archival rose-coloring

I received a call from Holly Golightly today. It has been quite some time.

Talking to her was a gas, and afterwards I rummaged through the oldest posts on this blog, to reminisce...

And I found this post, read it, and remembered a bunch of things that time's dulling agents had smoothed over in my mind, in my heart.

I think for the next few days I will sift through the archives and find the best, worst, and weirdest posts I ever wrote, and link them, or comment on them.

It will be a trip down Memory Lane, yes, but I have a feeling I will be uncovering more anguish than hilarity.

But that's just my best guess, really.

the dream is over

It's been eleven years since I last set foot on the prefab soil of Disneyland. Much had changed: the erection of Downtown Disney; rides and attractions coming and going; my general attitude towards The Happiest Place On Earth...

I remember being lost at that amusement park once, when I was very young. Confusion, uncertainty, despair... Did my parents leave without me?

I have harbored a beef in my heart against The Magic Kingdom ever since. Its trappings always seemed plastic, fake, saccharine. The pap that sometimes arises from the whole Disney enterprise would often make me gag.

It was Laurie's birthday, but it could've easily been Eve's as well. The two of them were grinning from ear to ear, running madly like optimistic children with fresh new eyes. I realized when I looked deep into Eve's features that I would never be able to make her as happy as she was on Friday, her head in an animatronic fog, slipping through crowds and hordes of families with casual aplomb. She knew where everything was, she knew how to get on the rides faster and which rides had the longest lines... she was our guide.

Even when we filled Laurie with more alcohol than she could take, resulting in her being sick after a couple of rides... even then there was an understanding that this was Disneyland, this was a place where dreams come true, and fairy tales have happy endings.

A sumptuous dinner at the Jazz Kitchen with a live band playing Cajun blues while waitresses ignited flambe dishes beside us... Eve was friends with one of the horn players and got us a table where the music was playing... I did an oyster shooter and ate Roasted Chicken Rosemary while sipping on no less than three different beverages...

And let's not forget The Enchanted Tiki Room. Apparently this show has been going on for over 40 years and this is the first time I'd ever witnessed it. I laughed in self-defense-- it was an absurd acid flashback, with singing parrots and talking Tiki masks and an appearance by the gods of thunder.

We were all tired when we got back into town. Eve drove me home, and then she drove home. She left too soon-- she always leaves too soon. If she stays any longer, she knows what will happen. She knows it will get harder and harder to leave the longer she stays.

It's just as well-- right now I have a flea infestation and I need to bomb my apartment.


*/*


Saturday was nothing really. A flash in the holiday weekend plan. I made preparations, cleaned house as best as I could (the infestation is worse than I suspected) and took care of business. One more week of radio jobs and after that, a whole new enterprise that I am only into for the money.

I ate breakfast with Down Low. He is having female troubles. All of my guy friends are having female troubles. They look so happy but underneath is a resentment, a lack of understanding. Why can't she see things my way?

I think of good ol' Don Van Vliet's words, when he used the "Captain Beefheart" moniker and sang:


Nobody has love
Love has nobody
I love you, you big dummy


It's a fine distillation of everything that comes between two people who love each other.

I drove around, ran errands, listened to music, and did some last-minute practicing for the wedding taking place the next day.


*/*


Upset because Bro Man spilled water inside my car AND managed to break the key off in the driver's side door. I actually called him an idiot and wondered what the fuck was wrong with him.

He's my age. He's not a little kid.

Snapped at Eve when I thought she was trying to tell me how to drive. I apologized, of course.

I got mad because it's a 'girlfriend' thing to do. It seems like a mixed signal to me, a botched dial honing in on the wrong frequency...

I had to tell Sharky that we were traveling to Roman's wedding separately. Sharky and I have been hanging out and talking more lately but I didn't want to risk being late on his account.

I worry too much about my friends letting me down somehow. But, to be fair, they are legitimate worries, born from watching people make stupid mistakes with the best of intentions.

The drive up the coast was magnificent, as it should be. We made great time. Eve and Bro Man went shopping on State Street while I rehearsed some tunes with the groom's older brother Curt, an expert trombone player and a certified lunatic.

The wedding took place at El Paseo Restaurant in Santa Barbara. It was amazing to see Roman, his anxiety absorbed by the preparations and details. He promised a non-conventional ceremony: his good friend Mauzner was going to officiate the rites, having just been ordained online as a minister of the Universal Life Church.

I laughed-- I am also a minister of said church!

Nervous, I started playing songs. I got through a solid amount but found that, even with the list of some 30-odd tunes to play, I was at a loss of what to do. I ploughed through, even garnering enthusiastic applause for my interpretation of Elvis' "It's Now Or Never".

I thought of Eve as I sang every song. She and Bro Man were in attendance now, at a far table. I saw instantly familiar faces and eventually recognized a few more.

During the ceremony, Curt and I did a version of the standard "Makin' Whoopee". Curt has a fabulous singing voice, and he did a smashing trombone solo in the middle, but I could tell he was unsatisfied. By comparison, Roman got up and sang "Crazy Love" by Van Morrison in a raspy, broken voice and barely-tenable guitar strums. It came completely from the heart, and the crowd roared with approval.

I made the rounds and spoke to old friends from high school, peers who I hadn't seen in years, and made a few new acquaintances. I didn't overdo it on drink, ate moderately well, and didn't embarrass myself in any sense.

Eve and I smoked a cigarette in my car as she confessed to feeling out of place at first. I reminded her that most of these people hadn't seen in her so long and yet they were all happy to see her again. Half of the time, people had a hard time recognizing each other.

It was a splendid affair and yet completely iconoclastic: the bride wore black; the band played country-western; the meals were Mexican; a group of Filipino women danced for our entertainment; and there was a Jewish violinist introducing the bridal party to the strains of "Sunrise, Sunset" from Fiddler On The Roof... it was a strangely multi-cultural affair... and it was also a lot of fun.

Roman's brother Curt sat off to the side of the stage, uncertain about what to do. So he played along with the live band on his trombone, his reflective sunglasses wrapped tightly around his head as he improvised into the night.

I congratulated Roman around midnight as we bid him farewell. We made even better time getting back into the Valley. Bro Man crashed on my couch and Eve kicked me down with some weed. She stayed for a few minutes before going home.

Again, she left too soon.

She has plans for today, a party somewhere. Of course, I'm not invited. I don't expect to be invited to these affairs. They are a different set of friends. I probably would not fit in. Plus, it would most likely make me feel inadequate.

I'm here at work, counting the days until I am out of here. My weekend was gloriously fun, but it is always tainted by the realization that Eve only wants to be my friend and nothing more.

As much as I try to accept that, it's extremely difficult, because I see so much potential for us. I don't envision a future together-- I am not trying to get ahead of myself. Rather, I think the best is yet to come, and I keep thinking that she has to "come to her senses" when really I'm the one who has to wake up and realize that the dream is over, and while the intricacies of our shared past keep us close, they also drive her away from me.

Roman's wedding, as with all weddings, is a reminder that we're all getting older, and things are happening at such a rate that it's no surprise our dreams get buried in the interim.

We were all actors and musicians, performers and artists at one point. And now? We run marketing firms, practice criminal law, man the front desk at dental offices, bird-dog contractors for construction crews... some of us don't even have jobs at the moment.

Even the ones who are living out their dreams do so with difficulty: a friend whose screenplay is being produced complains that the director has it all wrong; an editor for TV shows has money and material possessions but no solace in his restless soul; none of us can divorce ourselves from our day jobs and just do a gig that is creative and fulfilling.

Another lyric quote, from a legendary rock star who had it all and gave it up to be a househusband for five years before he was shot dead on the streets of New York City in 1980:


Life is what happens to you
while you're busy making other plans


Indeed. I've been living my life the way I want to all this time, and now it's time to make some other plans.

grasshopper (unedited)

I'm on the verge of a new job, with the promise of better pay and nicer prospects...

...so why do I feel so down?

Something inside of me is dying. It is the Spirit of the Grasshopper that is fading away.

You all know the story of the Ant & the Grasshopper, don't you? The Grasshopper spends his summer days lazing about and being careless while the Ant works hard and toils away, storing food for the upcoming winter months.

Come the winter, the Grasshopper freezes and starves while the Ant stays warm and well-fed.

I have been the Grasshopper for so long that now-- faced with the Ant path that lies in front of me --I am not sure if I am up to the task of being industrious and hard-working.

I can do it-- that's no problem. The actual work is nothing. But, will I fit in?

Right now I don't seem to fit in anywhere.


*/*


I am trying to meet new girls but it isn't working out. And the girl that I do love wants to be only friends. She loves me so much that (get this) she has stopped being affectionate with me.

Yeah, makes me wish she didn't love me at all. Maybe if she hated me, she'd sleep with me or tell me what I want to hear.

I'm sick of backwards definitions. Rich is not poor, love is not hate, war is not peace. That's a bunch of Orwellian Doublespeak.

What was that nine-year stint with Dick? Anything but love? Funny, it looked like love to me. It was enough for you to stop being my friend. You chose him over me, and now that he's gone you can't bear the thought of knowing you were wrong about him. So now you say you don't know what love is. I say you did know, and it's too painful for you to think about.

You love me, Eve? Then love me. Don't deny me love and dress it up as "caring" because all that does is allow you to have your cake and eat it too.

If you keep loving me like this, one day you're going to find that I'm not around to love.


*/*


I have gone back to referring to myself as a "loser".

How else to rationalize the small failures that punctuate my everyday life?

Some thing is dying inside of me, like I said. This is the last nail in the coffin for the Old Me. The New Me is emerging and I am afraid of what that represents.

No one ever said growing up was easy.

I end up in the slow lane, or the slow bank line, or I end up behind the person in the "10 Items Or Less" line who happens to have 11 items in their cart.

I put my trust in the wrong people, and when they let me down I cannot blame them for their inconsiderate ways. I can only blame myself, for trusting in them.

I open my heart to people in exchange for creative input, and instead I get shut down by so-called "artists" who are too afraid to put their ideas out there, for fear that they will be "poo-poohed".

I am sick of people being afraid. Don't they realize that I am afraid too? Only difference is, I refuse to give up.

Well, maybe I should give up. Maybe I should just throw in the towel and say, "You were right, world. I'll never amount to anything. You won, I lost. I'm a loser, after all-- I lose. That's what I do best."

As the late Johnny Thunders once sang, "Baby I'm born to lose..."


*/*


I had a dream last night, that I met Mischa Barton from The O.C. and we hit it off. She asked me to call her "Mishta".

I think Mischa Barton is fine and all, but I don't think about her that often. I think of the porn starlets in my DVD collection more than her. And yet, there she was, at a cafe on Ventura Blvd., telling me that she has never met anyone like me before, and that she wants to spend the rest of her life with me.

Sad, ain't it?

Fucking pathetic.

Even my dreams are smeared with loser juice.

I thought about suicide last night. That's what losers think about. But I would never go through with it. Never. Ever.

But I do think about it, during times like these when no one wants to understand what is going on inside of my head.

No one wants to hear or read my misery. And that's fine, because I have become acclimated to other people's cowardice. Everybody is cursed with an inability to act upon the very things that will solve their problems.

Meanwhile, here I am taking a huge risk in the hopes it will pay off both literally and figuratively. Everyone else is tucked away in their cozy cocoons, and I'm out on the edge as usual, wondering why everyone else is not near the edge like me.

At least I am sure of one thing: I may be a loser, but I am no coward.


*/*


I have my list of songs for Roman's wedding. I had to settle on optimistic, cheesy love songs. All the songs I really wanted to play are about breaking up, losing love, and being heartsick.

I will put on a brave face this coming Sunday. It's the same face I've been putting on all month. But my face on Sunday will be the bravest yet, because I won't be doing it to spare my own dignity.

Instead, I will be faking happiness in order to not spoil Roman's special day.

I've gotten real good at it in the past few weeks. Shit, maybe I'll win a fucking Oscar after this weekend is done.

This summer will be one where I store up for the winter. For the first time, I am thinking of the winter in advance.

It was fun being a Grasshopper. But those days are over. Now it is the Age of the Ant.

Goodbye, Grasshopper days. I will miss you every time I look out the window of my new office.

work is a four-letter word

I have given my boss two-week's notice. I have another job lined up, and in fact I am already working there part-time in the mornings.

Today I made it official that I was going to go full-time with it.

This radio gig has been great: I learned a lot, and was able to get back on my feet after the crippling economic downturns of 2001 and after. My boss was cool enough to give me the gig after being out of work for five months.

The reason I am leaving is monetary: I will be making shitloads of cash working in construction... not manual labor, though-- I'll be in an office, working online and doing research.

But, it will leave me with very little time to blog.

Finally, it has come to this, a day I knew would come.

When I first started blogging at the end of 2002, it was to fill the emptiness in my soul: I was working at a job where I had an office and decent pay but no real responsibilities. After being laid off from my other gig and not having any prospects, I was living at my dad's house and collecting unemployment checks.

Basically, I was farting around.

I was so depressed. I didn't have a single friend in the world, except for Holly Golightly and her band.

This radio job is great because of all the free time I have, but it is also one of the reasons why getting this new job will be good for me: there is such a thing as too much free time, and I don't know what to do with it.

It's back to working a job where I get up in the mornings, do my work until the whistle blows, then head home and get all the creative craziness out of my system there... only this time I will be making good money.

I have been able to survive on this salary but I'd be a fool not to take this chance-- I will be making $8 an hour more than what I make now. In the past five years, I have not had any increase in salary, thanks to a bad Bush economy and short-arms-deep-pocket start-up companies like the ones who have employed me in radio.

Of course, everyone knows by now that money isn't the real factor here-- the real motivation is to save money so I can do all the things I cannot do because I don't have any money.

I can buy an animation program and start making my own cartoons. I can buy a new bass and an amp. I can buy more RAM and more memory for my computer. I can buy a new computer desk. I can buy new clothes, and get my car tuned up properly... maybe I can get a new car altogether... nothing flashy, just something to get me around.

I can pay off the less-than-$1,000 in debt that I have yet to settle. I can maybe get myself into a house as opposed to an apartment. I can travel to New York, Europe and all the countries and cities I have been dying to visit.

It will be weird to make the transition, but at least it is progress.

Most likely I will spend the next two weeks treating this new job opportunity as an epitaph for my blog, but the blog itself will not be retired. I will not take it down nor will I issue a formal farewell.

There'll be long stretches between posts, but also less likelihood of my getting into fights with online bullies or wasting time on bullshit websites.

I am a bit scared, because I will actually have to work at this new gig. But I am already making the transition to getting to sleep and waking up early, so I figure it will be a fresh change of pace for an energetic bug like me.

More to come, for sure.

aquarius

Behold: Rudi Everts' Zodiac art.



Aquarius
The Water-Bearer
January 20 to February 18

quality fixed
symbol waves
element air, not water mind you
principle active
natural sign of eleventh house
ruler Uranus
opposite sign Leo
anatomy the ankles
colours rainbow, violet, silver, blue, pink, green, yellow
metal uranium, aluminum, silver
flowers violet, daffodil, carnation, primrose
stones sapphire, opal, garnet, amber, amethyst
incense frankincense, pine, peppermint
musical notes A# and F
numbers 1, 4, 5, 6, 8
tarot cards the star, the fool
key phrase "I know"
keyword imagination


Idealistic and bound by principle. Their persuit of the ideal or adherance to personal principle can often make these people difficult to be on intimate terms with. But they care about people and can be great friends.

Aquarians often have an easier time relating to people than most - they can find something to say to anyone.

Sometimes that's disillusionment, sometimes it's boundary testing, sometimes idealistic.

Uranus is a pretty erratic planet, you know.

They are not a water sign, they are the sign of the water bearer.


Positive Characteristics

independent, inventive, tolerant, individualistic, progrressive, artistic, scientific, logical, humane, intellectual, altruistic


Negative Characteristics

unpredictable, temperamental, unconcerned with detail, cold, stubborn, shy, eccentric, radical, impersonal, rebellious


Famous Aquarians

feminist Betty Freidan, aviator Charles Lindbergh, actor John Travolta, singer Marian Anderson, naturalist Charles Darwin, priest Thomas Merton

Aquarian info available through http://www.links.net/spirit/astro/sign/aquarius/

JFK on the brain

I subscribe to U.S. News & World Report, a conservative news magazine. "Know your enemy", I always say.

This article was in the latest issue:

Washington Whispers
By Paul Bedard

The legions of conspiracy theorists will be buzzing anew this week when a group of assassination pros call for a broader probe into the Nov. 22, 1963, slaying of President John F. Kennedy. Among the new concerns to be documented in a presentation near the White House Monday: possible hanky-panky with the famous Zapruder film--maybe to disguise another shooter--and suggestions that a second brain was used in an autopsy coverup.

Sounds zany, but the players appear legit. Leading the charge is Paul Kuntzler, president of the government transcription contractor Miller Reporting. He thinks the public's trust in Uncle Sam was punctured by the Warren Commission review and believes a new probe will restore it--especially since new info is available. Among those questioning the old evidence: Thomas Lipscomb, founder of Times Books, who was up for a Pulitzer for unveiling discrepancies in Sen. John Kerry's swift-boat record. He looked for continuity flaws in Zapruder by comparing the movie with photos taken at Dallas's Dealey Plaza.

One discrepancy: Two women at the slaying site are shown wearing white sneakers when they actually wore black shoes. He's got the Polaroids to prove it.

Lipscomb's stuff is so compelling that Fox and ABC are negotiating to buy it. He has no conspiracy theory but thinks the evidence was flawed and needs validation.

A few interesting notes:

1. Another version of this revelation was revealed on USN&WR's online website on May 12, 2006:

Among one of 30 questionable scenes in the Zapruder film, is the so-called sneaker problem. According to JFK assassination investigator Thomas Lipscomb, the two women shown in frame 299 of the Zapruder film were wearing black shoes. The Polaroids show then in the black shoes in pictures taken just before they walked to Dealey Plaza. But the women are shown in the film wearing white sneakers, says Lipscomb. He adds: "Remember, in the South, women never wore white shoes after Labor Day and it's almost December when this photo was taken in the Zapruder film."

2. The first article I linked and quoted was for the magazine issue dated May 22, 2006. Obviously, magazines print ahead and subscribers get their copies a little early. I was reading the article over this past weekend, before the press conference on illegal immigration that was scheduled for Monday the 15th.

Suppose for a moment that the Monday USN&WR was referring to was the same Monday that Bush gave his hastily-scheduled immigration speech... You think it might've been a distraction from the JFK revelations?

3. Thomas Lipscomb... this article makes no bones about listing his involvement with the Swift Boat fuckers who "smeared" Skull & Bonesman John Kerry in the 2004 campaign. But now he's some truth marauder? Yeah right. Can you say "misinformation" boys and girls?

4. Just moments ago, CNN reported that the FBI may have found the remains of missing Teamster president Jimmy Hoffa somewhere outside of Detroit.

5. The picture accompanying this post is alleged proof that George H. W. Bush was at Dealey Plaza on November 22, 1963. Rumors have abounded for years that Bush Sr. had something to do with the assassination, since he is one of the few Americans who was alive at the time who cannot seem to recall just where the fuck he was when JFK was shot...

What is their agenda? Why was it overshadowed by the Presidential address, especially since the guys behind it are on Bush Jr's side? And if it was referring to Monday the 22nd and not Monday the 15th, with what kind of fanfare are we going to greet this bit of news?

the mescal papers

Here are some poems written while under the influence of mescaline.


A desolate scene:

Man sits alone in his ramshackle
ruin of a home &
scribbles senseless hieroglyphs
onto modern day parchment

A sacred text
manufactured by Industry
w/ the pliant sounds of grief-stricken
voices shimmering
like cymbals & weathered
drum heads
tussling w/ each other
playful wrestling
soft collisions of percussive
guilt trips
pecking at his percolating brow

A lit cigarette (such a cliche)
whirling eddies of white smoke
twist & writhe & twitch
& ride their way
through the living space

The scene stays desolate
for quite some time


*/*


He stared at a photograph
centered in a technological frame

Images of romance entered his brain
She smiled back knowingly

An arch of the eyebrow
curved upward resembling
a parabola sent skyward

This picture seems alive & sentient
stark extreme black & white
eyes that can penetrate night
contrast against milky white


*/*


Follow a winding plank longer
than eagles' eyes can scan
a crooked concrete river
spanning a distance
briskly trod barefoot

Feeling no effects
anticipating the bloodstream reaction
tanning patiently in the afternoon
daylight
songs & sounds going round & round
ping-ponging
in the space between the eardrums
letting coarse symphonies
purge the toxins in my psyche

Nothing seems changed
It all feels the same
20 minutes have passed
& I want to feel no pain

I want to have no name


*/*


in our lifetime
we shall never experience
salvation or redemption
no wrongs righted
no passions ignited
emotions instead extinguished
before we slip inside our beds...

i hear the voice of god
this is his day-- sunday
the day of rest...
for me a routine involving
solemn reflection...

god if you are real
have i not suffered & earned
at least one chance to
get a mere glimpse of your face?
perhaps a slight brush of your
healing hand upon my furrowed brow?

what is it
about the mysteries
that i could not comprehend?
if they are revealed & then
destroy me, is it not my choice?

i could sign my rights away
on your dotted line in blood
and everything would be
taken care of

i would accept my fate
so please don't make me wait

DON'T MAKE ME WAIT

take me now
to the city in the clouds
invite me in to your holy house
the mansions are many
and i will hunger & thirst
no more...

lord deliver me
this instant
wipe clean the slate of my
deeply embedded hate
i cannot live anymore w/ this
weight around my neck

I BELIEVE WHEN I FALL IN LOVE AGAIN IT WILL BE FOREVER

So I keep trying to find love songs to play at Kevin's wedding later this month, but all I keep coming up with are break-up songs.

Sure, I've found a few chestnuts worth playing: "You Belong To Me" by Bob Dylan; "Slow Love" by David Bowie; "Cupid" by Sam Cooke...

But the ones about losing love seem to dominate my thinking: "Stop! In The Name Of Love" by The Supremes, or "What Becomes Of The Broken-Hearted" by Jimmy Ruffin come to mind...

I think it has to do with the fact that Eve and I are really just friends now.

It isn't easy to embrace, because it counts as rejection to me. But then I realized over the weekend that Eve has never been proud of being my girlfriend.

Even before we dated, when we were going to the prom together... I remember a neighbor of hers asking her if I was her boyfriend. "No, we're just friends," she said.

When she met my mom, she freaked out over how I was going to introduce her. I calmed her down by saying I would say we were "just friends".

And that breaks my heart, because I'm sure when she was with Dick she was shouting it from the mountain tops. She had what she really wanted: a man with a big dick whom she had total control over.

She was with him for nine years, and she only left him after he left her and beat her up.

That's a hint and a half for that ass.

So we are friends. Only problem is, she doesn't know how to be "just a friend".

She gets jealous of any girl who likes me.

Not to mention that I am nicer to her when we are dating than I am when we are friends. That's because I treat my friends as equals, and if they piss me off then I let them have it.

I yell at my friends a lot, but I never raise my voice to my steady girlfriends. They get a pass from me, and now that Eve is "just a friend" I believe that she will be in for a shock when I start treating her the way I treat all of my other friends.

But this is what she wants. And so I will honor that. But if she thinks that I'm going to tolerate half of her bullshit now that we are not intimate, she'd better think twice.

She has a lot of learning to do. You see, when you strip away the sex and the intimacy and the romantic aspects of our relationship, what's left is a friendship that is largely one-sided.

Another thing I realized this weekend is that all the things Eve has ever done to hurt me were done when we were just friends. The affair with Sharky? We were broken up for some time when she did that.

And, she chose her relationship with Dick over my friendship with her.

Go ahead and tell me that she's sick, and that she doesn't know what she wants, and that she is so used to being in abusive relationships that she can't see what I offer her.

Go ahead and say that. It sounds nice. But it isn't true.

What's true is that she doesn't want me like that. And for me to continue banging my head against that locked door is just foolish.

I'm done with her.

She has finally convinced me that she is crazy, toxic and not worth the trouble. I never wanted to believe it, but now...

I will still be her friend, but I must admit-- the pain won't go away until I find someone else, someone who isn't ashamed to say "Yes, I love him."

I also realized this weekend that, despite my protests to the contrary, I do want a stable, steady relationship. Subconsciously, I am craving it, but I am in denial.

Not anymore. I admit it now.

I wish I could have it with her, but it is not meant to be.

I tried so hard to forget her last year, when she pushed me away and I fell into the temporarily loving arms of a bevy of girls, all of them who were not ashamed to say they loved me.

Of course, those didn't work out because at the time I thought that I wanted to be free and not in love.

But I see now that I do want to be in love... but I can only be in love with someone who is in love with me, who is attracted to me, who is proud of me.

Eve is not proud of me. She is probably disgusted by me and my attempts to try and win her back.

So I languish in agony right now, but the minute I find someone else, she will be history to me.

Only when I have something to call my own will I be able to sit comfortably with her in the same room and not desire her so.

Until then, I believe that I will have to just go out there and find something. Not just anything, though-- this time I want it to be real.

One song that I was thinking of singing at Kevin's wedding: "I Believe When I Fall In Love Again It Will Be Forever" by Stevie Wonder.

But for right now, I'm singing another tune:


Ok, so your heart's broke. You sit around moping, crying, crying
you say you're even thinking about dying
Well, before you do anything rash, Dig this...

Everybody plays the fool sometime;
There's no exception to the rule.
Listen, baby, it may be factual, may be cruel,
I ain't lying, everybody plays the fool.

Falling in love is such an easy thing to do,
And there's no guarantee that the one you love is gonna love you.
Oh, lovin' eyes they cannot see a certain person could never be;
Love runs deeper than any ocean,
And clouds your mind with emotion.

Everybody plays the fool sometime;
There's no exception to the rule.
Listen, baby, it may be factual, may be cruel,
I ain't lying, everybody plays the fool.

And when the music starts to play,
And your ability to reason is swept away,
Oh, heaven on earth is all you see;
You're out of touch with reality;
Love runs deeper than any ocean,
And clouds your mind with emotion

Everybody plays the fool, sometime,
They use your heart like a tool.
Listen, baby, they never tell you so in school
But everybody plays the fool.

report from the psychedelic front line

In the early afternoon yesterday I popped one of my mescaline pills. I was told that the effects would take place within ten minutes after ingesting. I walked over to a spot on Chandler where the joggers and the walkers congregate and waited. I read a book and smoked some cigarettes while listening to MP3s, waiting for the drug to kick in.

An hour later, I felt the same. No change.

So I walked home. I found the other pill and popped it. I was told not to take more than one at a time but I figured if one of them was bunk then maybe the second one would do the trick.

Half an hour later: nothing.

All of my dope connections were out celebrating Mother's Day with their mamas and so I had nothing with which to get off. I sat around listlessly, pissed off that the drugs didn't work.

Eve called me back later on in the day and I told her of my dilemma. Her remedy? Showing up at my place with a six-pack of Newcastle and two 50 ml bottles of Jagermeister.

The Jager did the trick: it triggered the mescaline and by the time The Simpsons was over I was wobbling and feeling woozy.


*/*


I told Eve I was going to lay down on my bed. She stayed in the other room, watching X-Files on DVD. She didn't want to leave me in such an addled state.

I closed my eyes and tried my best to sleep but the mescaline was working a number on my heartbeat. The best way to describe the effects (post-Jagermeister) is to imagine a mushroom or acid trip, minus the groovy hallucinations and sense of well-being.

I can see how mescaline can be a terrifying experience for the uninitiated. Although I did not hallucinate on the scale of, say, an LSD experience, after a while I started to see trails of light, flashes of color, and weird images in the drapes inside my lightless room. I felt frozen, paralyzed, like a vegetable.

I was almost asleep when suddenly I heard Eve's voice. She was in the other room, talking on the phone with her mother... but it sounded like she was in the same room as me, and I could hear her as clear as a bell.

I couldn't help but overhear her conversation. Her voice was sweet and natural, and it made me feel comfortable. It made me feel at ease. I felt like I was on my deathbed, reflecting upon my life and saying 'goodbye' to friends and family.

I summoned Eve, after she got off the phone.

"Can you bring me a cigarette?"

She walked into the room. I wasn't sure if she was really there with me or not.

"How are you feeling?'

"Great. I think the Jager kickstarted the mescaline."

"Ohhh..."

"It's all good. I feel real comfy here. I don't want to get out of the bed. I feel like this is my last minute on earth and that I can die in peace. And for all I know, you aren't even here-- you're still in the other room watching TV."

Eve laughed. "I can assure you that I'm here." She grasped my hand.

I told her about overhearing her conversation, and how I truly admired her for being herself, and how if I should ever die I would will my writings to her.

It felt like we were there in my room for thousands of years, watching civilizations come and go while we conversed. She was merely tipsy, so I must have appeared quite insane to her... however, she told me that this was the most honest I'd been with her in some time.

I kept making her laugh. Being on intense drugs brings out the little boy in me, and I wasted no time telling her about my hopes and fears. We talked openly and candidly. There was a lot of laughing, drinking and smoking going on. I read her some poems and even some of my ridiculous gangsta raps.

I wanted to kiss her but I was positive she was a hallucination. Besides, I didn't have any real libido-- once again, it was the drugs.

After she left, I took a shower and laid down in the tub as the shower head rained down upon me. I slept for an hour in the tub until I got cold, got up, dried off, and went to bed around half past midnight.


*/*


I'm not even sure if what I just told you actually happened. It had a dream-like quality to it.

Bottom line: I recommend mescaline more than acid or mushrooms. If you take it by itself, you should be OK and mellow, but the minute you mix it with something as toxic as Jagermeister, watch out.

The best part of the trip was where my ego was destroyed and reborn. I really liked that part.

I woke up this morning feeling like an ashtray but enervated and alive.

I hope I can use the momentum of this trip to get me through this busy week.

falsity part 2

Yes, the falsity of language can be aggravating and frustrating... but so can everything else under the sun.

Mastery of language, however, gives you a fighting chance in this world of doublespeak, euphemisms, and jargon.

Language is power. I feel compelled to write all the time, despite the fact that half of it gets mangled, garbled, or completley taken wrong. And yet I still keep on doing it.

Why?

Because I love it. Everyone loves being good at somethig, and I'm good at this. Do I get paid for it? No, but who measures writing talent by how much money it makes?

James Frey, that guy made a lot of money... writing lies disguised as fact. Not a shred or ounce of truth in there, I suspect, and now that his credibility is shot I wonder if he thinks it was all worth it.

He probably does. But his audience doesn't.

Listen: Saddam Hussein has a book out. Scooter Libby has a book. Even Monica Lewinsky had a book, and that lying whore Judith Miller at the NY Times gets paid lots of cash to sleep with her sources and go to jail under the pretense that she is upholding the Constitution when really she is pulling a Susan McDougal and taking one for the criminal team she is in bed with...

Doesn't mean that these "authors" have anything good to say.

Despair not, when language sems to be an untameable beast out of your personal control.

They're just words.

They're tools to be used.

They're toys to be played with.

They are our creation. We are the gods of all the words ever created.

With that in mind, act accordingly.

Have a nice weekend, people.

"It's just a ride..."

And now, an excerpt from a stand-up routine by the late great Bill Hicks, performed in the UK in 1992, shortly before his death at age 33 due to pancreatic cancer. This was his "closer":


You've been fantastic and I hope you enjoyed it. There is a point, is there a point to all of this? Let's find a point. Is there a point to my act? I would say there is.

I have to.

The world is like a ride in an amusement park. And when you choose to go on it, you think it's real because that's how powerful our minds are. And the ride goes up and down and round and round. It has thrills and chills and it's very brightly coloured and it's very loud and it's fun, for a while. Some people have been on the ride for a long time and they begin to question, is this real, or is this just a ride? And other people have remembered, and they come back to us, they say, "Hey - don't worry, don't be afraid, ever, because, this is just a ride..."

And we... kill those people.

Ha ha

"Shut him up."

"We have a lot invested in this ride. Shut him up. Look at my furrows of worry. Look at my big bank account and my family. This just has to be real."

Just a ride. But we always kill those good guys who try and tell us that, you ever notice that? And let the demons run amok. But it doesn't matter because: It's just a ride. And we can change it anytime we want. It's only a choice. No effort, no work, no job, no savings and money. A choice, right now, between fear and love. The eyes of fear want you to put bigger locks on your doors, buy guns, close yourself off. The eyes of love, instead, see all of us as one. Here's what we can do to change the world, right now, to a better ride. Take all that money that we spend on weapons and defences each year and instead spend it feeding and clothing and educating the poor of the world, which it would many times over, not one human being excluded, and we could explore space, together, both inner and outer, forever, in peace.

Thank you very much, you've been great.

Colbert: the new Thomas Paine?

Stephen Colbert has become a phenomenon.

There was a site called ThankYouStephenColbert.org set up for people to write letters of appreciation to the man who recently showed that the Emperor and his minions are indeed butt-fucking-naked and clueless about it.

The server crashed because it was so popular.

I don't want to make Colbert into something he isn't-- or doesn't want to be --but he touched a nerve through his words.

Ballsiness aside, it was the eloquence of his words, the phrasing, the timing, the deadpan facial expressions (he didn't break character once) and the backhanded messages at the core of each joke that made his presentation so devastating.

Like Bob Dylan or Ice Cube, the man has a gift for nailing it right on the head in the most economic way possible.

Yes, I realize I referenced an aging folk singer and a gangsta rapper to describe the work of a comedian. But look at who's President right now, and you'll no doubt concede this point: we are living in some topsy-turvy times right now...

mescaline

My attitude towards drugs is like this:

I do them.

I am not a drug addict. Let me re-phrase that-- I am not addicted to illegal drugs. I'm addicted to legal drugs like cigarettes, and probably drink more than a man with an allergy to alcohol should.

After cigarettes, Mary Jane is my "main thang". I smoke it daily, and it helps me sleep and gives me an appetite. If I did not smoke pot, I can safely bet that I would get even less sleep than I do now, and I would weigh a measly 95 lbs. Marijuana is a benign high, and it gives me comfort.

There are certain drugs I will not do at all. Crack, heroin, speed, and most pills hold no fascination for me, or else they scare me to death. They are highly addictive and I need not get into that realm.

Then there's the flirty drugs, the ones that are variations on the ones I will not do. Cocaine, opium, diet pills, pain relievers are some of the ones I've dabbled in, but I very rarely pay out money for them. They are usually offered to me and I partake of them once in a great while.

When it comes to "hard stuff" I indulge in hallucinogens: LSD, mushrooms, and Ecstacy (which really isn't a hallucinogen but I lump it in with those drugs) are my favorites. I don't indulge in them habitually, as they are not habit-forming. Anyone who tells you they were physically addicted to acid or shrooms or X is a liar and cannot be trusted. You don't get withdrawal symptoms from those pharmaceuticals-- it's not an opinion, it's a fact.

Why do I do drugs?

Is it because there is a huge empty void in my soul that I have to fill? Is it because I spent the first five years of my life under the influence of Phenobarbitol to calm my seizures? Is it because I posses an amazing amount of self-loathing and therefore am on a collision course to eradicate my ego?

No.

While all the above things might be true about me, they are not the reasons why I take drugs.

I take drugs because I like the effects they have on me.

Two drugs I have never taken are DMT and mescaline. DMT is very expensive and I doubt I will have an opportunity to sample its wares any time soon.

But mescaline is cheap, and I know someone who can get them.

I know a lot of people who can get me things.


*/*


According to the Wikipedia entry for mescaline:

--It is largely extracted from particular kinds of desert cacti

--A decent dose is 200 to 400 milligrams. The effects last for up to 12 hours.

--Mescaline, like LSD and mushrooms, is not physically addictive.

--It is related to the phenethylamine class of pharmaceuticals. Phenethylamines can also be found in foods such as chocolate, and if taken in massive quantities can produce psychosis in the human brain.

--Side effects include "visual hallucinations and radically altered states of consciousness, often experienced as pleasurable and illuminating but occasionally as accompanied by feelings of anxiety or revulsion".


Positive side effects include:

Open eye visuals
Closed-eye visuals
New thought processes
Dream-like scenarios
Euphoria
Mystical experience


Neutral side effects include:

Pupil dilation
Sensations of warm and cold
Temporary splitting/destruction of ego


Negative side effects include:

Dizziness
Vomiting
Tachycardia (accelerated heartbeat)
Diarrhea
Headaches
Anxiety
Feeling of dying or annihilation
Fear of not being able to return to normal consciousness
Hallucinogen persisting perception disorder (HPPD)
Irrationality of the thought-process

Sounds good. It's right up my alley, really.


*/*


Noted mescaline users throughout history include luminaries such as Aldous Huxley, Henri Michaux, Jim Morrison, Carlos Santana, Hunter S. Thompson, Timothy Leary, Jean-Paul Sartre and Antonin Artaud.

The Huichol Indians of Sierra Madre Occidental in Mexico worship a sun deity named Tau. Out of the Tau four principal deities were spawned: Corn, Eagles, Deer and Peyote.

A German pharmacologist named Arthur Heffter first extracted mescaline from a peyote cactus button in 1897. Over two decades later it was synthesized.

The late, great Beat writer William S. Burroughs (in the masterful index at the end of his novel Naked Lunch entitled "LETTER FROM A MASTER ADDICT ON DANGEROUS DRUGS") had this* to say about it:


Peyote (mescaline)-- This is undoubtedly a stimulant. It dilates the pupils, keeps one awake. Peyote is extremely nauseating. Users experience difficulty keeping it down long enough to realize the effect, which is similar, in some respects, to marijuana. There is increased sensitivity to impression, especially to colours. Peyote intoxication causes a peculiar vegetable consciousness or identification with the plant. Everything looks like a peyote plant. It is easy to understand why the Indians believe there is a resident spirit in the peyote cactus.

Cool. Fun.


*/*


So, am I going to do it?

Of course I am. I have two microdots on me as I write this. I could put one of these things in my mouth right now and within ten minutes I'd be spinning out of control.

But, no, I will wait.

I have been instructed to only take one at the most. Two at a time would make me puke, drive me insane, and probably wreck my head for a week.

Well, why do it, if it's such a risk?

I dunno... Why did David Blaine try to break some stupid record by holding his breath underwater? For charity? For the greater good? No, he did it to see what it was like. Millions of people tuned in and watched. It was a stupid risk, and he didn't even get high from it... well, then again, who knows? Maybe he did.

I will be fortunate: no one will be watching me when I make an ass out of myself on this mescaline shit... well, that is, if I do it alone.

I'm looking for someone to do this with me. So far I have no volunteers. And after reading this blog entry, I suppose I would only be approached by drug fiends as depraved (if not more) than me.

Damn, where's William Burroughs when you need him? Oh, yeah, that's right-- he's been dead for almost ten years. Maybe when I'm visiting with the Great Spirits, I will get a chance to have a talk with Mr. Burroughs on the enchanted plane of consciousness where ghosts and demons reside... or maybe I'll just trip really hard and find out things about myself, like I always do when I go under.

I guarantee, though, that when I do take it, I will let you all know in this blog how it went.

*= British Journal of Addiction, Vol. 53, No. 2, August 3rd, 1956

the human jukebox

I just received a phone call from my buddy Kevin aka "Roman Red". He is tying the knot at the end of this month and wanted to know if I'd like to play guitar and sing songs at his wedding.

As the guests enter the chapel, Roman's friend Trevor and I will be trading off, playing songs in the background as people take their seats. I was touched and honored to be asked for such a thing, although to be fair he only asked me after another friend said he could not do it.

Still, Roman has always been one of those friends whom I have always felt was extremely reliable and honest. He and I never got that close but I think of him fondly because he was always such a funny motherfucker. And the fact that this handsome, talented man is getting hitched makes me feel good as opposed to making me want to scream "NO!! DON'T DO IT!! IT'S A TRAP!!"

Anyway, I have a favor to ask: What songs do you think I should play? I will probably work out a list with Trevor (whom I have yet to meet) so as to not repeat the same selections twice.

I have some old standbys and chestnuts that I'd like to pull out, compiled over the years for those times when drunken frat girls wanted to hear some crooning from me.

I am ready to play any love song by The Beatles, including:

Yesterday
The Long And Winding Road
Julia
Yes It Is
And I Love Her
Do You Want To Know A Secret?
It's Only Love
All My Loving
Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown)
Michelle
P.S. I Love You
Girl
Woman (solo John Lennon but it counts)
Something
Junk (solo Paul McCartney but it counts)
If I Fell (a DEFINITE requisite-- I love this song more than life itself)
Don't Let Me Down
I Will
Hey Jude
Golden Slumbers
Words Of Love (Buddy Holly cover)

I also know songs from The Smiths/Morrissey, Elvis Costello, The Kinks, Burt Bacharach, Poison (hey man, I gotta play "Every Rose Has Its Thorn"), Warrant ("Heaven isn't too far a-way-ay..."), and Pet Sounds-era Beach Boys stuff like "God Only Knows" and "Caroline No"...

I know I am barely scratching the surface here, so if anyone knows a song by an artist that can be played on the guitar and sung at a wedding, please leave a comment or send me an e-mail.

Wish me luck.


UPDATE: I just heard a song on the radio that not only gave me another idea for a wedding song to play, but also supplied me with my Mother's Day gift.

My mother gets too many jewels, rings, bracelets, trinkets and knick-knacks to deal with, and every year she asks that we not spend a lot of money on her.

Typical mom routine. But I do know that she is sick of all the jewels and dolls and china.

Occasionally, I get away with simple, handmade gifts because I am the "artistic" one in the family. Last year, I painted her portrait-- it looked more like her my aunt Kathy but my mother loved it anyway. I told her that, when I get better at painting, I will do another one for her.

This year, I will buy her The Best of Procol Harum on CD.

No, it's not her favorite band of all time. But their most famous song, "A Whiter Shade Of Pale", is one of her all-time favorite tunes.

Well, maybe not her favorite... but it mesmerized her for years as a little girl. She told me once that she owned a 45 of the single and wore out the grooves by playing it over and over and over.

Years ago, I bought her the single on 45 for a birthday gift, but she barely plays those vinyl records anymore. Even though she only wants to hear that one song, I figure the cost of one CD is a small price to pay for such a memory.

Every time I hear this song, I cry... and not because of the rumor surrounding the song, that the group Procol Harum ripped off J.S. Bach's "Air for G String (Suite No. 3)" (To be frank, I've never heard the Bach composition in question so I don't know).

No, I cry because I did some math in my head once and figured something out, something that my mother would probably never cop to, on account of the pain it would conjure within her.

The song was released May 12, 1967 (that's only three days away, folks!). My mother was 11 going on 12 when the song came out.

Also, my mother was about twelve years old when her father-- my grandfather whom I have never met --was killed in an airplane manufacturing plant by a large metal cylinder that came loose from a crane.

It landed right on top of him, killing him instantly.

And so she bought the 45 record, and (in her own words) "sat in my room for hours, listening to the song repeatedly..."

The song sounds like a gloomy funeral procession, or a morose wedding ceremony. I can only imagine how the song must have soothed her, in her hours of need, in her darkest moments...

Some time last year she showed me old photographs of her father, pictures I'd never ever seen before. They were faded and old but vivid and colorful.

My grandfather was a big man, a strong man. My mother, whom I always used to assume took her looks from my late Japanese grandmother, is the spitting image of her father.

My mother named her first son (my older brother) after her deceased father.

While looking through the photographs, my mother made the comment, "It's been so long, I have a hard time remembering what he looked like."

My intention is not to revive painful memories in my mother. Like I said, she likes the song. It was a valuable friend to her, a consolation that carried her through difficulties.

Being the oldest of five girls with no father figure in sight, my mother had to help raise her sisters. This cut her childhood short.

And when she became a mother herself at age 16, that signaled the end of her innocence permanently.

I can't help think of my mother whenever I hear that beautiful, haunting melody. And so I hope she likes my gift to her. I hope she understands what it means to me as well as what it means to her.

anecdotes

AND NOW, THE WIT AND WISDOM OF SAMUEL LONGHORN CLEMENS aka MARK TWAIN:

To cease smoking is the easiest thing I ever did. I ought to know because I've done it a thousand times.

The secret of getting ahead is getting started. The secret of getting started is breaking your complex overwhelming tasks into small manageable tasks, and then starting on the first one.

The time to begin writing an article is when you have finished it to your satisfaction. By that time you begin to clearly and logically perceive what it is you really want to say.

I never let schooling interfere with my education.

There are many humorous things in the world: among them the white man's notion that he is less savage than the other savages.

It ain't those parts of the Bible that I can't understand that bother me, it is the parts that I do understand.

The Public is merely a multiplied "me."

To be good is noble; but to show others how to be good is nobler and no trouble.

The human race is a race of cowards; and I am not only marching in that procession but carrying a banner.

Training is everything. The peach was once a bitter almond; cauliflower is nothing but cabbage with a college education.

The right word may be effective, but no word was ever as effective as a rightly timed pause.

Thousands of geniuses live and die undiscovered - either by themselves or by others.

The coldest winter I ever spent was summer in San Francisco.

She was not quite what you would call refined. She was not quite what you would call unrefined. She was the kind of person that keeps a parrot.

Names are not always what they seem. The common Welsh name BZJXXLLWCP is pronounced Jackson.

Martyrdom covers a multitude of sins.

Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because Fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn't.

Truth is the most valuable thing we have. Let us economize it.

Grief can take care of itself, but to get the full value of a joy you must have somebody to divide it with.

Let us so live that when we come to die even the undertaker will be sorry.

A banker is a fellow who lends you his umbrella when the sun is shining, but wants it back the minute it begins to rain.

Always do right. This will gratify some people and astonish the rest.

The best way to cheer yourself up is to try to cheer somebody else up.

Honesty is the best policy - when there is money in it.

Humor is the great thing, the saving thing. The minute it crops up, all our irritations and resentments slip away and a sunny spirit takes their place.

Love seems the swiftest, but it is the slowest of all growths. No man or woman really knows what perfect love is until they have been married a quarter of a century.

Be careful about reading health books. You may die of a misprint.

Laws are sand, customs are rock. Laws can be evaded and punishment escaped but an openly transgressed custom brings sure punishment.

Man is the only animal that blushes, or needs to.

It could probably be shown by facts and figures that there is no distinctly American criminal class except Congress.

I am opposed to millionaires, but it would be dangerous to offer me the position.

In order to make a man or a boy covet a thing, it is only necessary to make the thing difficult to obtain.

Suppose you were an idiot and suppose you were a member of Congress. But I repeat myself.

It is better to deserve honors and not have them than to have them and not to deserve them.

Always acknowledge a fault. This will throw those in authority off their guard and give you an opportunity to commit more.

Good breeding consists in concealing how much we think of ourselves and how little we think of the other person.

Habit is habit and not to be flung out of the window by any man, but coaxed downstairs a step at a time

Keep away from people who try to belittle your ambitions. Small people always do that, but the really great make you feel that you, too, can become great.

People born to be hanged are safe in water.

The universal brotherhood of man is our most precious possession, what there is of it.

A man cannot be comfortable without his own approval.

The worst loneliness is not to be comfortable with yourself.

Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.

When in doubt, tell the truth.

If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous, he will not bite you. This is the principal difference between a dog and a man.

It usually takes more than three weeks to prepare a good impromptu speech.

A human being has a natural desire to have more of a good thing than he needs.

The fact that man knows right from wrong proves his intellectual superiority to other creatures; but the fact that he can do wrong proves his moral inferiority to any creature that cannot.

Man will do many things to get himself loved, he will do all things to get himself envied.

It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt.

It was wonderful to find America, but it would have been more wonderful to miss it.

The human race has one really effective weapon, and that is laughter.

How little a thing can make us happy when we feel that we have earned it.

The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.

There are people who strictly deprive themselves of each and every eatable, drinkable, and smokable which has in any way acquired a shady reputation. They pay this price for health. And health is all they get for it. How strange it is. It is like paying out your whole fortune for a cow that has gone dry.

A classic is something that everybody wants to have read and nobody wants to read.

Water, taken in moderation, cannot hurt anybody.

Good friends, good books and a sleepy conscience: this is the ideal life.

All say, "How hard it is that we have to die" - a strange complaint to come from the mouths of people who have had to live.

A man is never more truthful than when he acknowledges himself a liar.

I thoroughly disapprove of duels. If a man should challenge me, I would take him kindly and forgivingly by the hand and lead him to a quiet place and kill him.

In Paris they simply stared when I spoke to them in French; I never did succeed in making those idiots understand their language.

The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug.

Under certain circumstances, profanity provides a relief denied even to prayer.

It is easier to stay out than get out.

Never put off until tomorrow what you can do the day after tomorrow.

Often it does seem a pity that Noah and his party did not miss the boat.

The radical of one century is the conservative of the next. The radical invents the views. When he has worn them out the conservative adopts them.

Get your facts first, then you can distort them as you please.

There are several good protections against temptation, but the surest is cowardice.

You cannot depend on your eyes when your imagination is out of focus.

The miracle, or the power, that elevates the few is to be found in their industry, application, and perseverance under the prompting of a brave, determined spirit.

The holy passion of friendship is of so sweet and steady and loyal and enduring a nature that it will last through a whole lifetime, if not asked to lend money.

I have found out that there ain't no surer way to find out whether you like people or hate them than to travel with them.

and finally... my personal favorite:

In the beginning of a change the patriot is a scarce man, and brave, and hated and scorned. When his cause succeeds, the timid join him, for then it costs nothing to be a patriot.

sweet regret

One day I may write a book!
Our beautiful story should be shared
It is too amazing to slip away through time
But I am not a writer
I would put limits on our glory
And confine it to reality
I would rather leave it
For the moon and the stars to define
For us to marvel in
For flowers to sing it
And cats to dance it
I will leave it for
The mountains to scream
And all the children to hear
I will leave it to you, my dear

--Vera Borofski, Dec. 7, 1990



Fifteen years ago, I lost my virginity.

The girl I lost my virginity to was also a virgin. It was our shared first.

But...

At the time, she thought I was experienced.

I lied.

I lied about a lot of things to that girl. I lied about my feelings for ex-girlfriend, Amy Coates. I lied about times when I was unhappy, pretending to be fine. I lied about stupid, petty things.

I was something of a pathological liar.

I have few regrets, and even then the ones I harbor are not that serious. I don't stay awake at night wishing that these matters had been different.

But, nonetheless, they are regrets.

Personally, I think people should have a few regrets here and there, and I am instantly suspicious of anyone who says they have no regrets at all. It's like men who say they never masturbate, or women who say that size doesn't matter. Nowadays, I feel like telling these people "Come on, you don't have to lie to kick it."

Why are regrets such a negative thing in the collective unconscious? Has there ever been a sweet regret?

I say, yes there has.


*/*


The last time I spoke with Vera Borofski was around the end of the Twentieth Century. I was in New York City, hanging out and enjoying the sights. I talked to her cousin, who supplied me with her phone number. I called her up and we made a date to meet at the corner of 33rd & 3rd in Manhattan.

I hadn't seen her in the five or six years since we all graduated from high school. She went on to college up north, and although I was up in those areas and ran into her friends often, I never heard from her or saw her.

Then I heard she was in the Big Apple. I took a cab to meet her. I made conversation with the cabbie.

"How long you been driving?'

"Ten years. Never had an accident."

"Awesome. Glad to hear it." I sighed in relief.

As he dropped me off at the corner, I exited from the taxi facing traffic. I blindly opened the door and before I knew it I had taken off the passenger side rear view mirror on a passing Lexus!

I freaked out and tried to run, but then I realized that my gear was still in the cab. I walked back slowly and faced the music reluctantly.

Two cops showed up, trying to calm down the livid Lexus driver. The cabbie was adamant that it was not his fault, that he had actually tried to tell me to exit curbside but that I had moved too quickly. I corroborated his story, confessing to my absent-minded crime. I shook my head, wondering why these things happen to me.

Luckily, no one on the scene had to pay out anything. As a cab fare, I was not liable nor was I under any obligation. The taxi company would pay for any damages, and the driver would not be penalized.

As the chaos reigned, I saw Vera walking down the street, looking for me amid the confusion. I ducked down behind the taxi and let her pass-- after all this time I didn't want her first vision of me to be associated with cops and inner-city traffic mayhem.

I caught up with her at a cafe she suggested, and she looked great. She told me I looked great. We talked, we filled in the blanks, we reflected on people and events and ideas and the passage of time...

I apologized to her for being such a liar when we were together. She told me I didn't need to apologize for anything. I told her that there was one last thing I had to come clean about:

"I was a virgin."

Silence. Was she mad? Sad? Did she even care?

Finally, after a long pause, she said, "You know, if you had told me that up front I probably would have slept with you earlier, instead of making you wait six months."

"I know. I am sorry. It's been on my mind for a long time. I was stupid and insecure."

I went back with her to her place, to see where she was living. She showed me pictures of her latest flame, and told me about the poetry she'd been writing and the places she'd traveled.

When we parted ways and said 'goodbye', I felt like things were sorted out between us. But I still felt awful for having been such a phony with her when we were dating.

Vera is the reason why I am brutally honest today. She was the best girl in the world, and because I was a neurotic mess of a person I screwed up an opportunity to be with someone who really did care for me, to the point of breaking.

I know that I haven't always been 100% honest in the 15 years since she and I dated, but I also know that I have strived constantly to be up front and candid and unafraid of people's reactions to the truth.

I learned a huge lesson when Vera and I ended our 10-month-long relationship. I learned that I would rather be honest and alone than to be a liar in someone's arms.


*/*


I met Vera after Amy Coates and I had gone through yet another tiresome round of make-up-break-up games.

Vera was the anti-Amy: sweet and loyal, affectionate, caring, concerned, and receptive. She actually listened to the things I said, and she didn't make snide remarks or try to downplay my ambitions.

Vera was enamored of my writing, and after we first met I discovered that she was aspiring to be a writer herself. She asked me to read her poems, and at first I was averse because I was afraid they were going to be painfully terrible.

No, they weren't terrible at all... They lacked polish, sure, but there was some meat on these bones. I told Vera that the best thing for her to do was to write constantly. Practice makes perfect. And reading-- finding books and authors to digest was instrumental in developing a taste for words.

Vera took to it like no one else I have ever seen. She was eager to learn, to critique, to be critiqued. If I was a Master, then she was my best student. If a portion of our relationship could be seen as a tutelage, then Vera was the teacher's pet, the ace pupil, the quick study.

I wrote a poem to her once, comparing our writing partnership to a baby-- our baby. I will always remember this line that I penned:


I hope our baby
has eyes like yours
and pain like mine
for her own to define


Vera was my first complete relationship with a girl. It had a beginning, a middle, and an end-- not a long, drawn-out struggle over who is in control, or a sycophantic one-sided bond that bled us dry...

Before meeting Vera, I was on my way to becoming a full-time misogynist. Women were trouble, or troubled, and indifferent to my personal issues. I didn't understand them at all. I still don't, but at least I have an idea of what to expect.

Vera was the first girl I ever spoke to about my father and the curse he brought down upon our family. She responded by sharing with me some of her deepest, darkest secrets. She thought I would freak out and run, but instead I embraced her.

She was damaged, just like me. We could heal each other.

She remade me into a person who smiled, who could pull the hair away from his face for one second and look you in the eye when you spoke. I walked taller, I had an extraordinary bounce in my step, and I was feeling good.

Things were great. I didn't even mind being made to wait half a year before we had sex, because she was such a great person to be around.

But I kept lying, about little things and big things.

Why did I lie?

Because I thought she wouldn't like me unless I presented myself a certain way. I thought she would get sick of me and go off somewhere else.

It's absurd to think of it now, but at the time I honestly thought she would ditch me for someone else if I was anything less than what I tried to be.

Then the day came, when she and I would consummate our love.

I remember that it was incredible and intimate and passionate. I also remember that I kept trying to pretend like I had been there before, like it was nothing to me. Inside, I was ecstatic and thrilled beyond belief, but on the outside I tried to project a tougher veneer.

That is the biggest regret I have concerning Vera: the one time when I was allowed to be vulnerable and innocent and free was marred by my insistence on believing in a fiction I composed in my mind.

There will never be another time like that again. I will never get another chance to lose my virginity properly. It was the most important moment of my young life, and I faked my way through it.


*/*


Amy Coates saw the change in me, and it made her feel stupid for treating me so badly. So she went out of her way to try and include me in her life again.

The fact is, she couldn't stand that I had found happiness with someone else. And I was a fool for believing that Amy was finally interested in me. If Vera hadn't done such a drastic makeover on me, Amy would not have gone so far out of her way to try and catch my attention.

Of course, I'm the one who is at fault. I'm the one who kissed Amy one night, and I'm the one who listened when Amy said not to tell Vera.

This was the one lie I could not tolerate. Fibbing about my sex habits and events in my life was one thing, but trying to pretend that I didn't kiss Amy was destroying me from the inside out.

When I finally told Vera the truth, she was understandably upset. She knew all along that Amy was treacherous, and that I was weak enough to fall back into that trap. But the fact that I actually did it devastated her. And even though she forgave me-- fuckin' A, she forgave me, even after the fact --it depleted our shared trust and signaled the beginning of the end for us.

It's a sad story, and a common one: boy meets girl, girl fixes boy's hair and clothes and cleans him up and makes him smile, boy turns around and shits all over girl because he thinks he's the reason why the girls are after him now...

Like I said, I learned a huge lesson there. I learned the hard way that you can't go wrong being honest with people.

But I didn't learn just one lesson-- I learned a slew of them.

I learned that while some women are never satisfied with anything, there are others who are patient and kind and loving.

I learned to take better care of myself. Vera was always concerned about my addictive personality. Back then, I didn't do drugs at all, but I didn't take my allergy to alcohol seriously either. I was also into cutting my arms and chest, and had voiced suicidal wishes on occasion. I'm sure she would not approve of my drug use, smoking and drinking, but now I have an understanding as to why I do these things to myself-- I realize that it's part of my restlessness, and that I get a cheap thrill from a slight case of self-destructiveness.

As long as I don't overdo it I'll be fine.

I learned to be myself, that there were people out there who were more my speed, and that trying to run with "hip" circles or be accepted by snobs and elitists was a waste of my time.

I learned that sex is better when there are no secrets being buried.

I learned that I wasn't an ugly freak or a weirdo. I was attractive, and people liked me for who I was and not what I tried to be.

So while there are regrets, there is a sweet twist to them. Things may not have worked out the way I wanted them to, but the one thing I DO NOT REGRET AT ALL is meeting Vera Borofski.


*/*


I talked to Vera the other day on the phone. The last time we spoke was that fateful day in New York City.

She got married last August. And now she is pregnant with her first child-- a boy.

It was amazing to hear her voice. I thought about how she is actually going to have a real, flesh-and-blood baby and not some imaginary concept that I devised for her.

I know she will be the best mother in the world. She will love that boy until he can't take it anymore. She will dote on him but she will also teach him right from wrong.

Hopefully, she will teach him how to be a writer or a poet.

And most of all, I hope she teaches him to be upright and noble... and honest.

crooks and liars

Donald Rumsfeld gets caught in lies all the time, but seldom is it as confrontational as this clip that I saw on CNN.

Here is the link, courtesy of www.crooksandliars.com:

http://www.crooksandliars.com/2006/05/04.html#a8164

(You can cut and paste it if you want. I won't link it, lest the NSA come down on me...)

Ha ha, how you like my attempt to be all sinister and foreboding?

Anyway, we are living in truly historic times, and it looks like the current Administration is feeling the heat.

There is hope.

Always.

you tube

YouTube.com is my latest online obsession.

I have been watching clips from simpler times when people had spines, balls, and guts.

Whether it's the late Frank Zappa on Crossfire blasting the PMRC, or Arthur Lee and Love on American Bandstand in 1967, or Prince's guitar solo from the 2004 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame awards ceremony, or even Fear playing Saturday Night Live in 1981, you can find some real chestnuts there. Videos, clips, amateur home movies and rare footage... it's all there.

Current stuff gets passed around as well, such as Stephen Colbert's hilarious roast of President Bush at the White House Correspondents' Dinner.

This is the critical mass peak here. This is where the balance shifts. Biting satire with teeth bared, fangs ready to sink in.

One well-delivered joke holds more real truth than that feeble beast the media likes to trot out as "the truth".

True comedy hurts.

This is the Court Jester making fun of the tyrranical king... only this is not a kingdom. This is a democracy, and in a democracy everybody is a target for ridicule.

Everybody.

Colbert got 'em, and he got 'em good.

falsity

Last week, I posted:

I'll admit it, I sometimes like it when people get possessive of me.

Allow me to elaborate.

Until recently, I've never heard a woman tell me that she would kill another woman for looking at me. It sounds downright homicidal, right? Positively psychotic?

Or is it just the falsity of language?

It's not like she really would "kill a bitch" for looking at me. But maybe she feels like she could because of the anger and emotion that swells inside her when she sees another woman taking an interest in me.

And it's not like this is some exclusive contract between us. It's not because of me that she feels this way. She would want to kill a bitch for looking at ANY man she was seeing.

I can sit here and pretend like this is weird, crazy or dangerous, but the fact is... I know what that feels like.

I know what it's like to want to kill a man for looking at my woman.

I would never lay a hand on anyone who looked at my girl. Instead, I would feel flattered, and my ego would be boosted.

But if he accosted her, manhandled her, or stepped to her in any way that can be deemed offensive and over-the-line, I wouldn't hesitate to premeditate murder.

He could be six-foot-five with muscles on top of his muscles, and I would be in his face like a scrappy little dog. Hell, I would probably get beaten and pummelled to a pulp, but I wouldn't back down.

Why? Because I'm stupid.

I'm a fool.

A sucker.

A mark.

Because I love her.


*/*


She marvels at the fact that I can write all day long about her, with questions posed and rhetorical quandaries considered, but never do I bring them to her attention in our face-to-face relationship.

That's because it is easy to write, but it is hard to relate to people.

The falsity of language, once again. She coined that phrase. I don't know where she got it, but it was probably from school.

The fact is, a mere blog doesn't begin to encapsulate the wide-ranging emotions that churn beneath my stoic facade like a giant tarp covering the stormy sea.

Words fail to designate any meaning. Words are deceptive, to her. And I am somewhat of a wordsmith, so maybe her distrust of words transfers over to a distrust of silver-tongued smooth-talkers who know how to pitch a sale... which transfers over to me, despite the fact that I am far more persuasive in print than I am in person.

I know words are deceptive, but I think of it playfully. I do get angry at advertisments using outright lies to sell their products, but I get a kick out of breaking it down and identifying the different lies, tagging the propaganda and labeling the whole process for what it is.

I mean, think about how desensitized to the lies we have become. When a product is marked $9.99, we all know that there is tax to factor. The real price is not $9.99... and to their credit, most of the time they include a disclaimer such as "plus tax" at the end... but in tiny print, so that it is almost invisible.

We are used to this because of repetition and daily exposure. It is seen as one of those "common sense" type of things that adults get accustomed to, but the truth is we are accepting a lie. It may seem inncoent and harmless, but it is a lie nonethless.

And after a while, when the consistent bombarding of false adsvertising begins to compromise our sense of truth and fiction, we begin to make accomodations for other lies as well.

Ever heard the phrase "Nothing in this world is free"? And yet you see it all the time: Free This, Free That, Free Here, Free There...

And of course, all of these offers are really not free. There's always a catch. You have to buy something else first. You have to send away for this, or pay for that.

I have no problem with jumping through those hoops. But please, let's stop calling it "free", because it serves no purpose for the consumer. It only serves the marketer's purposes of reeling in another sucker with the promise of something "free".

The cynicsm of advertising is that it dangles that carrot, knowing full well that although the consumer might think he or she is free to make a choice, in reality they are bound and confined to their base desires. The advertiser knows that the carrot is enticing, and that the average consumer will be overwhelmed by their desire for the juicy carrot... a slave, if you will, to the hunger element.

Ah, the falsity of language.

We should be outraged over the abundance of little white lies, because they pile up like landfills, amassing into one gigantic, multi-colored Lie with a capital L.

Instead, we laugh to ourselves, content to be liars by association.


*/*


Last night a friend of Ellen's made a comment about how Ellen "took me into custody" when Holly Golightly, the singer from my old band, broke up the group and left town to Florida.

By that, she meant that Ellen quickly acted to procure my bass services for her songs. And here I am, years later, still doing this woman a favor by playing bass and/or guitar for her shows.

But I must admit that I have been lying to Ellen. I don't want to do this anymore. Hell, I never wanted to do it in the first place. I remember when Ellen first approached me to play bass with her. I told her I'd consider it.

Then, I told Holly. She blew up at me, then told me that Ellen was always trying to poach her ideas. "Why can't she go out and find her own band?" Holly cried.

I didn't understand it until well after Holly left. And last night, playing a show with Ellen and a girl named June on violin, I not only understood Holly's rage but I knew what I had to do about it all.

Ellen is still playing a song that her ex-bandmate Katie wrote. The song is infinitely better than anything Ellen has ever written. Ellen played the song live, and beforehand she instructed June and I to go into the song immediately after the end of the previous song, so that it blended in.

Then, Ellen would give Katie a quick credit at the end of the song.

I kept thinking about "$9.99 plus tax"...

I remembered how mad Eve got at me when I underplayed her involvement in the animation last year. Sure, Eve hadn't put in as much time as the rest of us, but it was the way that I stated it... as if she was some hanger-on who wasn't our creative equal.

After the show, the sound guy announced to Ellen that she made $33 from the show.

$33. Not a lot of money. I didn't expect to get paid.

But she didn't even offer one dollar for my time and effort.

And yet she expects me to play along with her star-studded delusions of becoming a big star, using other people's songs and talent to convey the impression that she is a serious artist when in reality Holly was right on about her...

No. Not anymore.

I'm not a quitter, which explains why I didn't just flake on the show. But even the booking of the gig was deceptive-- I was under the impression that we were doing all-new songs, with a full band.

Stupid me, always trusting people when I know I shouldn't...

They're all snakes, right?

They tell you things to lead you one way, just so they can lower the boom on you and exploit you.

If they were up front with me, they'd get straight answers. But they are not, so all of a sudden my "availability" becomes questionable.

Yes, I am just as much of a liar as they are. But at least I am only doing it in response to the bullshit being thrown at me.

Doesn't make it any better, but I can live with it because it's just one of the millions of lies that I accept daily.

I swear, being honest nowadays gets you nowhere.


*/*


I have come to realize that I am far more angry than I ever imagined. I have grudges and biases against everybody in my life: friends, family, acquaintances, nemeses, peers and co-workers...

I am trying (starting this week) to vent these biases and prejudices, in an attempt to exorcise them from my mind, where the very notions taunt me and torture me.

I don't want to live my life blaming people for my woes, whether privately or publicly.

I am sick of being lied to, of lying, and (most of all) rationalizing the lies.

I don't know how I'm going to go about doing it, but only time will tell if it will work or not.

Any suggestions on how to get rid of these demons?