I had to think quickly. My
underwear became my mopping device. After I got pretty clean, I threw them out.
I slinked back to the van and watched the rest of the movie in jeans and shirt, only.
Everyone in the van continued to drink and carouse. People seemed to notice that I was gone
a long time but no one asked me why so no one knew what had happened to me.
Until now, of course.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Ten Things I Love Today
1. People don’t want to eat unhappy pigs. http://www.nytimes.com/2014/02/20/opinion/kristof-is-that-sausage-worth-this.html
2. When Hannah (Lena Dunham) talks in GIRLS in very flat,
declarative sentences whenever she is uncomfortable. She starts mad and blaming
and often ends up hurt and crying. Yeah, that. Girls.
3. House Plants.
4. Sea to Shining Sea : California ,
The West, in general. The density of travel opportunities in the Northeast.
5. The middle class and all its average solidity. When it’s
there.
6. Spinach. Noodles. Cheese. See 1 above.
7. All those good body things you’d rather not hear about
from me right now.
8. France .
Up, down, all around.
9. Didion, Beckett, Woolf, Nabokov.
10. Recorded music, more than live. Mostly without drums.
Bonus:
11. My friends, of course.
ENJOY your weekend.
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Time to Come Clean About Ten Things
1. I don't mind monosodium glutamate. In fact, I eat flavor packets.
2. Better drones than full out wars.
3. I don't care much about the unheard voices. Everyone is unheard.
4. Pain is pain and no one's is that much more interesting than anyone else's.
5. Beavers are taking over Massachusetts. Time for a thinning?
6. If I can live this entire life without ever going to Russia or China, I'll live.
7. I sleep late because I'd rather be alone at night, getting things done without any noise, than listen to the whir of the daily musts of others.
8. Cold is not the problem. Lack of light and lack of being outside with others---is criminal: NY.
9. Everyone has a mood disorder. It is interesting to know how and when it kicks in.
10. I want a dog. But not like this. Not without a dog door.
2. Better drones than full out wars.
3. I don't care much about the unheard voices. Everyone is unheard.
4. Pain is pain and no one's is that much more interesting than anyone else's.
5. Beavers are taking over Massachusetts. Time for a thinning?
6. If I can live this entire life without ever going to Russia or China, I'll live.
7. I sleep late because I'd rather be alone at night, getting things done without any noise, than listen to the whir of the daily musts of others.
8. Cold is not the problem. Lack of light and lack of being outside with others---is criminal: NY.
9. Everyone has a mood disorder. It is interesting to know how and when it kicks in.
10. I want a dog. But not like this. Not without a dog door.
Thursday, February 13, 2014
Fresh like Vik, Iceland
Windows full open.
Cold rain.
Storm is ending.
34 degrees.
Feels like spring.
Cold rain.
Storm is ending.
34 degrees.
Feels like spring.
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Super Storm Pax has Begun
Okay, earlier this winter I had a certain attitude about all the bellyaching. It was, "Yeah, this is winter. Like back when we had winter."
Frankly, the very cold temperatures, always under freezing, are fine. People are talking about how they are used to it now. No one is shivering. We have become Icelandic.
But it's this endless filthy snow that never melts that just keeps building up. The well worn paths---they are covered with sand over frozen bridges of snow and ice. People walk over all this horror and go about their business. Everyone is wearing huge ugly boots. Souls are encrusted with salt. Walkways are encrusted with salt. It's like a huge crunchy dirty pretzel. But even saltier. It's hideous.
This could get a person down. But you start thinking this---after every storm, you are done with one more storm. The earth does orbit and the axis shifts. It has shifted quite a bit lately. The days are longer. The sun is pushing up toward a higher angle. You KNOW that spring will be here in five weeks. At least in name.
So there is hope.
We are a hopeful people.
But this PAX snow just started. And people are talking 8 or 12 inches. You just hope the rain that is coming in afterward will destroy the whole mess. Obliterate the dirt and salt.
So, hate to be all prissy. But it's not the snow or the cold. It's the mess.
Frankly, the very cold temperatures, always under freezing, are fine. People are talking about how they are used to it now. No one is shivering. We have become Icelandic.
But it's this endless filthy snow that never melts that just keeps building up. The well worn paths---they are covered with sand over frozen bridges of snow and ice. People walk over all this horror and go about their business. Everyone is wearing huge ugly boots. Souls are encrusted with salt. Walkways are encrusted with salt. It's like a huge crunchy dirty pretzel. But even saltier. It's hideous.
This could get a person down. But you start thinking this---after every storm, you are done with one more storm. The earth does orbit and the axis shifts. It has shifted quite a bit lately. The days are longer. The sun is pushing up toward a higher angle. You KNOW that spring will be here in five weeks. At least in name.
So there is hope.
We are a hopeful people.
But this PAX snow just started. And people are talking 8 or 12 inches. You just hope the rain that is coming in afterward will destroy the whole mess. Obliterate the dirt and salt.
So, hate to be all prissy. But it's not the snow or the cold. It's the mess.
Fun
What is fun?
Watching over your money and getting your taxes ready?
Trudging through the ice and frozen dirt because you have to?
No. Neither are.
But you have to. You have to. You have to.
So, since you have to--you may as well make an effort to enjoy yourself.
They say that looking back too much causes depression and looking forward too much causes anxiety. That staying in the moment, on task, is the road to enjoyment. Unless, of course, you are traumatized, then the past will simply grab at you.
Bringing everyone up to the present, having fun, even while doing taxes or crawling through another filthy 15 degree day, is possible. But it means that those who were mistreated need a little extra loving. We can all do that. Love the unfortunate. The loud. The stupid.
There are so many people. It really is like the great fungus of New Hampshire out there--huge and spreading. It can't be healthy to have all these people around. But there they are.
I'm no big lover of abortion. But, you know, a woman's right to choose and all that. Certainly.
The greatest birth control is a bad economy. Maybe it needs to continue at a pokey rate.
I hear we are going to top out at 9Billion. And then, somehow, by some sort of equation or prediction or I don't know what--we will level off at that level. Though, there are competing papers. Some say we will hit 9Billion by 2050 and then crawl up to 13Billion and then level off.
All those people need to have some fun. They can't all be slumped over their bicycles in Lagos, waiting for their next customer. Yes, that's what happens in Lagos. It's a crazy high-trade society. Many people have little businesses and they sleep at their business. That's what they have. A guy who cuts wood by pedaling his bicycle, in place, that is connected to a saw, has nowhere else to go but there. And he sleeps on the bicycle. Maybe if he stays in the moment he is then having fun?
I don't know.
Sometimes, I think we are reading all these things and doing all these things, and we don't really know what the hell is up. We make movies about it. We hit the issues. But we are not mathematicians, most of us. And it is math, the numbers of strivers, that dictates so much at any given moment.
Chaos. A bit. Hopeful. Some.
I complain about preparing taxes for my accountant and freezing ugly streets. None of it is fun. But when I do try, and I do try, to stay in the moment during any and all tasks, I am happier than when I don't.
But I do not think I would be happy living on a bicycle in Lagos. But that's just me.
Watching over your money and getting your taxes ready?
Trudging through the ice and frozen dirt because you have to?
No. Neither are.
But you have to. You have to. You have to.
So, since you have to--you may as well make an effort to enjoy yourself.
They say that looking back too much causes depression and looking forward too much causes anxiety. That staying in the moment, on task, is the road to enjoyment. Unless, of course, you are traumatized, then the past will simply grab at you.
Bringing everyone up to the present, having fun, even while doing taxes or crawling through another filthy 15 degree day, is possible. But it means that those who were mistreated need a little extra loving. We can all do that. Love the unfortunate. The loud. The stupid.
There are so many people. It really is like the great fungus of New Hampshire out there--huge and spreading. It can't be healthy to have all these people around. But there they are.
I'm no big lover of abortion. But, you know, a woman's right to choose and all that. Certainly.
The greatest birth control is a bad economy. Maybe it needs to continue at a pokey rate.
I hear we are going to top out at 9Billion. And then, somehow, by some sort of equation or prediction or I don't know what--we will level off at that level. Though, there are competing papers. Some say we will hit 9Billion by 2050 and then crawl up to 13Billion and then level off.
All those people need to have some fun. They can't all be slumped over their bicycles in Lagos, waiting for their next customer. Yes, that's what happens in Lagos. It's a crazy high-trade society. Many people have little businesses and they sleep at their business. That's what they have. A guy who cuts wood by pedaling his bicycle, in place, that is connected to a saw, has nowhere else to go but there. And he sleeps on the bicycle. Maybe if he stays in the moment he is then having fun?
I don't know.
Sometimes, I think we are reading all these things and doing all these things, and we don't really know what the hell is up. We make movies about it. We hit the issues. But we are not mathematicians, most of us. And it is math, the numbers of strivers, that dictates so much at any given moment.
Chaos. A bit. Hopeful. Some.
I complain about preparing taxes for my accountant and freezing ugly streets. None of it is fun. But when I do try, and I do try, to stay in the moment during any and all tasks, I am happier than when I don't.
But I do not think I would be happy living on a bicycle in Lagos. But that's just me.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Woody and Michael
So little else needs to be said about Woody Allen and his crazed family life.
Except this: We won't know, ever, what lurked in his heart. Or loins. Maybe it was proven that he did nothing untoward to his daughter. But, of course, he married the daughter of his girlfriend and everyone got pretty upset about that.
Michael Jackson and Woody Allen and millions of other men like them young. It seems. Men will do what they can, too, to satisfy an itch. Go behind a closed door. Make a whole movie about it. Open up a theme park. Etc.
Beyond any criminal activity, this also becomes a biological problem. Why on earth are some men sexually attracted to children?
You can understand the men who want kids in their late teens. Not long ago, that was when people got married. Rich men got to have very young women as their brides. Beyond the questions of power and property and control, most of us can agree that kids in their late teens are sexual. But young kids? Who are not sexual? Yeah, that's the difficult one.
I know so many people who were wrongly handled as children. It's a true crisis.
We have to figure out why and how men are sexually attracted to children. And if it is genetic, then it is time for some genetic engineering.
Except this: We won't know, ever, what lurked in his heart. Or loins. Maybe it was proven that he did nothing untoward to his daughter. But, of course, he married the daughter of his girlfriend and everyone got pretty upset about that.
Michael Jackson and Woody Allen and millions of other men like them young. It seems. Men will do what they can, too, to satisfy an itch. Go behind a closed door. Make a whole movie about it. Open up a theme park. Etc.
Beyond any criminal activity, this also becomes a biological problem. Why on earth are some men sexually attracted to children?
You can understand the men who want kids in their late teens. Not long ago, that was when people got married. Rich men got to have very young women as their brides. Beyond the questions of power and property and control, most of us can agree that kids in their late teens are sexual. But young kids? Who are not sexual? Yeah, that's the difficult one.
I know so many people who were wrongly handled as children. It's a true crisis.
We have to figure out why and how men are sexually attracted to children. And if it is genetic, then it is time for some genetic engineering.
Thursday, February 06, 2014
Good News About the World
Though we hear all this anti-gay hell about Russia...and it is hell...
Think about this:
The entire Western World, almost, is supporting all athletes of all sexual orientations. Think about it. Just twenty years ago, you would not have had a major corporation jumping up and down with its rainbow flags, saying, GO GUUURRRRLLL!
Now, it's just what is done. It has become the norm. It's brilliant. (And it sure does remove a certain amount of tension from my life.)
So Russia, yeah, you are a drag. But the civilized world? It's pretty damn civilized. And for that, I have to say this: I am going to continue to live in the United States, in the usable places, and there is no need, really, to ever go to Russia. I'm no Olympiad.
Happy Sports to all.
We always progress. Always. Toward including everyone. That's the groovy thing about democracy.
Now, let's get behind our trans friends. And our one armed paper hangers!
Think about this:
The entire Western World, almost, is supporting all athletes of all sexual orientations. Think about it. Just twenty years ago, you would not have had a major corporation jumping up and down with its rainbow flags, saying, GO GUUURRRRLLL!
Now, it's just what is done. It has become the norm. It's brilliant. (And it sure does remove a certain amount of tension from my life.)
So Russia, yeah, you are a drag. But the civilized world? It's pretty damn civilized. And for that, I have to say this: I am going to continue to live in the United States, in the usable places, and there is no need, really, to ever go to Russia. I'm no Olympiad.
Happy Sports to all.
We always progress. Always. Toward including everyone. That's the groovy thing about democracy.
Now, let's get behind our trans friends. And our one armed paper hangers!
Wednesday, February 05, 2014
Moby on LA
Thanks, BC.
I agree with everything Moby says, except for this line:
That's what New York became, a victim of its own photogenic beauty and success.
Moby is as Moby does:
http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2014/feb/03/leave-new-york-for-los-angeles
I agree with everything Moby says, except for this line:
That's what New York became, a victim of its own photogenic beauty and success.
Moby is as Moby does:
http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2014/feb/03/leave-new-york-for-los-angeles
Tuesday, February 04, 2014
PSH
Post Seymour
Hoedown:
There has been so much bandying about the tragic end to the
heroin user and wonderful actor-artist, PSHoffman.
Most of it has been kind and compassionate.
Some people are terrified and have blamed him for his own demise. “How could he do that to his three children?”
How could he not?
What happened happened.
I was shocked about this news. I had no idea he even had a
drug problem. Maybe I was too drunk/high to notice?
Strangely, I have been able to “abuse” alcohol and weed at
weekend levels that in other cultures would be considered just a tame Wednesday
evening. It’s hard to know the extent of the damage you are doing. Luckily for
me, I have a very sensitive, weak system, so there is just a limit to what I
can handle and I just stop. For days at a time. For weeks. Sometimes years.
Depending on the bender.
At the root of whatever it is that keeps me from going off
the deep end, chemically, is I am terrified of illness and refuse to destroy
myself (even though, at times, I do believe that others would be happy with my
disappearance). My self preservation is stronger than my desire to numb out.
The primal horror in reaction to the death of this wonderful
actor is that we all have a very questionable impulse. To self-obliterate. We
all, while standing on a tall bridge, feel the desire to jump over the divide
into the nothingness. We all want to escape this fucking veil of tears. Those
of us who are high functioning, or medium functioning, or functioning within
the legal limits of our house pants while sitting on a stained couch, find it
terrifying that we could be so self destructive. Not to mention what we are
doing to others by self immolation. But we all have some kind of wish to
disappear. Even if only occasionally. Certainly, we all want pleasure, even if
that pleasure is nothing more than a lack of pain.
There is much talk about brain chemistry. The chemistry of
addiction. All that. I believe we will fully understand the chemistry of this
whole addiction mess more fully in decades to come. But then, I do believe we
may use our scientific ability to genetically engineer human beings who will
then not have problems with addiction.
However, I fear the world will be less colorful.
I sort of know, or have the sinking feeling, that my
creativity—which is really a form of reaching for transcendence—comes from the
same area as my need to obliterate my negative feelings and increase my warm
feelings. This is not dissimilar to drinking gallons of cheap beer at the Hofbräuhaus
am Platzl in Munich (and why didn’t Duncan ever call me? We
got along so well that evening!) or like when I am stoned on some of the good
weed you can simply have delivered to your door, anywhere in livable U.S.A. , and use
it to enhance ye ol’ sex life or dry pot roast.
Of course, there are limits. For me. But I completely
understand that old saw you hear in 12 step rooms, “One is too much and a
thousand never enough.” The desire, “To
find God at the bottom of a bottle.”
Pascal’s “God Shaped Hole,” Etc. There is a need FOR SOMETHING ELSE. And
maybe for some people this need is filled while watching sun motes dance around
their sweet children’s heads who love to eat noodles with their hands. But many
people don’t have the luxury…of noodles. More abstract things can take over.
Death always lurks. For all of us. Horrible, horrible death.
Yet on some level we crave death because for one thing, life can be too hard or
too boring and also, it’s a curious place, death. Like, what the hell is it?
And if we are going there, anyway, wouldn’t it make sense to get there sooner?
Who likes to wait for anything?
Life is better, we say. But we don’t really know that. I
have come out of anesthesia three times—each experience leaving me thinking,
“Damn, if death is that kind of nothingness, why on earth is anyone afraid of
it? I’ve never felt more well rested!” (And on my tombstone, please write, “My
sinuses have never felt better”)
I believe the righteous indignation that people hold against
addicts is a projection of the fear of their own death and the death of the
ones that they love. People hate the idea of no longer existing. But why? They
did not exist for all those long years before they were born. Are they mad
about that, too? And does someone have to pay for this most great probability
that we are not immortal?
I did not know PSHoffman. I know some people who did. They
are all saddened. Sad. Not mad. Just sad. Anyone who did not know him who is
angry at his action is projecting a fear onto him. Anger will not change
anything here.
One day, we may figure out how to handle ourselves better on
this earth, with all its pitfalls and problems and aggressions and miseries.
But until then, I think we are going to drink and do drugs. And probably after
that, too. It’s tricky.
Rest in Peace, Philip. You gave more than most. Sorry you’re
gone. It’s sad for all of us. Living, unlike being dead, is often sad.
Monday, February 03, 2014
Sunday, February 02, 2014
The Hudson
We're sleeping right on it. Windows Open. Fresh air. It's geography right in the right wet good place. And today: 45 degrees.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hudson_River
Sure, helicopters and planes use it for their visual. And you want to kill. But it calms down. And it's quiet. And all the windows are open.
Air blown across salt water is fresh and good.
Air blown across Fresh Water is the breath of fucking Jesus.
I love you, Jesus.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hudson_River
Sure, helicopters and planes use it for their visual. And you want to kill. But it calms down. And it's quiet. And all the windows are open.
Air blown across salt water is fresh and good.
Air blown across Fresh Water is the breath of fucking Jesus.
I love you, Jesus.
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
I Married A Walrus
So,
Our apartment has radiators all over the place. I think maybe this building was originally designed to be a hatchery for baby chicks?
Luckily, they can be turned off, separately.
Now that we've moved from a "Loft Like Alcove Studio" into a proper place with hallways and doors, I can keep some heat going and my walrus husband, high over the ice-chunking Hudson, can keep the bedroom door shut (while I vampire it) with the heater completely off. You can almost see your breath in there. I am afraid that uptown necrophiliacs will mistaken him for a love object. But I digress...
The beauty of being able to have different heating zones is quite fine. And when I do end up joining the sleeping area each night--I throw on my extra blankets and we sleep like the damned. No one should have to sleep in a heated room. It's just too life destroying.
The chilled sleeping works well. I am glad I married a walrus. Even if he is full of abalone.
Our apartment has radiators all over the place. I think maybe this building was originally designed to be a hatchery for baby chicks?
Luckily, they can be turned off, separately.
Now that we've moved from a "Loft Like Alcove Studio" into a proper place with hallways and doors, I can keep some heat going and my walrus husband, high over the ice-chunking Hudson, can keep the bedroom door shut (while I vampire it) with the heater completely off. You can almost see your breath in there. I am afraid that uptown necrophiliacs will mistaken him for a love object. But I digress...
The beauty of being able to have different heating zones is quite fine. And when I do end up joining the sleeping area each night--I throw on my extra blankets and we sleep like the damned. No one should have to sleep in a heated room. It's just too life destroying.
The chilled sleeping works well. I am glad I married a walrus. Even if he is full of abalone.
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Water, Cardboard, Paper Towels
As winter loves to get dry
As Cardboard is desiccating
As Paper towels are rough and moisture absorbent,
As so much in a move has to be touched that should never be touched:
My thumbs and some fingers are split into the kinds of slices that throb 86,400 seconds of every day.
Lately, in public, when something rips open again, I am happy to let the blood pool and dry brown-red because this makes the pouring stop. Doesn't matter who sees it. They have their own wounds that are hard to staunch. People get it.
"This is just how it is right now."
Thanks K.F.
As Cardboard is desiccating
As Paper towels are rough and moisture absorbent,
As so much in a move has to be touched that should never be touched:
My thumbs and some fingers are split into the kinds of slices that throb 86,400 seconds of every day.
Lately, in public, when something rips open again, I am happy to let the blood pool and dry brown-red because this makes the pouring stop. Doesn't matter who sees it. They have their own wounds that are hard to staunch. People get it.
"This is just how it is right now."
Thanks K.F.
Monday, January 27, 2014
Moving Thrill
Today's blog is brought to you by:
IT'S SO QUIET!!!!!
That's all we wanted.
We succeeded.
Let's make 2014 the best quiet year ever.
Fresh fucking Hudson River Air coming through our bedroom window.
And silent. Like, in the trees.
Frosty. Adirondack purity.
I could scream with mother fucking gratitude.
To sum up: So glad we moved.
16th Century Dutch-Indian Pelt trading fresh.
All around, good.
Today. On a bluff above this great wet chasm.
#SoLucky
IT'S SO QUIET!!!!!
That's all we wanted.
We succeeded.
Let's make 2014 the best quiet year ever.
Fresh fucking Hudson River Air coming through our bedroom window.
And silent. Like, in the trees.
Frosty. Adirondack purity.
I could scream with mother fucking gratitude.
To sum up: So glad we moved.
16th Century Dutch-Indian Pelt trading fresh.
All around, good.
Today. On a bluff above this great wet chasm.
#SoLucky
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Anasazi Over Eighth
This is our last weekend in our midtown shack.
It has been felt and discussed that we have lived like the
Anasazi cliff dwellers in New Mexico .
Carved into the side of a canyon, we clung for life.
Slotted on earth.
Both demoralizing and enlivening at once.
Thankful for:
The convenience to any train or other vehicle out
of here at any moment.
Big suburban appliances.
24 hour everything.
One key, one lock. Doorman plays sentry.
Big from stem to stern. Felt like a roller rink. Kind of.
Always wanted to be in the exact middle of things.
And done.
See you with stories from the Northern end.
#ManhattanPastoral
Stay warm. And free.
Thank you, white whale, for a strong jaunt looking west. It was never meant to be forever. Thanks for not being too clingy. Leaving on good terms.
Ya.
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Choice
Less of this
http://www.nytimes.com/2014/01/19/opinion/sunday/for-the-love-of-money.html?emc=eta1&_r=0
More focus on this
http://www.nytimes.com/2014/01/22/opinion/bittman-abundance-doesnt-mean-health.html
Because I said so?
Thanks, MM
http://www.nytimes.com/2014/01/19/opinion/sunday/for-the-love-of-money.html?emc=eta1&_r=0
More focus on this
http://www.nytimes.com/2014/01/22/opinion/bittman-abundance-doesnt-mean-health.html
Because I said so?
Thanks, MM
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
What I Like About Winter
It snows.
Everything is basically dead.
No allergies.
It’s cold and you know it.
Crocuses start to show up the end of February, especially in
sunny spots.
You can stay inside and get things done and not feel like
you are missing anything.
The air is clean, fresh, you name it. It’s fantastic.
You feel the water table is rising.
People, and other things, are not so loud.
Pot Roast is an option.
You get to wear big heavy boots that make you feel powerful.
Time slows down.
Every day, after December 21 or so, gets longer.
You can rely on Ground Hog Day to always yield the answer,
“Yes, there will be more winter.” So you get to keep enjoying the cold.
Weather struggles galvanize purpose.
Children like the snow and they are often brave in this
weather.
Other people complain but you can feel smug about your good
circulatory system.
You can lean up against a heater or a fireplace and
appreciate it.
Bing television watching was made for this time of year.
You burn more calories just sitting still.
You can then, obviously, eat more cheese.
Monday, January 20, 2014
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Some May Call You Lazy, Others May Call you Samuel Beckett
Samuel Beckett was so "lazy" that his one-time girlfriend, Peggy Guggenheim, nicknamed him Oblomov after the Russian character who barely got out of bed.
He did not produce a lot of work. But the work he produced...
Fuck quantity. Go for quality. And if you fail, at least you will be well rested.
"Try Again. Fail Again. Fail Better."
"I can't go on. I'll go on."
He did not produce a lot of work. But the work he produced...
Fuck quantity. Go for quality. And if you fail, at least you will be well rested.
"Try Again. Fail Again. Fail Better."
"I can't go on. I'll go on."
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
The Iceman Cometh: August Dietrich, my Great Grandfather--the story of Irene Grace
Thank you, cousins, for providing this little article which tells the story of my Great Aunt Irene, whom we called Aunt Reeney.
I only ever knew her when she was in the wheel chair. The accident happened before I was born. She was the first person I knew who had something majorly wrong with her body. She got around fine in her chair. She had some caged birds as pets. She was a widow. She was exotic. And she was tough as hell. Her sister, my father's mother, was a much softer Dietrich.
Aunt Reeney was sharp and tart. You got the sense that no one would ever cross her. I think everyone was afraid of her? I don't know. But you certainly wouldn't think to do anything untoward or childlike in Aunt Reeney's house. She was sweet with cookies and candy. She was not at all self pitying. She had very long white hair and looked just a little like my grandmother, her sister. She was a hero. I can just imagine the day she tossed that baby carriage to safety and took on that oncoming car with both legs.
What is surprising is--I never knew my great grandfather had an ice business. Even more surprising is that it was cold enough to support that kind of business.
Read the little town newspaper story--written in 1983 about a time way before that. It's sweet. I guess clicking on the image to get it even bigger makes sense.
"I only have ice...for you."
I only ever knew her when she was in the wheel chair. The accident happened before I was born. She was the first person I knew who had something majorly wrong with her body. She got around fine in her chair. She had some caged birds as pets. She was a widow. She was exotic. And she was tough as hell. Her sister, my father's mother, was a much softer Dietrich.
Aunt Reeney was sharp and tart. You got the sense that no one would ever cross her. I think everyone was afraid of her? I don't know. But you certainly wouldn't think to do anything untoward or childlike in Aunt Reeney's house. She was sweet with cookies and candy. She was not at all self pitying. She had very long white hair and looked just a little like my grandmother, her sister. She was a hero. I can just imagine the day she tossed that baby carriage to safety and took on that oncoming car with both legs.
What is surprising is--I never knew my great grandfather had an ice business. Even more surprising is that it was cold enough to support that kind of business.
Read the little town newspaper story--written in 1983 about a time way before that. It's sweet. I guess clicking on the image to get it even bigger makes sense.
"I only have ice...for you."
Monday, January 13, 2014
The Unbearable Disorientation of Moving
Though the news is mostly good and we are looking forward to living on the Hudson in a quiet apartment, we have managed, in this maze of movement, to make some stupid mistakes because we are in new territory and off our centers.
1. I bought a ticket for a friend to see a play with us this past Saturday night. All excited to see her, I texted her a "See you at 6." She went, ?? I went, Tell me you're joking. She called. She isn't going to be here for two more weeks. I just mis-shoved her schedule. Years ago, I bought a plane ticket for a trip I was taking a week later than I purchased. There was no excuse for that one.
2. Relying on the A train has been completely fine and we get to midtown in 18 minutes and it is no big deal. We have done it often. However, on our way to a screening on Sunday evening with plenty of time to get to the lower east side, the A train took forever to show, went local, and only got us to Columbus Circle. By then, the Screening was about to begin. We had to bail, figuring it would be more rude to show up toward the end than to not show up at all. Nasty. And we really wanted to see this flick. We were very close to it. Disappointing.
3. I just went online to do the address change thing. I've done it before. The post office. It costs $1. I was scammed by some other unofficial site, which charged me $39.95. Now, I have to go fight with these numskulls, if not, too, cancel my credit card and start over.
Well, it's good...you lose your rhythm. It makes sense to lose it at a time like this. Humans. The new place is clean and we are about to pack up our rental.
Mistakes were made. There will be more. I think I left my shoes in the refrigerator.
1. I bought a ticket for a friend to see a play with us this past Saturday night. All excited to see her, I texted her a "See you at 6." She went, ?? I went, Tell me you're joking. She called. She isn't going to be here for two more weeks. I just mis-shoved her schedule. Years ago, I bought a plane ticket for a trip I was taking a week later than I purchased. There was no excuse for that one.
2. Relying on the A train has been completely fine and we get to midtown in 18 minutes and it is no big deal. We have done it often. However, on our way to a screening on Sunday evening with plenty of time to get to the lower east side, the A train took forever to show, went local, and only got us to Columbus Circle. By then, the Screening was about to begin. We had to bail, figuring it would be more rude to show up toward the end than to not show up at all. Nasty. And we really wanted to see this flick. We were very close to it. Disappointing.
3. I just went online to do the address change thing. I've done it before. The post office. It costs $1. I was scammed by some other unofficial site, which charged me $39.95. Now, I have to go fight with these numskulls, if not, too, cancel my credit card and start over.
Well, it's good...you lose your rhythm. It makes sense to lose it at a time like this. Humans. The new place is clean and we are about to pack up our rental.
Mistakes were made. There will be more. I think I left my shoes in the refrigerator.
Thursday, January 09, 2014
Closed: Escape to Skunk Mountain
Je n'ai pas souvent Blogge sur ce sujet, mais: We have closed on our apartment up on the Hudson near the woods. You get superstitious going too public until it closes. Today was the day.
Last year, we almost bought a beast on Riverside at 107th. The banks were, well, a problem.
(Or they thought we were a problem? Either way--)
So in October of 2013 we went into contract on a sweet 1930s trapezoidal art deco romantic thing up near Fort Tryon Park in Hudson Heights, which is really just Washington Heights above the bridge but the realtors got creative...so now we are living there. In two weeks we shove off.
You get into real estate transactions and you sort of want to kill or die. When we bought our house in Los Angeles in 1998, I remember sitting in our apartment in Santa Monica, as the seller taunted us with a walk-away-fuck-you-I'm-gonna-foreclose attitude, and I got like an armadillo, curling up on the couch waiting for failure to pass. But it did not. It happened. Nice surpise. Then, after all the wanting-to-kill-the-guy, it turned out so sweetly. Best thing we ever did.
This time, it sort of dragged on because we bought from an older woman, M.W., who wanted to get through the holidays without disturbance. But we were impatient. And banks are still scary. But it worked out. Frustration at times, yes. But it was worth the wait.
The apartment entrance is right on the river but high on a bluff. So you get to have a Hudson experience whenever you go in or out. Which is romantic. And makes you wish the Dutch would trade in beaver right in front of you.
But this is the fun thing we learned at closing today. M.W. is a widow of the man who invented the magic peep hole. You see them all over the place. Why, there's even one of his magic peep holes in our apartment. He also had the patent for the lock down bar for apartment doors that used to be so prevalent in the 70's and 80's. But they illegalized them because people were burning in fires behind them, they were so good, and firemen couldn't break the doors down.
So let's hear it for the peephole.
Now, every time I go near that door, I will look at that magic peep hole and think of Mr. W., who is currently dead. We saw his urn. A plasticy/ceramic filigree thing that sat on shelves in the hallway with his name in calligraphy.
Hudson Heights is known for wildlife. There are hawks. There are skunks. There are humans. There is a flyway of birds from the edge of the river, across the top of Manhattan, to eastern trees. This is right outside our windows. But mostly: it is quiet. And right now, we need it to be quiet.
We'll be checking our magic peephole for disturbances. Do come visit.
Last year, we almost bought a beast on Riverside at 107th. The banks were, well, a problem.
(Or they thought we were a problem? Either way--)
So in October of 2013 we went into contract on a sweet 1930s trapezoidal art deco romantic thing up near Fort Tryon Park in Hudson Heights, which is really just Washington Heights above the bridge but the realtors got creative...so now we are living there. In two weeks we shove off.
You get into real estate transactions and you sort of want to kill or die. When we bought our house in Los Angeles in 1998, I remember sitting in our apartment in Santa Monica, as the seller taunted us with a walk-away-fuck-you-I'm-gonna-foreclose attitude, and I got like an armadillo, curling up on the couch waiting for failure to pass. But it did not. It happened. Nice surpise. Then, after all the wanting-to-kill-the-guy, it turned out so sweetly. Best thing we ever did.
This time, it sort of dragged on because we bought from an older woman, M.W., who wanted to get through the holidays without disturbance. But we were impatient. And banks are still scary. But it worked out. Frustration at times, yes. But it was worth the wait.
The apartment entrance is right on the river but high on a bluff. So you get to have a Hudson experience whenever you go in or out. Which is romantic. And makes you wish the Dutch would trade in beaver right in front of you.
But this is the fun thing we learned at closing today. M.W. is a widow of the man who invented the magic peep hole. You see them all over the place. Why, there's even one of his magic peep holes in our apartment. He also had the patent for the lock down bar for apartment doors that used to be so prevalent in the 70's and 80's. But they illegalized them because people were burning in fires behind them, they were so good, and firemen couldn't break the doors down.
So let's hear it for the peephole.
Now, every time I go near that door, I will look at that magic peep hole and think of Mr. W., who is currently dead. We saw his urn. A plasticy/ceramic filigree thing that sat on shelves in the hallway with his name in calligraphy.
Hudson Heights is known for wildlife. There are hawks. There are skunks. There are humans. There is a flyway of birds from the edge of the river, across the top of Manhattan, to eastern trees. This is right outside our windows. But mostly: it is quiet. And right now, we need it to be quiet.
We'll be checking our magic peephole for disturbances. Do come visit.
Wednesday, January 08, 2014
Christie, Sung to the Tune of Misty
Look at Me
I’m as gentle as a sick pig in a tree
And I feel like I’m screaming really loud
Don’t you understand
It’s me, Christie, the king of the land
Walk my way
‘Cause no car can cross that bridge, I’ve had my say
Don’t compete with me, Fort Lee
Is it traffic, you fear
It’s me, Christie, just getting in gear
I’ll just say that I’m innocent, now
Sure, I shoved orange cones in your lanes
And look how rotten your traffic has grown
We smile when we cause you these pains
On my own
I won’t wander through this wonderland alone
Never knowing my right foot from my left
Can’t see below my heft
It’s me, Christie, and now you’re bereft?
On my own
Lost the chance for the big White House to call my home
Never knowing my right foot from my left
Just my mouth, and my ass
It’s me Christie, I'm toast, and I waste gas.
Look at me…
Tuesday, January 07, 2014
Polar Schmortex
When I was a kid, we called this weather condition, "Winter."
It's not like we were made of tough stuff. Our feet got cold. Our noses froze. It was truly uncomfortable. But frankly, it was just how life was.
We never did not go outside because it was too cold. And it was this cold, at times.
Frankly, if you don't embrace what it is like outside, how can you really call yourself an existentialist or a person?
I felt compelled to be on the streets today. First, because I had a couple of things I had to do, but secondly, it seemed like the perfect day to get my hair done. My great stylist in Chelsea surely would have an opening on a day like today because people would be dropping like flies, afraid of a little weather. I could call last minute and get an appointment, and I did.
Then, naturally, Fred and I had lots of time to talk since everyone else was in hiding. He gave my hair extra sauce and spent over an hour sculpting it into something bobbed and not unsightly. A perk to the big freeze. Additionally, we got to know each other better. He was born in Italy, in the same province where my grandmother's family came from, Avellino. He said the place is loaded with crooks. He didn't charge me for the hair sauce and I gave him a large tip.
I came home and worked on this thing I'm working on for a couple hours and then humped out to Brooklyn for my Tuesday night writing extravaganza. Was it cold? Sure. Did I lose the tip of my nose? Not even close.
The news is making us afraid of things. And people use the weather as an excuse to fear life. I say--get the hell out of the house and get your hair cut! Or something. Put on your long underwear and an extra pair of wool socks and you'll frigging live.
I love when NYC is overrun with nature's desires. It brings people back to their basic selves. I fear that people fear revealing who they are, really.
Extreme weather can make you kind. And warm.
More vortexes. Sure. Anytime. We'll survive.
(As for my Northern Midwestern friends: Please stay inside and pretend you didn't read this.)
It's not like we were made of tough stuff. Our feet got cold. Our noses froze. It was truly uncomfortable. But frankly, it was just how life was.
We never did not go outside because it was too cold. And it was this cold, at times.
Frankly, if you don't embrace what it is like outside, how can you really call yourself an existentialist or a person?
I felt compelled to be on the streets today. First, because I had a couple of things I had to do, but secondly, it seemed like the perfect day to get my hair done. My great stylist in Chelsea surely would have an opening on a day like today because people would be dropping like flies, afraid of a little weather. I could call last minute and get an appointment, and I did.
Then, naturally, Fred and I had lots of time to talk since everyone else was in hiding. He gave my hair extra sauce and spent over an hour sculpting it into something bobbed and not unsightly. A perk to the big freeze. Additionally, we got to know each other better. He was born in Italy, in the same province where my grandmother's family came from, Avellino. He said the place is loaded with crooks. He didn't charge me for the hair sauce and I gave him a large tip.
I came home and worked on this thing I'm working on for a couple hours and then humped out to Brooklyn for my Tuesday night writing extravaganza. Was it cold? Sure. Did I lose the tip of my nose? Not even close.
The news is making us afraid of things. And people use the weather as an excuse to fear life. I say--get the hell out of the house and get your hair cut! Or something. Put on your long underwear and an extra pair of wool socks and you'll frigging live.
I love when NYC is overrun with nature's desires. It brings people back to their basic selves. I fear that people fear revealing who they are, really.
Extreme weather can make you kind. And warm.
More vortexes. Sure. Anytime. We'll survive.
(As for my Northern Midwestern friends: Please stay inside and pretend you didn't read this.)
Monday, January 06, 2014
The Colorado Wedge
When I was in Junior High, our neighbor went to visit
cousins in Colorado for a month in the summer and came back with stories about
how fun that Rocky Mountain State is and how lucky she was to go to an Eagles
concert and how everyone just drives around at all hours with no supervision
and is free and easy and, it seemed, sensual.
Unlike the burgh where we were living, where everything was
seasonal and planned and a bit oppressive, Colorado sounded amazing. But more
importantly, our neighbor seemed so fucking happy.
And I wanted a part of that. That looked good. It looked
free. It looked easy. It looked like a big relief.
It was, perhaps, my first experience with what someone feels
like getting to the Rockies and beyond and it
certainly had an affect on my desire to live out West.
Later on, in my early twenties, I met people from California and they were
calmer, more open, loosely exotic and what seemed to me, way less neurotic (at
least on the surface).
In general, these people were sensualists as opposed to
stuck-in-their-brainiacs. Surely, many of them were less interested in the
spiral geography of the arrondissements of Paris or the definition of a gerund. But who
the hell cares about gerunds when you could be riding around in your car with
the top down, with this satisfied feeling that heaven really is on earth and
there is no one who can put a stop to it.
Plus, people got high and no one thought it was wrong.
I hate to be some old duffer who can’t believe what’s going
on. But I kind of can’t believe it. I am very interested in how this is going
to play out in Colorado and soon, Washington and to see
what “hits 50” first. 50 states offering gay marriage or 50 states offering
Blue Dream and Sour Diesel.
Gay marriage is ahead.
Now. We’ll see.
I don’t know if marijuana really is less harmful than
alcohol. I don’t even know if we know how harmful string cheese is. I do know
that business wins and this weed thing is going to make a lot of people a
frigging Mount Shasta of money. It concerns
me. I do know that when you are high, you can barely read, but when you are
drinking, you can at least shoot off very coherent needy and/or nasty emails.
But what makes me happy is—there is a choice toward
sensuality in this country which is greatly needed. Besides the folks who
require marijuana for certain diseases, people also seem to need something to
stop their list-making worried minds from marathoning on that hamster wheel of
fear and obsession. And pot does stop that—and it does increase sensation. I do
think, though, that it would be great if we could increase sensation by simply
opening up to it, without the drug. But it’s legal now. And it’s going to get
more legal everywhere, so we all just better get as much empirical evidence as
we can, find out the down side to this drug, really, and do what makes sense:
live moderately.
Colorado, you big square state: Even though you don’t look
like it, you are the thin edge of the wedge and you’re so groovy, you don’t
even care what it means to the rest of us. And all I can do is smile for the
sensual libertarian joy the West brings to the nervous, ambitious, linear
college grads pumping it hard up and down the upper I-95 corridor. Balance.
We’ll find balance. Well, everyone except the Deep South .
But that would be asking for a miracle.
Sun, pot, cars, happiness. Sure. The American way. Enjoy
yourself. When do we invest?
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