MISERY LOVES COMPANY

I checked the link that someone posted in my comments box for my last post. It is a link to Amazon.com, supposedly where failed writers and losers go to write out their fantasies.

This S____ E_______ guy wrote 8 reviews, which is cool... until you realize that S____ E________ is my cyber-stalker. He was also the guy who, in one of my comments boxes, remarked that Amazon reviews are the hallmark for failed writers.

His words, not mine.

All this time I thought it was a dummy account when I posted his info on CL. You'd think that someone who's name is already on the Web wouldn't be upset about my innocently posting his personal info on Craig's List. Evidently, he didn't want his name to be associated with the racist, sexist trash that he was dishing out on the Rants and Raves board.

What about the pseudonym "J_______ C____"? This character went to a college with that same surname. It's some college on the East Coast, designed to take money from hacks who want the jobs that nobody else wants.

So this person is yet another NYC transplant who has been trying to be heard in a city that is deaf to all demands, the City Of Angels, where dreamers flock to reap rewards and get nothing but shit.

This is pathetic.

It's pathetic because I can't believe I've been wasting my time dealing with a bigger loser than myself.

The real kicker came when my company VPs, upset at me for using company time to combat this moron, informed me that S____ E_______'s "corporation" didn't exist.

"He's psycho," the head VP said, before handing me a written warning to sign. "Stay away from him. This guy is spending all of his time sending us these complaints, so he's obviously disturbed. A dangerous person like that knows where you work, and might come by here, thinking I'm you, trying to blow me away..."

"So you mean none of his companies panned out?" I asked.

"None of them. He's full of shit."

I started to laugh, but the VP reminded me that it wasn't a funny matter. Even though they were not fazed by this idiot's feeble attempts at trying to get me fired, they were a little miffed that I was using company time to deal with such a worthless waste of humanity.

I felt bad, because I didn't-- for one moment-- consider the well-being of anyone else at the company. I don't give a two-bit damn about myself, but it goes without saying that someone else who works here might be accosted by this stalker, just because of his vendetta against me.

I can handle myself fine, but it wasn't my intention to make anyone else here at work feel uneasy.

And imagine how gypped I felt when it was revealed that this guy's biggest credit was an indie flop. All of this drama is just one lonely, failed writer's attempt to make someone else feel bad.

And that's another thing: to fail at writing, one must make an attempt. As much as I love writing, I have never sent any of my work out to be published. Why? Because I was making good money off of music and radio.

Writing is a hobby for me, until someone comes up to me and gives me money to write. And now I understand S_____'s comment about how "my generation" expects everything to be handed to them. This dude wishes he had people handing him money for his half-baked concepts. And having lived in L.A. all of my life, and having known plenty of writers, I can safely say that writers are the lowest rung on the Hollwyood totem pole. They get no respect.

It's enough to make someone so bitter that they adopt the moniker "G______" and try to pick on people who haven't been jaded by The System.

So, I don't consider myself a failed writer. I consider myself an undiscovered writer who is too lazy to try and make a living off of it when it's so much easier to get money for playing bass.

S____ E_______ considers me to be a failure... because he is a failure, and he wants everyone else to feel the same way.

Misery loves company, right?

Well, if it's any consolation, I got suspended for two days from work... just enough time to make changes on a piece of writing that I am going to submit to a producer who asked me if I had anything written down.

And so I must conclude that everything happens for a reason, even this petty cyber-beef. I can't be mad at you, S____, since all of your attempts at hating on me have benefited me.

I needed the time off, to devote to the animation, to devote to the bands... so there's a silver lining to this cloud.

But you, S_____... what are you going to do with your life? Do you really think you're going to make a name for yourself in this town? I've seen people with more talent than you'll ever have get eaten alive in this city, because I've lived here all my life and I've seen them come and go.

Hey, maybe I can talk to my buddy M-- maybe he can get you a job writing screenplays for real movies, with big budgets... movies like Wonderland, directed by M's college buddy.

Why haven't I hit up M myself? Because I'm not some starry-eyed East Coast transplant looking to hit it big. I'm an Angeleno who hasn't had to work very hard to get by in a town where sharks circle for fresh blood daily.

Go back to NYC, kid. You're strictly amateur. This is Los Angeles, not Ground Zero.

Now that I know the truth about you, S____ E_______, I'm going to do a few things:

1. To appease my bosses, I'm going to cut off communications with you 100%. They were right about my using company time to trifle with you... but they were also right about what a complete phony you are.

I'll still blog, but only after I'm done with my work shift.


2. I'm cutting off the comments on this blog until you no longer come around here. You wanna talk to me? E-mail me at one of my accounts.


After you read this post, I suspect you won't be at the club tomorrow night.

4. I'll remember this moment in my life as one of great irony. To think that I actually felt bad a few weeks ago because I thought that maybe your bosses were going to talk to my bosses and have the both of us canned for stupid reasons. I'm not proud of my role in this feud, but I'll tell you what: I no longer have contempt for you, S____ E_______.

I feel sorry for you.

Because you're not going to get what it is you want, as evidenced by your obsession with me, a "nobody" (your words, not mine). Anyone who is somebody will not consort with nobodies.

That means that you are not somebody, or even something.... No, you are far worse, my dear boy.

You are an NYC transplant who thinks he's going to make it in L.A.

I hope you prove me wrong, S____, because it sounds to me like you're losing your hopes real quick. And this is a small world, kiddo-- we'll meet again, in the flesh perhaps. Your name will come across mine in this town, and vice versa... but you've sullied your name by fighting with me, while my name has received a higher profile just by virtue of your attacks alone.

So, I wonder what the band is going to start their set off with-- not to mention the fact that another great band will be playing, as will my friend Dominic's band...

A lot of my friends will be there tomorrow night.

And, possibly, the bitter wannabe writer will be there too.

A BRIEF SUMMARY OF MY WEEKEND

Down Low's birthday was yesterday. He and I drove over to his mother's fiancee's house, somewhere in the Encino hills.

Low's mother has been single for the past 12 years. She is incredibly fit for a woman her age, but then again she used to be a ballet dancer. She now works in real estate and has met the man of her dreams.

I don't know what her fiancee does, but he makes a shitload of money. He makes so much money that he bought their house in the hills AND he wants to buy the neighbor's house as well, just to own the land; he makes so much money that he is hiring the legendary Funk Brothers (the surviving members of the music team that basically created every memorable moment from the Motown catalog) for their wedding; he makes so much that he bought Low, for his 27th birthday, a brand new car.

Upon learning this, Low asked me if I wanted to buy his old car, seeing as mine is sitting in my garage, waiting for me to get some free time together so I can have it serviced.

My eyebrows raised. "Sure", I said. The car is in fine shape, and it would save me the inconvenience of having my other car towed to a shop just to diagnose the problem. I can just take it to The Gypsy, who will hook me up with all the eesentials: tires, tune-up, oil change, etc.

By the time the Oscars started, I was driving through the Valley, on my way to The Garage. I met up with Purple Paulie and the gang, and let him know about my luck. He asked me what I planned to do with the piece-of-shit '85 Citation that he'd let me have for free, the one that was sitting outside of my father's house in Valencia.

"Fuck it," I said. "Take it out to where you guys ride your bikes, maybe trash it..."

Paulie suggested taking the wreck out to the desert and trashing it. To do that, we'd need to get the car running first. Then, we could take it out and fill it full of holes-- Paulie's friends are the typical redneck gun-lovers that you'd expect from the high desert. He also suggested making something creative out of the car afterwards, perhaps for some desert party like Burning Man, to balance out our thirst for automotive destruction.

"Sounds like a plan," I said.

We barbecued at Paulie's house and discussed the finer points of the animation. Peter, Paulie's brother, brought an outside sound guy aboard to help us smooth out some of the rougher audio moments. The brainstorm session was laid-back and mellow.

I talked to Eve for a short while. She is doing some writing herself, perhaps of the confessional variety. She is still in her hermit-state, trying to balance things in her own life before getting things back on track. I am the sole recipient of her occasional transmissions to the outside world.

I also talked to B___________ on the phone-- she'd sent me a pic last Friday, and she resembled Gwen, a friend of Brenda and Sharky's... and when I heard her voice on the phone, she even sounded like Gwen... that is, if Gwen had a Canadian accent.

Tomorrow night, Arthur and his band play at the club in Silver Lake. I will be there, in case any of you want to meet me in the flesh. And I know there's at least one wannabe out there who thinks they can kick my ass.

Well, I'll be there, watching the show and waiting for any punk-ass marks to step up to the plate and put their money where their mouth is...

Any takers?

None? I thought not. Watch the excuses unfurl like a flag in the breeze.

"YARBLES! BOLSHY GREAT YARBLOCKOS TO THEE AND THINE!"

Don't get me wrong: I'm a huge fan of Stanley Kubrick. I think his adaptation of Anthony Burgess' A Clockwork Orange was (and still is) spectacular, a visual delight and also a black comedy of the finest pedigree.

But I want to remake it. And here are the reasons:

1. Kubrick's version was based upon the American publication of the novel, which omitted the 21st chapter for some odd reason (perhaps because the American publishers wanted to add a glossary of the teen slang used in the book). This crucial final chapter ends on a less dire note, and yet (if you ask me) it also seems like a bleaker premise than the famous ending, with the protagonist-- ultra-violent Alex --stating that he was "cured alright".

2. There are many differences between Kubrick's movie and Burgess' novel that I would like to reconcile. Although Kubrick faithfully reproduced the novel's satiric themes and created an unforgettable sci-fi reality, there are a few instances in the book that, I feel, could've been included in the movie without much effort. Certain scenes and images that Kubrick probably excised because they conflicted with his idea of who Alex was would be restored.

3. If I were to remake A Clockwork Orange, there'd be no point in trying to duplicate Kubrick's hyper-detailed vision... which is why I'd opt to animate it. Yes, an animated version of A Clockwork Orange would be daring enough to try. And who knows-- maybe I could get Malcolm McDowell to reprise his starmaking turn as Alex-- I mean, it's only his voice we'd be using, right?

4. I feel it would do Anthony Burgess a large service to try and wrest A Clockwork Orange from its infamous associations. Out of all of Burgess' novels (and he wrote quite a number) he always claimed it was his least favorite. I'm not sure if he came to this conclusion before or after Kubrick's movie was released, but in essays included in later printings Burgess addressed his disapproval over the growing cult of fans who prefer Kubrick's film to the book.

5. The movie never explains what "a clockwork orange" actually is, and so the title of the movie remains a mystery to those who haven't read the book... not that it matters, as most of the people who are fans of the movie couldn't care less about the relevance of the title.

My experience with the Clockwork phenomenon: The book was recommended to me by a punk-rock friend in junior high when it was time to prepare a book report for English class. I found the book in the school library (American version) and got halfway through it. Then, I realized that it had been made into a movie-- I knew this from recalling an old MAD Magazine parody entitled "A Clockwork Lemon".

So I asked my parents to rent the movie on VHS. Halfway through the film, they turned it off in disgust. My father proclaimed it an "anarchist's movie" and they forbade me from ever suggesting rental ideas ever again.

I read the rest of the book, and didn't see the movie all the way through until I was almost out of junior high. I did my book report, and received an 'A'. My English teacher asked me if I'd read the American or the British version. When I discovered there was more to read, I immediately went to the public library near my home and found a copy that contained the missing chapter.

I like the movie. It's great. It's a cinematic milestone.

But I like the book better, and I want to remake it.

So...

Who wants to give me the money to do it?

HAVE A NICE WEEKEND, FOLKS!!

THE SALT SHAKER RITUAL

I have never read Thomas Pynchon until recently. I found a book of his titled Vineland in a used book shop known as The Iliad in North Hollywood late last year. I bought it for a dollar and just barely finished it last week.

I've been told by many intelligent people that not only should I read Pynchon but that I would like him. I always resist the things that people think I would like, however, and so it has been some time since I've felt comfortable enough to pick up one of his formidable novels.

I can see why people have stated that I would enjoy Pynchon: he is one of the most 'pataphysical writers of the 20th Century.

To update: 'pataphysics is the science of imaginary solutions, treating every event as singular and extraordinary.

I am currently immersed in The Crying Of Lot 49. Reading the novel reminds me of a game I used to play with my Theater Arts friends in high school.

We would convene at Twain's, a rundown coffee shop in North Hollywood, bordering Studio City. We were young, broke, and stoned, ordering plates of fries, cups of coffee, and smoking cigarettes like pistols found at a murder scene.

We would spend hours at a time, monopolizing one booth, bored and wondering if there was anything better to do than sit in a coffee shop eating fries and going out to someone's car for an occasional pot smoke-out.

To kill the time, someone would start up this game where one person would pick up the salt shakers on the table and commence to perform some far-out combinations: rotating the shakers around each other, placing one atop the other, clicking them together, and so on. Then, the person handling the shakers would stop and ask aloud, "What number?"

Those of us in on the joke would know what the number was, and anyone not in on the joke would be stymied. They would ask to see the "pattern" again, and it was always different. Yet, the same number would arise even out of a different pattern. Sometimes, it was a different number, but it was always between one and ten. No amount of logic could guide a novice through the machinations of the salt shaker ritual. You either knew the secret, or you went insane trying to figure it out.

Sometimes, the ones not in on the joke would get frustrated to the point of tears and tantrums. This only made the others laugh, because the answer was so deceptively simple. Time would fly, and maybe one or two smart cookies would break the "code": the solution lay in the number of fingers the shaker handler would leave out on the table after he was done performing ther ritual.

Of course, no one blew the joke, affording the ones who did not get it a chance to figure it out on their own. Eventually, everyone would get it, just by glancing down at the table and seeing the corresponding number of fingers laying out on the table.

Afterwards, everyone felt like they were somehow superior to anyone else outside of the closed circle of our friends. If the Salt Shaker Ritual was ever introduced to an outsider, everyone who was previously in-the-dark but now in-the-know would pounce on the chance to drive someone else crazy.

That, to me, is what The Crying Of Lot 49 is all about... at least, for now. I haven't finished it yet.

Like with Joyce's Finnegans Wake, I'm going to wait until I have a tremendous amount of free time to try and decipher Gravity's Rainbow.


*/*


My life has been all about being in the "excluded middle". Maybe it's because I'm the middle child in my family, and so the concept of the excluded middle resonates wildly with me...

I have struggled to divine meaning from things that seemingly have no pattern. I am constantly trying to arrange chaos into something resembling order. Art is the ultimate expression of the corralling of chaos into some sort of ordered holding pen. To take elements that have no surface relation and "connect the dots", so to speak, is a hobby that I never tire of, and the arranging of language is a prime example of this.

I also have been on the other end of the analytical side of art, having created things that left others in a fog trying to figure out what it signifies. Many times, I get armchair psychiatrists trying to take what they know of my life and drawing inferences from my works.

Sometimes, they are correct, but often times they are off by miles. At any given time, I pick a name for a character because I like the sound of it. There is no other correlation, but it is interesting to see others interpret my choices. They might be incorrect in their assumption that I deliberately made a choice for a certain name, but I am also impressed if their explanation holds water.

A good example is the name "Eve". Obviously, this is not her real name, and it doesn't resemble her real name in any way. In fact, Eve's real name can have a myriad of different literary meanings in and of itself. But when I first started mentioning Eve in my blog, a few intelligent readers commented that I may have chosen the name as a reference to the biblical Eve, the woman who unleashed sin upon the Western world.

This was an interesting line to draw, because although I didn't intend for that to be the case, one could argue it very well. At the time, I was lamenting my relationship to her, and someone who didn't know either myself or Eve personally could make that leap of logic soundly.

For the record: I chose the name Eve because of a picture she drew for me once, of a naked woman holding an apple while standing next to a tree in a garden with a snake leering at her. She drew the woman in the picture to look like her, but I can guarantee that if I brought up the resemblance to her, she would write it off as coincidence.

So, in other words, I did choose the name as a reference to the biblical Eve, but not for the same reasons that others have divined.

This is what makes art and the analysis of art so fucking fascinating to me.

I read an analysis of the first chapter in Lot 49 yesterday that touched upon this network of near-misses and connections in art. There is a character named "Mucho" Maas in the novel. The author of the chapter analysis brought up the similarity between the words "mucho" and "macho". They used that to explain why Pynchon may have chosen such a name for this character.

I laughed aloud and said to myself, "What about the fact that 'mucho mas' means 'much more' in Spanish?"

Again, an example of how people read between the in-between lines. But whose analysis is more correct, mine or the chapter analyst?

The answer: Pynchon's analysis would be more correct than either of ours.

And, of course, Pynchon is famous for being a recluse.


*/*


I admire the romantic image of the anonymous benefactor. For instance, the creation of the pseudonym "Sex McGinty" was first intended as a red herring. To further this elaborate high school ruse, I started writing under the name "Hunter S. Thompson" so that people would actually wonder if there was a "Sex McGinty" or not.

On a small scale, it worked. Classmates would come up to me, asking who Sex McGinty was, wondering if I was pulling their leg or not. I never let on, because I thought it was obvious that I was Sex McGinty. But, because I never tipped my hand any which way, the curious minds of my peers veered off into other tangents, other possibilties. The answer was right there in front of them, hidden in plain view.

Pynchon is a genius for becoming invisible. This allows people to analyze his work without rifling through his life and times for answers to the difficult questions his novels elicit. Because of his cipher status, his work resists categorization and rational analysis. No one can take a publicized incident in his life and superimpose it onto any of the themes in his novels.

What little is known about him tends to go this route. Evidently, before he wrote Lot 49, he worked as a technical writer and engineering aide for the Seattle division of Boeing Aircraft. Thus, the use of technical lingo and jargon in his books has a root in his actual life, but I sense that he realized the paradox of being a writer and trying to separate his life from his work. Shortly before Lot 49 was published, he embarked on a mysterious life-mission, to become a spectre, to render himself as unrecognizable in the real world as the author is in the body of his fictitious works.

Recently, The Simpsons ran a new episode where Thomas Pynchon was parodied. Imagine my shock when, as the end credits rolled, his name was mentioned as being a guest voice!

It was a scene straight out of one of his novels, and because of his insistence on remaining an enigma, the weight of the joke is spectacularly heavy.

Pynchon has been credited with writing other novels under pseudonyms (William Gaddis' The Recognitions is one of them) but I don't think it's him-- I think the name "Thomas Pynchon" stands alone and invites intrigue because he smartly made an early decision to let the work speak for itself, and the only way to do that is to remove the ego from the process of creation... which, of course, is an act of ego itself. No matter who the real Pynchon is, you just know he's having a laugh to himself when he does a guest spot on a show as subversive and 'pataphysical as The Simpsons.

Just as I got off on the narcissistic forfeiture of the identity of "Sex McGinty", I must also assume that Pynchon sometimes finds his covert status all-too-amusing. And nowadays, with cyberspace allowing us to be whatever it is we wish to be, it only makes sense that Pynchon's following grows daily online.

Now that I've shaken the salt and pepper up a bit here, please tell me:

What number?

HEART

I chronicled my Monday night trip back from rehearsal with Boy Johnny on En Mass, the blog devoted to people who use mass transit to get around.

For all the walkers and bus-riders out there: after reading about my ordeal, you may want to consider getting yourself a set of wheels.

Anyway...

So, I was droppin' gangsta rap beats with Bro Man (aka "The Syllabeast"), Down Low (aka "D Nuts") and BJ Fornicati (aka "The Fiend") when I got a call on my land line. I looked at the number on the Caller ID.

It was Eve.

Holy shit, I thought.

I went into the other room and answered the phone.

I know this is going to seem like a tease or a gyp, but I can't get into the specifics of what we talked about. I can give you the gist, but I decided, after our conversation, that I would try not to focus my blog so much on her anymore.

No, she has not found out about it. I just think that, given the circumstances, it's better that I don't keep bringing her up as often as I do.

So, here's what I can reveal:

1. She's not mad at me.
2. She wants to be friends.
3. She thought I was in Vegas when she called.
4. She accepted my offer to be part of the animation team again.
5. She has been writing on her own.
6. She did not read my letter, which is a good thing.

I ended up regretting that letter, the one I posted as an entry. She took one look at that three-page, single-spaced, typed letter and decided that she wouldn't try to read it, as it probably contained a lot of angry words. But I think it might have inspired her to write out her own demons.

So, we were supposed to meet last night-- to discuss the animation --but she had to tend to other things, and I told her it wasn't necessary to come by The Garage just yet.

We're trying to make it work. I think if we stay friends, we may be able to co-exist with minimal drama.

Anyway, so after this roller-coaster week, where I found myself bowing out of the Boy Johnny project, I've been re-evaluating my creative endeavors.

I'm sick of playing bass for other people. Now that I have the home studio computer set-up, there's nothing stopping me from just doing my own shit, and putting it up online for others to peruse.

Fuck everybody else. I'll still help Elle and Katie, but once the first demo is done, I'm going to focus on my own songs.

I'm tired of playing for people who lack a coherent vision. I'm sick of bending over backwards for people who have unrealistic dreams of fortune and fame. I'm disgusted with ego-driven divas and talentless hacks who can't get over their rock and roll fantasies of yore.

After meeting the singer for Boy Johnny's group, I finally realized that there is a whole subsection of Los Angeles comprised of over-the-hill musicians who want that last stab at the brass ring.

This is why I said I was going to stop playing music actively at age 35. I don't want to be known (as Chris Rock so eloquently put it) as the Old Man In The Club... you know, that guy who's not really that old, but just a little too old to be up in the club.

What really put me off about Johnny's singer was her meticulous attitude towards me. She didn't think I was "ready" to play her songs, but I'd already practiced twice before with just Johnny. This was the first time she came to a rehearsal, and she already felt that I wasn't "right" for the gig.

Meanwhile, she brought up the fact that she printed the wrong address on the flyers for the show in Downey.

Can you say "fucking nutcase"? Can you say "unwarranted diva"?

So I'm going to start my own group, with Eve and Bro Man. I've been warning them about it, and now my threats are going to become a reality. Eve can't play bass to save her life but she could sing if she so desired. Bro Man can recite spoken word poetry, and his rhyming skills have improved ever since I decided to make him into a rapper.

Yes, they will need much coaching and coaxing, but they have heart, and that's what it all boils down to-- heart.

Fuck your head, it's your heart, your soul, that you should heed when creating art.

Your head is for analyzing the art afterwards; your heart dictates where the paint strokes land, where the notes should go, which words will fit.

I don't have time to think about how awesome I look onstage with the bass strap slung so low that I can't even reach the strings. I don't care for the carefully coiffed hairstyle or the canned repartee that passes for stage banter nowadays.

All I know is, if you feel it, then everyone else in the room will feel it.

When I told Bro Man that I was talking to Eve again, his remark was: "Cool! The band is back together!"

Now that's heart.

TWIRLING THE GONZO BATON

It's always sad when a hero dies. But when they commit suicide... that's just a fucking shame.

R.I.P. Hunter S. Thompson.

Thompson was the only journalist I'd ever read who I didn't dislike. He seemed more like a hard-boiled novelist who had a day-job writing soft news and incorporated pulp/freak shock into his stories out of boredom.

I've always hated journalism, because there is no way to be completely objective about the subject of a news story. Many factors bias the finished result. A writer's moods and tantrums can greatly affect the slant by which he/she presents "the facts". I have nothing but contempt for journalism, especially nowadays, when everybody straight-out lies and makes shit up without remorse.

I think Hunter S. Thompson also hated journalism, which is why he pioneered his own brand.

Thompson's books and essays also inspired me to delve into the world of mind expansion. Funny, most people cite someone like Timothy Leary or Carlos Castaneda as their trip gurus, but Thompson's loony excursions into altered states were more gripping, more persuasive. I was pretty straight edge until I read Hell's Angels when I was 16: didn't drink, didn't smoke, didn't get stoned... and I didn't try anything illicit until I was 18.

Hell's Angels was, to me, his finest book. It was the bummer side of the Summer Of Love that Thompson showed us, the post-WWII wasteland that many GIs came home to, disillusioned by the atrocities of The War To End All Wars, shafted by the rosy riveter-wives who left them for 4-F draft dodgers, left with nothing but a vintage Indian two-wheeler, a leather jacket and the open asphalt.

What was admirable about that book was that Thompson not only placed himself amongst the action, a la George Plimpton, but seemed to fit right in with the biker shenanigans and rampant hedonism. He was not in any way, sense or form a part of the Establishment, and as a result he was able to get his subjects to talk to him frankly and honestly.

Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas is an incredible book, but it carries so much baggage and has so much to answer for that it mars the experience of reading it for the first time. Ironically, the I.T. Guy here at work and I were talking about Thompson last week. He and I disagreed over the movie adaptation by Terry Gilliam. The I.T. Guy felt that it didn't capture the book well enough; I felt that Gilliam was the only man who could turn Thompson's gonzo classic into a movie, and that he did a good job of conveying the dread inherent in that book.

For all those who thought of Fear And Loathing as a party tome, the kind of book that elevated your cool status just by carrying it under your arm, please remember that the subtitle is "A Savage Journey Into The Heart Of The American Dream". Sure, there's some insanely funny moments throughout, but the overall tone is that of a bad acid trip, Jack Kerouac's road dreams turned inside out, the death knell of objective journalism...

I'm surprised that Thompson didn't kill himself after writing that book. It took almost 30 years for him to finally turn off his own lights. In a way, Thompson's mania-- the drugs, the booze, the women, the crazy stunts, the self-aggrandization --was merely a gradual kind of suicide.

Kurt Vonnegut once reviewed one of Thompson's books and diagnosed himself as having "Hunter Thompson's disease". Vonnegut was right in ascribing symptoms to Thompson's creative pathology, and I'm sure Dr. Gonzo agreed-- after all, he once started one of his books with a quote from Samuel Johnson: "[H]e who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man."

I think time and sin caught up with Raoul Duke, and given Thompson's access at high levels of government, I'm sure there were plenty of things wracking his guilt-ridden mind. I'm positive that Thompson felt like he was an accomplice to unmentionable, unspeakable events, and his sense of self-hatred only intensified with the passage of the years.

I read an interview with him last year in RAZOR magazine, and it was depressing: he was flagellating himself, wallowing in self-pity and bitterness. Too bad. But then again, he did unwittingly unleash a generation of writers upon the world who took up his baton but twirled it with little of the grace and humor that could be found in even his most cynical works.

I was so enamored of Thompson that, when I made up an underground magazine in high school titled FUCK OFF!, I adopted his name as my pen name. A straight rip-off, a "bite" (as the rappers put it), and also a tribute to a man whose words mattered to a teenage car wreck such as myself.

I eventually outgrew him, not because I was bored with his writing (how can anyone with a pulse be bored by his words?), but because I traced the influence backwards, past Tom Wolfe (whom I admire but from a distance), past Norman Mailer and Gay Talese, stopping at The Beats and moving forward, landing on the bedrock of a writer named Terry Southern.

Terry Southern was "gonzo" before Thompson coined the phrase; to his credit, Southern was also a bona fide writer, not some journalist with "writerly" aspirations. Southern was one of the first to put himself at the center of the action of the story, although Southern's adventures were either way beyond Thompson's league or just shy of the craziness that infected the good doctor's best articles.

If you ever find a copy of the piece that Southern did for Esquire, "Twirling At Ole Miss", then you will see for yourself that, as good as Thompson was, there was someone better, with a far more humane approach to his subjects and less of a public image to pander to; "Ole Miss" straddles the line between fact and fiction so skillfully, you can't help but wonder how much of it is Southern's invention. I hear that "Ole Miss" is frequently studied in college courses as a prime example of what became known as The New Journalism.

I think that's the reason why Hell's Angels is my favorite Thompson book: it resembles Southern's satiric style, and was written before Thompson became famous for Fear And Loathing. Both writers had irreverent, devil-may-care attitudes towards straight society, but Southern was more subversive, more corrosive, because of the fact that he never became a pop cultural icon... that is, if you don't count Southern's inclusion on the cover of The Beatles' Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band as pop cultural iconography. I dare you to try and find him on the cover-- chances are, you don't even know what he looks like.

Meanwhile, Thompson was well-known enough to be lampoooned by Garry Trudeau in Doonesbury. He hung out with Johnny Depp, who played him in Gilliam's movie. Thompson even had a cameo in the movie.

Southern sort of killed himself in the end, by drinking himself into a slow stupor. But along the way, his comic inventions made lasting impressions: the scripts for Dr. Strangelove, Easy Rider, and Barbarella; the novels Flash & Filigree, The Magic Christian, and Candy; and his hysterical articles for The Realist with titles like "Terry Southern Interviews a Male Faggot Nurse" and "The Blood Of A Wig"...

Speaking of which-- and I know I'm straying from my HST obit here, but what the hell -- "The Blood Of A Wig" is possibly the funniest short story/journalism piece that I've ever read, ever. Nothing has come close to it in the ten years since I first read it. Nothing that Hunter S. Thompson wrote can ever match it.

"The Blood Of A Wig" is a surreal take on Sixties' journalism, countercultural disconnect, and high-pressure deadlines that must be met by lackadaisical hipsters with too much time (and not enough Dexedrine) on their hands. It deserves to be widely read and appreciated. But when Terry Southern died, no one even so much as blinked.

I wonder what kind of praises will be sung about Hunter S. Thompson, a great mind troubled by horrific demons and self-destructive tendencies. Who will come out to mourn him?

Why, everybody.

How many e-mails, phone calls, and messages have I received since the news of Thompson's suicide broke, all from people who knew my passion for his work?

Plenty.

And who will take the place of such beatific angels like Thompson or Southern or any number of writers who put themselves on the line just so they can get that much closer to the hearts of their stories? Who will pick up the baton and pass it on to the next generation of rambunctious wordsmiths?

In this age of Jayson Blair, right-wing blogs, and people calling for Dan Rather's resignation, the answer to that is... no one.

CLOCK THAT GRIP II

I am feeling much better over all of this contemplating I've been doing. Last night, I was thinking so hard that the answer finally came to me and helped me to develop more positive thoughts.

I take acid trips very seriously. I know it all sounds like justification for drug abuse, but I haven't done acid in over a decade. I've done 'shrooms, but that's not the same. LSD is more direct, more rigid.

I swore to myself long ago that, if I ever dropped again, I would make a serious inquiry into my personality and its nature. But 'cid is the type of drug where you MUST be prepared for the revelations to be disturbing. You may not see what you want to see when you're under its influence. It may show you things that bother you because they stir beneath the surface and your ego cannot let them go.

I was starting to think that it had been a bad idea to trip last Sunday, but now I see that it was what I needed.

And please don't get me wrong, regarding my last post: I'm not saying that I'm going to just mooch off of people, or "finagle" as I like to call it. If anything, I've been doing that and getting away with it for a long time. No, I think it's about managing my finances a little better, and re-thinking my stance on the women in my life.

See, if anything, I should be flattered if women think I have potential. Maybe their disappointment stems not from their own issues, but my issues. Maybe if I showed more incentive than I do, they'd stick around.

I have a strong work ethic, but it doesn't always translate well. I always seem to be more cavalier than I really am inside. My emotions are always on lockdown, and when they get the best of me, it looks on the surface like a pure meltdown. This may dissuade any confidence they have in me.

Women need to be reassured, and I don't do a lot of that. In my mind, I know I'll land on my feet, but that doesn't keep the girls from worrying or fretting over me. They can't read my mind, they can't possibly know what I'm thinking if I don't tell them or share my feelings.

Eve and I had some moments where I let my guard down and showed her my true self, The Real Me. She probably felt that, the night of Nona's birthday dinner, I was putting up a front. She would be right to guess that.

Now that I've made peace with this issue within myself, I see things around me falling into place. I received an e-mail from Elle a few hours ago. She said that she is going to go with a producer that she's known for years. Evidently, guys like Mark only wanted to charge her exorbitant prices for studio work, and he offered a discount only if certain, um, demands were met.

Did I call it, or did I call it?

Now all I have to do is hear from Eve. I left her a few voice mails, explaining that I was not mad anymore and that I was waiting on her to cool down. I'm going to wait another two weeks before I call again. Eve has quite a temper, and I wouldn't be surprised if she was still mad at me at the end of the month.

But I think she'll be okay. I hope she catches my vibe, because I'm trying to put it out there, as much as I can.

Eve, I'm sorry. Talk to me, okay? In your own sweet time, of course...

HAVE A NICE WEEKEND, ALL OF Y'ALL!!

CLOCK THAT GRIP

Last night I thought about some stuff, as I was at home making tracks on the computer. I thought about how I never entertained the notion that I was being used by women who were looking at me as if I were the key to their future stability.

I think the reason why it is such a shock is because I have never entertained the thought. But what would happen if I went with the flow, if I embraced that ideology?

What if I treated every girl as if they were after my wallet?

Well, for starters, I don't have much in my wallet to begin with. But maybe that's the point: When Eve and I were cavorting about, she was willing to pay for everything. I insisted on paying my share. Maybe what I should've done was let Eve pay for everything...

See what I'm getting at?

All of my friends know I'm notoriously broke. And why am I notoriously broke? What do I spend my money on?

Drugs? Ha! I don't spend enough on drugs. That acid I did the other night? Free, courtesy of Bill. Half the bongloads I smoke? Free. The majority of joints I toke? Free. Since the beginning of 2005, I've spent a grand total of $40 on weed. That's two twenty sacks-- two grams! Two grams in two months! All of my friends smoke, so I smoke with them. And I get them back when I have bud to spare, so it's reciprocal.

Granted, I have been cutting down drastically, but even for a casual, occasional smoker, two grams ain't shit! Especially if I'm sharing with others...

So I'm not wasting my money on drugs. What about other things?

Movies? Last one I went to see was The Incredibles, in November. Went to the Sick & Twisted Festival of Animation in January, but that's it. I haven't rented a DVD from Blockbuster since 2004, because now I found out I can rent brand new releases from the local library for $1. I bought Lost In Translation on DVD yesterday... for $10.

Music? I buy a CD a month, and I usually scoop it out of the bargain bins. Most of my music gets traded, or someone gives me a mix CD, or I download MP3s from free sites. I have a stack of burned CDs that I have yet to crack, a gang of vinyl that I have to pull out and convert to my computer, and a ton of tapes that are gathering dust. And I don't listen to the radio as much, and when I play in bands I go for weeks without listening to anything done by signed artists. I simply have too much music, and so I buy new releases sparingly. I bought the Raw Power reissue by Iggy & The Stooges last month, for a sale price at Tower Records. That's it.

Recreation? What's there to buy when I have all my recreational fun at home or at someone else's pad? I don't drink, so I don't hit up bars unless it's someone's birthday or a special occasion. I play music at home, and it doesn't cost me a thing-- I take blank CDs from work, and I don't charge myself by the hour to work on a track. I watch DVDs, VHS tapes, and I write and read books when I'm bored. In other words, I don't spend ANY money!

I do spend money, however, on my cigarette habit, which is up to a pack every two days. That's been my average for the past decade. The brand I smoke, American Spirits, is expensive. $5 packs three or four times a week add up after a while. That's about $15-$20 a week, and that averages out to $60 to $80 a month. That's my biggest expense.

So why am I always broke?

Because I owe a lot of bills, stemming from Christmas of 2003. Because I'm lazy and never make my utility payments on time. Because I have outstanding debts from traffic tickets and payday loans from the past. Because I don't make a whole lot of money at work, and I spend what's left over on food and transportation-- in this case, a bus pass.

Oh, and I pay $250 a month on my car that I haven't had the time or energy to fix up. It will be paid off this May. So come the summer, I will have $250 extra in my bank account every month.

My rent is dirt cheap for such a nice area of town. I don't have to pay for washing priveleges, and the bus pass keeps me from spending cash on expensive gas. I don't eat out as often, and in fact I've been eating less since Eve and I hit the skids.

Now, let me compare all of this to when I was with Eve.

We ate out all the time, save for those occasions where she felt like cooking up something.

We were buying a 12-pack of Newcastle every week, and she and I would go through it as quickly as possible.

We drove around a lot, which resulted in gas spending. The only thing we did that was cheap or free was working on the animation at The Garage. Oh, and sex. That was free for a while.

See what I'm getting at?

Maybe this is a sign, that I need to keep my mind on my money and my money on my mind more often. I'm not saying I'm going to become some shallow capitalist. But let it be known: I've always been a capitalist. I just believe that prices should be fair, but I still believe in pricing things to make a profit.

I make money all the time. My problem is that I spend it.

In the past, I've been cheap out of necessity. This time around, I'm going to be cheap because that's how the rich stay rich.

Don't believe me? Ask any pizza guy who gives the bigger tips, rich people or poor people. 9 times out of 10, the poor tip the pizza guy big because they know what a lousy job it is. The rich? They'll give the chintziest tips imaginable. I know, there's exceptions to every rule, but let's also face facts: the rich stay rich by hoarding their money.

I gotta stop treating people to dinners when I can't afford to do so. I gotta stop trying to hold my own with people who have no limits to their spending. And in the past five years, the biggest spenders I know have been women.

Jessica, my old roommate, was so bad when it came to spending that I literally had to push her through a store so that she wouldn't stop to look at anything. If we were there to buy one small thing, she would end up buying a coat that she didn't need, or a dress that she liked. I always had my eye on what we came to get, but I had to put blinders on the girl to get her to stop spending.

When I moved out, her habits got worse.

Eve spent money like water, and then she got mad when she had to pay out the ass to get her car fixed. She had offered to pay my gas bill in January, and I refused because I already had it in the bag. A week later, she had the accident, and I told her, "Aren't you glad I didn't let you pay my bill?"

But, maybe I should've let her pay. She offered it-- I should've said "Go ahead." I would've had to pay her back eventually, but it would have spared my ass for the short term. And besides, the money that she didn't lend to me she ended up spending on The Simpsons Third Season DVD box set.

See what I'm getting at?

Last night, before I came home, Paulie and Nona and I ate at Lido's Pizza in Van Nuys. Paulie usually pays for me as an incentive to keep me working. Last night I banged out eight pages of script for a new narration we are adding to the cartoon, at the behest of these producers who are digging our shit. They want Jenny The Bartender to have a more central role. We agreed, and I was jazzed to be doing more actual writing on the cartoon. We pieced together the script of the first episode, and so it lacks an internal structure. As much as I detest narration, it can serve a structural purpose... if done right.

I paid for my share of the pizza. You see, Paulie has paid for me so many times that my paying for my share last night was more of a goodwill gesture, a way of showing him that I don't want to take his benevolence for granted. This is a guy who, when we shared an apartment in North Hollywood, smoked me out for free for two years straight. I never asked him to smoke me out, he just offered.

In short, I'm a professional freeloader. It's gotten to the point that I barely ever spend any of my own money.

So, why am I always broke?

Because I am not a money kind of person. And maybe this is about the time that I started to think that way, because otherwise I'll be old and gray and penniless, which makes for a great romantic image but sucks to actually have to endure.

And that means that I can't be spending money on the chicks. And that means I'm gonna be jerking off for a while, but that's okay because I jerk off all the time anyway, whether or not I'm seeing anyone.

Oh, and I don't spend any money on porn. I download that for free. Sometimes I'll go and buy a magazine or a DVD, but that happens once every five months or so.

See what I'm getting at?

My first goal: get the car working again. I hope to have that done by month's end.

THIS POISONED NOTION

The second subject of my February 15th post (I don't feel like linking it, okay?) has been fucking with my head all this week.

Maybe it's because the notion was introduced to me whilst tripping, which may have left an "imprint" on my mind that I won't be able to get rid of until I trip again.

Either way, I've been feeling sick to my stomach ever since Bill brought up the possibility that almost all of the girls I've ever been involved with were looking for something more out of me than just company and sensitivity.

I could never figure out what girls would want with a broke-ass motherfucker like me, and I hate to admit it but this absurd theory actually makes sense in light of some of my past experiences.

For example: With Holly, things didn't go sour until she brought up a 60/40 split... on a concept album we hadn't even begun to write yet!

Then there's Eve, tripping out on the fact that I accurately described her contributions to the cartoon. What did she want, credit above the title?

I remember Jeanie, who sat me down to watch Good Will Hunting as part of her seduction. She once described me in a poem as an "angel" who cut his wings, and I never knew what she meant by that. But now, it's clear that she thought she'd found herself a diamond in the rough, and IT'S NO SURPRISE that she started cracking the whip on me shortly after that.

And let's not get into the scores of women that I've tried to have small relationships with, only to lose out to a suitor who offered the comfort of wealth and the security of affluence.

I know, I'm getting emotionally paranoid. But I haven't felt this shocked by a notion since I first discovered the Big Lie behind my family's fabric. I recall being dazed for days, as if I were stoned (back then, I was straight-edge all the way), as if I were on some drug that had my mind backwards. I remember feeling foolish for not picking up on the warning signs; I remember wondering what else was not what it seemed like on the surface; I remember feeling very alone and dislocated...

I am feeling that way now.

Last night I was supposed to go over to Elle's, but lately I've been feeling like I'm not needed now that the girls have found themselves this Mark guy. I called Elle and asked if I needed to be there; she said 'no'. So I didn't go-- I know how to take a hint. Wouldn't want to spoil the mack plans for the ladies... even if I'm there to just play bass and nothing more.

This doesn't help me at all. It just lends credence to Bill's theory. And if I'm correct, I'll hear from Elle and Katie only when the guy they are working with right now lets them down somehow-- that's the M.O., it seems: When the money guy balks, call up James-- he'll work for free.

Fuck all this. Fuck it all. It's making me sick, angry as hell, completely disillusioned with everything. I feel like I'm finally seeing the real deal for the first time, and I am complicit in this big fraud that has been perpetrated over time. I'm just as much to blame for keeping a blind eye to other people's greed. I have let emotions and hormonal stirrings impair my judgement.

Everyone wants something from me, and I can't give it to them, so they leave me in the lurch. They only come back when the sound of cash registers start to loom over my aura...

Of course, I've never made any big big money, so the bloom falls off the rose rather quickly, and soon I'm alone again, working on my projects while the ladies go out and hook up with someone who has a big wallet.

Invariably, the guy with the big wallet treats them badly, because he probably came to the same realization that I have come to years before me, and is too busy taking his revenge out on all the girls who wouldn't fuck him when he was poor...

They run back to me, talking sweet, like they care about what I am going through. But they never ask me anything about me-- they don't wanna know my hopes and dreams, my ideas and visions... they are only interested in the cold hard cash, and if I can't generate it with my ideas, they eventually conclude that my ideas are just shit, and that they need to move on so that they aren't old and gray when they finally luck up and find Mi$ter Right...

This is how I feel right now, at this very moment. I'm raw and exposed, and I don't like it, but these are my feelings, and I can't deny them. I know that not every girl in the world is like that, but how do I rid myself of this virus that is infecting me? How do I clear my head of this poisoned notion that is spreading through my mind like pestilence?

Another acid trip, maybe?

No, I think I've done enough 'cid to last me for a spell...

I'm going to hide myself away for a while. I'll still blog, but I'm really bummed out about this. I feel like I've had the wool over my eyes for too long, and it's going to take some time for me to re-adjust to the new picture that is being painted in front of me.

You can comment if you want, but it's not necessary-- I know what you all are going to say. Nothing you can say will make this hurt go away. This one is gonna be stuck in my craw for a long, long time.

PEACE to you, if you can afford it...

THE REAL ME

Talking with Beth last night, I was left with another illumination, just as disturbing as my Sunday night acid trip realization about the women in my life.

Beth is an old friend from high school. Every time we get together, we remininsce and remember the good ol' days. Beth used to be best friends with Amy Coates, my "soul mate" in high school and the First Ghost of My Lovelorn Past that I jettisoned about five years ago.

Conversation turned to "cliques" and how I was never one to belong to any particular crowd. I floated amongst all the groups: I could hang with the geeks, the punks, the "heshers" (heavy metal kids), the art fags, the losers, the beautiful people, the outcasts and exiles, the hipper-than-thou, and the regular kids who only wanted to graduate from high school in one piece.

It wasn't until my Senior year that I fell in with the Theater Arts crowd, the "drama kids", as they were derisively known.

Beth told me that, among her friends, there was a resentment against me. I never knew about this resentment. Evidently, her circle of friends was made up of people I used to hang out with: Amy, Sal, Ian, Fast Eddie Peale, and a few others. Under Amy's lead, everyone agreed that I was a loser for hanging out with the actors, and they couldn't see what it was that I liked about them.

I was surprised to hear this. I'd never heard such a thing. I knew Amy didn't like any of the Theater Arts people, but that's because Amy never liked anyone. And at the time, she was busy trying to land some guy she had a crush on, so it's not like I had anything to offer her in the way of common ground.

It must be noted: if I ever "strayed" from Amy's clutches, she always found a way to incorporate herself into the mix, in order to keep me on a short leash. I guess she felt that the scene I immersed myself in was too far out of her reach, and so she decided to get people to close ranks around me.

I didn't notice, and the proof is that it took 13 years for me to find out that I was the target of much private hostility.

Beth asked me, "What was it that you saw in that crowd anyway?"

I answered very honestly, "They were the funniest people I ever met. They were lots of fun. They accepted me for who I was, and they made me feel like I belonged. I didn't have to try very hard to get them to like me, and it didn't take long for me to like them."

I said this to underscore the big difference between those people who eventually became my closest friends and the people whom I used to run with, Beth's circle of friends. When I was hanging out with Amy or Sal or any of those people, I was always made to feel like I was some sort of circus freak, like I was a clown who amused people, some crazy form of entertainment for those who wanted to live dangerously yet vicariously. There was nothing I wouldn't do, no sacred cow I wouldn't happily destroy, no subject too taboo for me. I answered to no one and feared nothing, and no one told me what to do.

There was never any reciprocation from that core group of people that I used to be friends with; they never wanted to go out on a limb with me. They were content to watch me make a fool of myself, for their own kicks.

Meeting the actors in Theater Arts was like meeting a bunch of different versions of me, a whole assortment of fools just like myself. Now I was no longer the center of attention, the one person crazy enough to go the distance and take it further than anyone else. Now, I was surrounded by talented, intelligent folk who longed to entertain, and were not ashamed, and vibed off of the reception they received from their peers.

No one put anyone else down, and everyone got credit for their contributions. Except for a few bad apples who were at odds with the rest of the class, there weren't a lot of negative people in the lot. And the thrill of working on a theater production-- the teamwork, the sense of achievement when finished, the camraderie --bonded me with these people in ways I'd never before contemplated. I considered them family, and to this day, if I ever see anyone from that group of people, I smile and think about all the fun we had in my Senior year.

I can't say the same for the circle that Amy held sway over-- as much as I liked the people in that group, I never felt like they wanted to know The Real Me.

The Real Me is a goofy jerk-off who would rather waste time than take life seriously; The Real Me is a little kid who wants your undivided attention for a precise amount of time, before he turns his coat and goes onto the next adventure; The Real Me is a person who realizes that every minute could be your last and therefore you had to end your days feeling like you got a little closer to reaching your dreams...

Beth might have been the only person in that group who ever saw a glimpse of The Real Me; Fast Eddie also-- making music is as close to lovemaking as you can get, and he and I were in bands together for quite a while before we went out separate ways.

Everyone else was too busy thinking about their own needs to bother with the message behind my behavior, the reasons that prompted me to do the things I did. It took a group of aspiring actors-- people who wear masks all the time --to uncover the person behind the mask I wore 24/7, the mask that everyone else was fixated on, the mask that hid my true self.

Even now, as I blog, this is a mask I'm wearing. It's a distortion of my real attitudes and my real opinions, but it's still a mask. The Real Me? He sometimes gets in a few words here and there, but what you're reading, no matter how many personal details I throw into the mix, is just a creation of my overactive imagination.

It's still me, though. It's just not The Real Me. And yet, at the same time, it is The Real Me, because it is rooted in that Reality that makes Me Real.

Get it?

No?

Fine. One day, I won't have to wear this mask, and you'll understand my gist perfectly. But until then, keep trying to understand me, and I'll keep my true self hidden from view... maybe one of these days, we'll all get it right.

MONKEY SHINES

That funny movie, There's Something About Mary... the off-beat troubadour and his scrappy little band, singing Greek choruses in-between scenes?

Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers.

Jonathan Richman used to be a Velvet head, even got demos produced by John "Electric Viola" Cale, and the first eponymous album The Modern Lovers was like listening to Lou Reed as a teenager, before the heroin and the pussy dragged him down into New York squalor-abyss-bliss...

His drummer went on to play skins for a New Wave group. Maybe you've heard of them-- I think they were called The Cars? And the keyboard player switched instruments and took up the guitar-- his name was Jerry Harrison, and he ended up playing with some guy named David Byrne in a band called Talking Heads.

Jonathan abandoned garage rock and pre-punk, however, when he took a trip to Bermuda and discovered the joys of calypso music. He didn't start playing calypso-- rather, he picked up on the joyous vibe, which was in opposition to the dark, brooding, angst-ridden tunes of his early career.

I like Richman's upbeat stuff: childlike, innocent, nostalgic for the pure rock 'n' roll of the '50's, eccentric off-kilter vocals and Buddy Holly-esque guitar work... But today I'm listening to the first Modern Lovers disc, and it's a classic.


Some people try to pick up girls
And get called 'asshole'
This never happened to
Pablo Picasso
He could walk down your street
And girls could not resist the stare
So Pablo Picasso never was
Called an asshole...

--"Pablo Picasso", The Modern Lovers


You either love him or you hate him. His voice can put you off, sounding like a New England Rocky Balboa with marbles in his mouth. In recent years, Jonathan has taken voice lessons, but I like the out-of-tune timbre of his singing, the way it suggests how we all sounded when our voices cracked during puberty.

I suggest you go out and buy some Jonathan Richman, right now, this very second. If you don't like it, return it for store credit or resell it to a used CD store. Burn copies for your friends. Upload them in MP3 format onto your iPod or your computer. Whatever you end up doing with it, just buy some Richman, listen to it, and tell me what you think.


*/*


I don't compete with other guys for the ladies' affections. My emotions make me impervious to the monkey shines of males in heat, performing courtship rituals as they search for mates.

I was at The Garage, writing dialogue for a new narration for the cartoon. Then, I left and went over to Elle's place. I was tired and wanted to go home, but I figured I should stop by and drop off a CD of songs from chick rock bands that I wanted her to hear.

Elle had said it wasn't necessary for me to be there, but I thought I'd stay for a half an hour and then bolt. When I arrived, there was a guy there-- a good-looking guy, a drummer the girls were auditioning. There was wine and wine glasses. The girls looked surprised to see me.

I know when a chick's trying to get their mack on, but what I didn't know was who was macking who.

Mark, the drummer, was a cool guy. He didn't try to compete either. He was mellow and didn't try to get the upper hand over me. But, I could see how Katie and Elle were fawning over him, laughing at his every quip no matter how marginally funny, hanging on his words like drapes...

He knew a lot about Pro Tools, and so he ran the session. I could see that Elle was a bit miffed at some of his artistic decisions, but she didn't speak up about them so I assume that she let him have his way out of sheer lust.

Do I sound jealous? I'll admit, at first I was feeling like I wasn't needed. But that had more to do with my somber mood yesterday, stemming from realizing that maybe all this time certain girls have been using me for my talents in order to get ahead.

Katie was kind enough to ask me if I was okay. I said, "Yeah, I'm just tired." Then I noticed her hair color: red, like Elle's but in a slightly different shade.

I complimented her, and she thanked me. "I did it to match Elle," she said. "After all, we're Siren, right?"

"Right." I sighed and sat down. Mark was going to town on Pro Tools, and I wasn't needed at that point.

As soon as I put my bass part down, I was ready to leave. As is my M.O., I announced my departure at the most unpredictable moment.

"No more wine? We need to make a run," Mark said.

"You two wanna go?" Elle asked me and Katie. She wanted to be alone with Mark.

"Doesn't matter to me, I'm leaving soon," I said.

"How?" Katie asked. "You have a car now?"

"No, the bus down the street runs all night."

"How about we all go together?" Mark said, being diplomatic.

"Okay," Elle replied. "James, you want us to drop you off at the corner?"

"Sure, why not?"

By the time I got downstairs and waited for the rest of them to come down, I had it mapped out like this: Elle wanted Mark, and Mark wanted Katie, and Katie probably wanted Mark but didn't want to move in on Elle's territory.

Did anyone want me? I don't care. What I do know, though, is that Katie likes me in a creative manner, which makes me feel good. She kept asking me to play guitar and jam with her, asking me to pick out pretty chords and fingerpick certain parts. She likes to play her viola, and she wants to constantly create new things. I think she gets bored with studio work, because of all the prep that goes into it.

I guess that if I really wanted to score points with dear Katie, I could always ask her to stop by my place sometime with her viola and just work on music. Nothing set in stone, just ideas being flung against the wall like half-cooked angel hair pasta. I don't know if I have it in me, though, and she might take it as an invitation to something more.

I'm a vain person (thanks to my Chinese astrological sign, the Water Ox) and so I don't compete with good-looking guys like Mark (who, it must be said, is a good drummer and a decent guitarist who makes great money) because I don't like the way I come across when I'm trying to outdo another male. If I'm focusing on trying to one-up somebody, I end up coming off as more insecure than if I were to let it slide. I can't fake confidence, in other words-- I either feel it 100% or I don't feel it at all.

But, I'm vain enough to feel flattered when a girl like Katie keeps demanding that I play along with her on my instrument, not telling me what to play but rather vibing off of what I bring to the table. I really appreciate that coming from her, because it means more, I guess. I don't know. After my realization this week that maybe I've been getting played all this time by my muses, it's reassuring to know that not everyone sees me as someone they can use for their own means.

Of course, I know deep inside that women don't see me as a moneybag waiting to increase in size, but I must admit that I never entertained that idea, and now I'm thinking about it a bit more.

I left around midnight. We piled into Mark's PT Cruiser. Nice ride. I was amazed that Katie let Elle have the shotgun seat next to Mark. She wanted to be in the backseat with me. But I'm not stupid enough to think that it's because she's sweet on me. No, I think it's because I'm one of the few guys who doesn't hit on her. She feels safe. She feels like I value her for more than her body, which is true. Cute girls come and go, but the smart ones, the talented ones-- usually they are also the crazy ones --stay in my mind for days on end.

Pablo Picasso never got called an asshole...

Tonight I return to the studio, and I wonder what the girls will ask me to do for them this time. Tomorrow, I jam with Boy Johnny and his band. Friday, I have no idea what I'm doing. Saturday will involve various musical chores with all of my bands, and Sunday will probably see me celebrating Sharky's 31st birthday with him and the boys.

I might post again later. See ya.

THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL

There's a bass player shortage in Los Angeles.

Everywhere I go, every time I meet musicians, I hear the same thing: "Our bass player just left the band-- you want to play with us?"

If I didn't have a day job, and if all of these offers were paying gigs, I'd just devote my time to being a professional bass player. I'm far from pro, but I have a few strengths that I have been wise to maximize.

For one thing, I have learned over the years to play by ear. Since the bass is rarely a lead instrument, my forte has been to adapt to the lead guitar/lead melody's notes. As long as I'm in the background, I'm fine. I had to turn down one gig with a funk band because the basslines were practically lead lines, and I didn't feel I had the confidence to pull them off.

I still might call that band, but since they haven't called me, I'm assuming that they either found someone else, or the band has been halted temporarily. I guess I should give them a ring to see if I'm still in the loop, because they were a great band of players.

Anyway, Boy Johnny has asked me to play with his group. Boy Johnny is a co-worker here at the radio network. (For the sake of B___________, I edit traffic reports every fifteen minutes at my computer-- that's what I do all day...)

Boy Johnny has a show in Downey in two weeks, and on Thursday I'm going to meet the rest of his band and rehearse. The songs, which I have on CD, are easier than a $2 floozy, but chemistry is the key-- if we don't gel, the music won't sell.

I'm not going to get paid a lot, but it's still money.


*/*


Talking with some friends on Sunday night, half an hour after taking the Window Pane 'cid, I stumbled upon a weird realization.

Bill had asked me what was the deal with Eve. "Aw, man," I said. "She's mad at me right now."

"Why's that?"

"Because of something I said."

"It's always something the guy said," Bill replied, placing a Dunhill in his mouth.

"It wouldn't be the first time for me," I said.

"Well... what'd you say?"

"We were all at dinner for Nona's birthday," I said, "and Nona's sister asked me if I drew the whole cartoon myself. And I answered that it was me, Paulie and Peter, with help from Eve."

"That's what you said?"

"Yes."

"And she got mad?"

"Yeah."

Bill, having been in on the cartoon since the inception (after all, he is one of the main characters), looked at me and said, "Jimmy boy... Sounds like she was after something other than your love."

"Like what?"

"Like your cash, man."

I laughed. "Yeah, because I'm such a millionaire..."

"No, hear me out, man. Dig this," Bill said, dipping into '60s lingo. "She saw dollar signs, don't you see? And when a woman sees dollar signs, she wants to make sure she's in on the action, know what I mean?"

"I don't think so, bro," I said. "I'm not rich, and I don't think girls look at me as a moneybag."

"No, but women are smart... sometimes, they see a guy and think 'he's going places' and they hitch themselves onto you early on so that they can be the first to benefit from the man's success. Let me ask you something: this girl, Eve... does she ever do her own thing, or does she latch onto other projects?"

I thought about it for a second. "Well, she's an actress... so she tends to get involved with other people's projects."

"Right. She hasn't started anything herself, has she?"

"No... well, she wrote a screenplay..."

"Doesn't count. Every waiter in town has a screenplay, bro. How many of those scripts ever get optioned or produced?"

"Are you trying to tell me that Eve is a gold-digger?"

"Naw, man," Bill said, chuckling in that William Burroughs-esque giggle. "I'm just saying that she saw you as a meal ticket... a future meal ticket, but a meal ticket nonetheless. I mean, I'll be honest, man-- one of the reasons why I'm not mad about you guys caricaturing me is because I see this thing being very successful, if done right... plus, you did a great job of drawing me. I show that cartoon to everyone I see, and they all agree that you drew me to a tee."

Bill's life has sort of changed, since we started this cartoon. His friends see him as a minor celebrity now. Whereas Bill was once depressed, he now laughs a lot and even recites bits of the dialogue we made up for his character. He met a girl, and is convinced that she is the human version of Jenny, the voluptuous bartender we created for the cartoon. He gets laid all the time now, and I think he mystically attributes this newfound happiness to my drawings.

It goes back to a blog I posted about how things tend to come to life for me, once I create them. I feel like, in this instance, I created an alternate reality for these characters, and the real-life counterparts like it so much that they feel like it is a part of their own reality.

I thought about what Bill had said. I never thought about it that way, but when you look back at my love track record (as I do often) you'll find that most girls I was into felt I wasn't motivated enough to translate my talents into lucre. Jeanie definitely made it a point to tell me that she thought I was a genius-- I just thought she was trying to flatter me, but when I think about it, maybe she thought that I would hit the bigtime soon... and that if she could be on my arm when it happened, she'd have it made.

This is a highly cynical POV to have, and I've never entertained it. But it makes sense, in a way. Why else would a girl get upset about her credits on a cartoon, for fuck's sake? I didn't cheat, I didn't lie to her, I didn't exclude her altogether... in fact, I TOLD THE TRUTH. All I ever do is tell the truth, and maybe the truth was too much for her to bear.

I don't know, I'd like to think that women see more in me than just a chance to become upwardly mobile, but now that Bill has brought that up, maybe I should look back and see if there were any clues, any telltale signs. Off the top of my head, I can think of a few mystifying instances where I felt the girls I was with were getting ahead of themselves. I remember comments along the lines of "My boyfriend is going to get signed to a record label" or "One of these days he's going to be a great artist"...

I remember taking Jeanie to my company Christmas party one year. She saw that I worked with a bunch of radio celebritites, like Rick Dees, Casy Kasem, Dr. Laura, Phil Hendrie and others. By the end of the night, she was talking to me about long-term commitments. It was also the first night that she gave me the pussy, well after the party had ended.

If what Bill said is even halfway true, then maybe I am going to go back into my solitary hole, and work on my creative projects a little more. It would be such a disappointment to find that I was never taken seriously as a person, but rather as a financial bonanza waiting to happen.

It would really sadden me to find that out.

On a related note, we are in talks right now with some producers that Peter once worked for, and they look like they are interested in giving us some money to improve the cartoon. Their suggestions are realistic and in line with what we originally wanted. The big irony is that they want to see more female characters-- that's something I was telling Eve to work on, but she lost interest after a while.

I think Eve thought that there was nothing going on with the cartoon. Boy, wouldn't that be something if the cartoon got financed while she wasn't a part of it?

That would mean she picked a bad time to get petty with me.

But, if Bill is correct, she will come to her senses... especially if greenbacks are involved.

(sigh)

I don't want to believe it.

Bill wasn't trying to bum me out-- he was speaking from experience, having worked at IBM in the '70s and seen firsthand what money or the promise of fame can do to someone's standing in the world.

Then, the effects of the acid started to kick in, and before I knew it I was laughing hysterically at The Amityville Horror on cable. I like horror movies when I'm tripping-- they're funnier that way.

A FEW THINGS

I'm bored at work.

So I will post now what I was saving for tomorrow.

Funny coincidences: Last Friday my friend Down Low and his buddy The Wolf went out to The Chimney Sweep in Sherman Oaks. The Sweep is where I used to go for drinks when I was living in the Oaks. When I was dating Jeanie, she and I would walk to The Sweep, get tossed, and go home for some intense lovin'...

The last time I was there, I received two $2 bills in change. This was a sign that Dick, Eve's ex, had been there before-- he stole her collection of $2 bills from her car when we went to go see The Incredibles.

Shortly after that, I e-mailed Jeanie (we keep in touch via Friendster) and told her Down Low and I had been to The Sweep. She replied that she hadn't been there in some time.

Well, she was there last Friday night. She was there with her friend Marie, a girl that Jeanie and I tried to hook up with Low about five years ago!

Now, Jeanie just moved in with her current boyfriend in Santa Monica... so what was she doing in Sherman Oaks, with her friend Marie and NOT her current beau?

Makes me glad I broke up with her...

Anyway, Low wants to get with Marie, despite the lack of chemistry the first time around. Time has changed his tune, to be sure. He didn't mention anything about Jeanie asking about me, so I am assuming that it's all about a love connection between Marie and Low.

But I've got a feeling I'll be seeing Jeanie around, or hearing from her soon...


*/*


Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. I dropped acid last night, for the first time in almost a decade.

Why did I drop, you ask? Because Bill, a friend of ours, had some. It was Window Pane-- it came on a corrugated piece of gel plastic. He asked if anyone wanted a taste, so I said, "Yeah."

It was good, clean, not too intense. I didn't sleep until 5am. I listened to all sorts of good music while in bed, tripping balls.

I had many revelations, many free-associations, much to think about and ponder. I needed a psychedelic experience to help me clear my head. Next time I do it, though, it will have to be at a less spontaneous time-- I really should've prepared for this one. A walk in the woods would've been good for a few.

Right now I feel fine, but I know I'm going to burn out when I get home. It's all good, though-- I need to get some sleep anyway.

Okay, time to work. Talk to y'all tomorrow.

VALENTINE'S DAY

My paternal grandmother was born on February 14th, 1930. This makes her an Aquarius. My paternal grandfather will celebrate his 80th birthday on April 2nd. He is an Aries, and I've heard that the mix of the two signs is positively chemical.

The story goes like this: Way back in Chihuahua, Mexico, where my grandparents hail from, Guadalupe L______ lived with his family. Lupe, as everyone knew him, liked to drink, liked to dance, and worked very hard. He had dreams of going to California, to make more money than he was making in his hometown. His intent-- the intent of many Mexican immigrants --was to send the cash he made back to the family.

Of course, they didn't want him to leave. They wanted him to stay on the farm and help out with the chores. But Lupe knew his fortunes were waiting for him in Los Angeles.

He didn't want to go alone. No one else was willing to take the venture.

Then, one day, he saw a beautiful senorita standing in her front yard, hanging clothes out to dry, in a house not too far from his own. It was Bertha, his future wife. Lupe was so enthralled by her that he would walk by that house every day, as soon as he discovered Bertha's existence. He couldn't take his eyes off of her-- every day, he passed by and looked at her, smiling, hoping to skewer up the courage to ask her out on a date.

After a while, she began to notice that she had a suitor. And when Lupe realized he had caught her eye, he became a little bolder. Never a good-looking man, Lupe had confidence in spades, and asked her out. He courted the family. He paid his respects to her father and mother. He was a perfect gentleman.

They went out dancing, and they fell in love.

They've been together all of this time, through thick and thin. My grandparents are not rich people, but they own their house in Pacoima and Lupe has never had to work for anyone other than himself. When he married Bertha and traveled to California with his wife and first-born son (my father), he learned how to work on automobiles and quickly went into business for himself as an auto body specialist. Half a century later, he still does body work on cars to earn his keep.

My grandfather smokes three packs of Marlboros and goes through a 12-pack of Budweiser in the course of one day. He is as healthy as he ever was. He still works on the cars, not because he has to, but because he would die of boredom if he ever settled down and let his children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren do the rest of the work... not to mention the fact that, no matter how much he teaches them, they can never do the work as well as he can!

My grandmother has been experiencing touches of old age dementia, but other than that she is still the same. She cooks heaping amounts of rice and beans every day, still uses a clothesline even though her eight children all pitched in to get her an eletric dryer years ago. Maybe the hanging of the clothes is a daily reminder of how she met the man she ended up marrying and having ten kids with, the man who took her to America and gave her a comfortable life.

My grandmother has seen tragedy as well. One of her sons has been locked up in prison for the past two decades. Another was murdered around the same time. One of my cousins, Rosa, the eldest daughter of my late uncle David, gave my grandmother a special gift for her 75th birthday-- a framed picture of my uncle David, holding Rosa when she was one year old.

My grandmother showed me the picture and asked me if I knew who the man was. I replied that I did, in the best Spanish I could muster. My grandmother began to weep. Time does not bury the pain that goes with the death of one's child. Even in a family as large as mine, the passing of one of us does not go unnoticed.

What I love the most about my grandmother is her quiet strength. Like a typical Aquarius, she watches everything go down, never uttering a single word. She is content to watch the men talk as they smoke cigarettes and drink beer in front of the garage, my grandfather's domain. She sits silently by his side, never needing to make even the slightest comment. She takes it all in, she watches all of it. Dementia or not, she is still acutely aware of her surroundings.

She comes from a generation where the women deferred to their men, but my grandmother has never been passive or submissive. Simply, she has faith in her husband, who has never strayed and never had a reason to leave her for someone else. He gave all of this to her, and by snobby American standards it isn't a lot... but then again, they don't owe any money to anyone, and they have never lived beyond their means.

I think they're in great shape. And I also think I know what being in love is all about, when I watch them together.

Valentine's Day has never mattered to me, as far as dating goes. It's just another phony holiday, really. It means nothing in the long run. While others fret about their love situations, I take the time of that day to celebrate my grandmother's existence. I have always done this, and if you ask me it is time better spent.

Because, although I might never know true and real love in my own life, I know that I've basked in its glow many times before. When my grandfather stands to his feet, enthralled by the banda music blaring from his shop radio, and extends his hand to my grandmother, inviting her to dance one more time before they are parted by the inevitable kiss of death and old age, there is no place I'd rather be.

If I could be half as fortunate as they are, then I wouldn't need anything else in my life. I'd be complete.

REINCARNATION

Ah, Violet-- you have returned... I missed you. But I knew you'd be back, with your insights and perceptions and your writing... Oh, how I love your writing...

I've been lonely out here, in the (blech!) blog-o-sphere (I still hate that term but what else can we call it?). Nobody has time to blog anymore, because Life gets in the way. I guess that's why I blog about my own life, no matter how solipsistic it gets-- that way, my personal matters don't have to get in the way of my writing.

But then again, writing is my life, so it all makes sense.

Ah, Violet... I'm glad you are back.


*/*


A lot of my readers are female. A lot of the blogs I like to read are written by women. Is there a correlation? Of course there is.

I often tell people that I was a lesbian in a former life, who balanced her karma and was reincarnated as a man. I know, it sounds sexist, but I think that's how the reincarnation hierarchy goes-- I mean, it's an ancient belief to begin with, and therefore it will still contain remnants of the sexism and traditions of the past.

Anyway, not to get off tangent... so now, I am happy to have a cock and I take full advantage of all the benefits of being a man. But I also recognize the evil inherent in the male ego, and I am using my newfound shape and form to balance even more karma.

I made up this elaborate explanation of my psyche to counter one of the most annoying things I've ever heard men say: namely, that because they love women, they are lesbians. I know, they say it jokingly, but it really is a slap in the face to every woman who suffered scorn and humiliation for dabbling in the love that dare not speak its name.

I remember when I first used it on someone. It was at a party, and some guy was trying to be charming and funny, telling a couple of full-fledged dykes that he was a lesbian too. People laughed, but I noticed that the lesbians didn't laugh at all. They looked at him like he was from outer space. He was oblivious to this sweeping generalization. The looks on their faces spoke volumes about the discrimination and prejudices they faced, and now here's a straight guy telling them he's one of them. It's like watching white guys claim they are "niggaz"... it makes you cringe.

So I stepped up and said, "I was a lesbian in a former life."

The guy looked at me and said, "Really?"

I said, "Yeah, and now that I'm a man, I'm on a mission to destroy the male-dominated society in which we live."

The guy looked at me, as if I were now the space alien. "You don't say?"

I was on a roll. "Yeah, because when I was alive, in my lesbian incarnation, I was nearly burned at the stake for loving other women. My ideas were stolen by men, who went on to profit greatly from them. I was raped and beaten by men who thought they could 'change' me back into a straight girl. I was accosted at nearly every turn, and all the female lovers I had left me because they would rather stay in the closet and escape persecution than express their true selves."

The guy was awkwardly reticent. The lesbians were smirking.

I wasn't finished. "So, as a lesbian, do you find it easier nowadays to express your love of women? Or do you find sometimes that you miss the feel of a man's cock inside of you?"

The guy was tripping out by now. "Dude, you're telling me way too much information right now..."

That's another annoying thing that I hate to hear. 'Too much information' smacks of cynical condescension and smugness.

"I'm just asking you, as a straight man who used to be a gay woman: Do you ever wish you could go back to being a straight woman? Have you ever considered the possibility that you're bisexual?" I was having such a ball making this guy squirm.

The guy, confused, asked me, "Are you a fag?"

"No," I said, non-plussed. "But you are. But I wouldn't use that term, 'fag'... I'd just say you were a gay woman. I mean, you just said you were a lesbian, right?"

The queer couple sitting in front of us could barely contain their laughter. The guy just walked away-- he'd had enough. And if he never ever used that cheesy "I'm a lesbian" line again, then all of the trouble I went through to piss him off was worth it.


*/*


Of course, good intentions are not enough. For all of my righteous indignation, I am still a man, a straight man, and no amount of pretending will change that fact.

I'm not one of those guys who claims that he's a woman trapped in a man's body. I don't consider it a trap to be a man. I am glad to have a penis, and I would never willingly change my sex for any reason.

But I don't want to embody the worst traits of men either. I detest the ape mentality that comes with 'hanging with the guys'... I abhor the peer pressure that marginalizes sensitive guys like me. What, I'm less of a man just because I believe women should have the same exact rights as men?

I've gotten in other guys' faces over this. Full-on arguments, threatening to turn into brawls... It's usually with neanderthals who can't argue intelligently, so they resort to trying to emasculate me by claiming I'm gay, or a wimp. But after a few word exchanges, they are the ones acting hysterical, getting defensive, regressing into childish states, resorting to name-calling, while I stand still, calm and collected, armed with the power of the quick wit and the acidic tongue.

And when those cretins realize that I've, in effect, 'made them my bitch', they back down. They realize that kicking my ass would only prove me right. They also realize that I'm not a punk, and that I'll hit them back, unlike the scores of 'fags' and 'wimps' they no doubt tortured in grade school.

Yes, it's good to be a lesbian reincarnated in the body of an able-bodied man who fears very little in the way of things. I get to have deep feelings, and I also get to break people's balls without suffering devastating consequences.

But, I'm still a man, when the day is done. I still have lapses, I still occasionally act like a pig, I still sometimes can't understand how the mind of a female works.

But I'm trying to understand. Lord knows, I'm trying.

THE GAME

Open up your mind and let me step inside
Rest your weary head and let your heart decide

It's so easy
When you know the rules
It's so easy
All you have to do is fall in love

Play the game
Everybody play the game of love

--Queen, "The Game"


Yes, love is a game, but the only times that anyone wins is when they decide to lay down their arms and stop trying to take control of the relationship.

I went into My Space today, checking my profile. Someone had left a comment for me. It was from some girl whom I've never met, some 17 year-old girl who found my profile and wanted to be a friend. Since there are literally dozens of people in my personal profile whom I have never met, I figured one more wouldn't hurt, right?

The comment went as follows:

I HATE YOU BEANER GO MAKE BURRITOS AND PICK STRAWBERRIES

Huh? I did a double take. Where did this come from? Why did she write this? What the dillio?

I did a little investigative reporting and discovered that this girl's profile has been hijacked by an ex who won't let go of the past. Other friends of this girl left comments along the lines of "Whoever is doing this to ____'s profile is a dick".

The ex changed the name of her profile to IMA SLUT and left horrible remarks in the Info sections, the kinds of remarks that do the poor girl a huge disservice. After a little digging, I found the profile of the ex, a 16 year-old boy who somehow got access to her username and password.

My only sin was leaving a comment on this girl's profile a while back. My comment: "I think you should start a blog." Apparently, he figured I was some one-night stand for this girl, and sent me that racist comment as a form of payback.

Of course, when people bring it to me, they receive it in kind. I won't go into the specifics, but suffice it to say that some teenage punk from a beach town in L.A. is not scary to me in the least.

But it was depressing to ponder how badly relations between the sexes have degenerated. Yes, they are high school kids and don't know any better, but it still makes me heartsick, because most likely these people are going to grow up physically but will stay mentally adolescent.

They are the future, and the future doesn't look too bright.


*/*


When you're feeling down and your resistance is low
Light another cigarette and let yourself go

This is your life--
Don't play hard to get
It's a free world
All you have to do is fall in love

Play the game--
Everybody play the game of love


ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK should be the sign at the door of the House of Love. Everyone knows that opening up yourself to someone else takes big balls and a lot of courage. The risks people take with their emotions are dangerous, but the alternative is to sit on the bench and wait out the action, which can be good but leaves one feeling alone and unloved.

I woke up yesterday and realized that, although I was right to call Eve on her bullshit, I probably could've been less of a cold-hearted dick. Because I truly love her, and because I didn't want her to be mad for petty reasons, I called her and left a message on her phone, apologizing for the way that I acted. I didn't apologize for what I'd actually said-- rather, it was the tone of my sentiments which I regretted.

I don't expect to hear back from her, but then again if all I wanted was a quick fix I would've called her when she wasn't at work. I'm waiting until after Valentine's Day... and perhaps after her birthday in March. That way, there is no grey area-- if she is afraid that I am trying to fall back in love, waiting until after the Danger Zones have passed is wise.

I don't want to hurt her, but I also can't take that puppy-dog stance with girls anymore. Eve is not the first girl who has done this to me. Anyone who has known me for a long time knows that there was once a girl who literally crowded my life with her personal demons. I refer to her as Amy Coates, in my fiction and my blogs.

Amy was my first girlfriend in high school. I was told that I had a secret admirer, and when I found out it was a blue-eyed red-haired beauty, you can imagine how jazzed I felt. My self-esteem at the time was at an all-time low, and I was positively elated by the prospects of a pretty girl digging my style.

Amy turned out to be a moody, emotionally damaged young woman who could never be happy with anyone or anything. I bore a lot of the brunt of her anger, but I also threw it right back at her. Compared to the other love casualties she left in her wake, I got off lucky: two guys I know who'd had crushes on her ended up going gay later on in college; my good friend Sal tried his hand at taming the shrew, only to have his head and ego handed back to him promptly; any guy who pursued her paid a dear price for their devotion.

I always hung in there, because I was one of the few guys who gave it back to her as hard as she threw it at me. I secretly liked the idea that I was the one guy who would not fold under the strain. It made me feel like I was a worthy opponent, her perfect match in a way.

It got so bad that I would automatically elicit sympathy from other girls, because they knew what a bitch Amy was and they thought that I must've been the sweetest guy, since I was able to put up with her. Those girls didn't know that Amy was able to bring out the worst in me, to bring me to her level.

Amy and I were on-and-off countless times between 1990 and 1997. Then, one day, she chewed me out over nothing, and instead of trying to argue back, I let her talk. She did not stop. She tore into me with a fury that I'd never before witnessed in her. She said I was a 'bad man' and a horrible person, and I didn't try to dissuade her. She told me never to call her or speak to her ever again.

I didn't take it seriously until that following Christmas, when I sent her a card. She actually went out of her way to call me and complain about my sending her a Christmas card. That's when I knew that I was over this girl.

I spent three years writing about our relationship in my novel, FREE TIME. It was the first time I ever tried to get to the bottom of why I am such a doormat for crazy bitches. I came to conclude that I am two people, a split personality of sorts. On one hand, I am a sensitive little boy who only craves attention and love; on the other hand, I am a somewhat jaded and world-weary old man who has learned how to deal with stress by escaping into the world of art.

This synopsis echoes what Eve said to me a few months ago (please refer to the second part of "Three Extra Pieces"). Eve has never read my novel, even though she is a minor character in it. She has no idea that I came to that realization about myself years ago.

Anyway, years passed, and by the time I was dating Jeanie in 2000, Amy Coates was back in the picture, talking about how I was the one who broke off relations and that she wanted to know if I still wanted to be friends. Imagine my disgust at reading that in a letter-- after all of her bullshit, she had the gall to imply that I was the one who called it all off.

I sent her the kiss-off letter to end all kiss-off letters. She responded by calling me on the phone, pleading with me to not give up on us. We made peace, and decided to be friends... but that was also the last time we spoke to each other.

Last I heard, she got married and went to live in Santa Fe, New Mexico. As for me, my life got infinitely better after that.


*/*


My game of love has just begun
Love runs from my head down to my toes
My love is pumping through my veins
Driving me insane
Play the game
Play the game
Play the game
Play the game...


My dealings with Amy led me to break up with Jeanie, because I saw that I was headed down a similar road. It was hard to tell Jeanie that we were through, because she was a great lay, an awesome cook, and she really liked me. But she was also a headache-- drunken outbursts, embarrassing scenes in public, constant nagging and jealousy, brazen flirtatiousness with other guys... all of my female friends told me to get away from her ASAP.

Every time I think that I made a mistake in letting Jeanie go, I pick up my notebook from that time period, and I turn to any page, and there-- in handwritten ink-- is solid proof that I made the right decision. The pain expressed in that notebook is a sober reminder of what I endured in the name of love.

After that, I went on a mad pilgrimage to make peace with all of my exes. I squared things away with any girl that I had felt any level of deep emotion for, and it was really great to see some of them again. It was also cathartic and therapeutic.

Eve was the only one who I couldn't make peace with, largely because she resisted any attempt on my part. But I think that what she and I went through recently counts as some sort of long farewell, and now we're Even Steven.

However, the fact that it all boils down to who gets in the Last Word doesn't escape me. Last night, while talking to Bro Man, I summed it all up like that:

"It's all about who got in the last word. I've been aching over Eve all of these years because I never had the chance to tell her what I really felt. I always believed that she held the upper hand, and now... well, even though it's not quite over, I feel a lot better, and it has to do with the fact that I said what I had to say and nothing more."

I'll admit, part of my ultimatum to her last Friday was based on my fear that she was eventually going to break off whatever it is that we had for the last few months. I wanted to get her before she got me. It's the ages-old Battle Of The Sexes-- nothing new, nothing surprising there...

We always seem to hurt the ones we love. If this is true, then why bother loving anyone to begin with?

I wish I knew the answer to that one.

All I know is, I have a lot of love to give, and one day I'll meet a girl who wants to play nice, who wants to share (and not control) a healthy relationship. I have hope, I am optimistic about my prospects, because (as Morrissey once sang) I've seen it happen in other people's lives.

Until then, I'm a rolling stone, a man who wants to love women but finds himself expecting too much from them. I want them to be my equal, not behind me, not in front of me. I want them to inspire me, for better or for worse. I want them to listen to me, when I need someone to hear what I have to say. I want them to treat the boy in me like a man, and to treat the man in me with a grain of salt.

I guess I am asking for too much. But it wouldn't be the first time for me, and if you ask me, it's not unrealistic to want to be happy.

And besides, all you have to do is fall in love, and play the game...

...and remember-- it's not about whether you win or lose, but how you play it.