Good comments, all of them.
I occasionally rail about comments because I like getting feedback, whether good or bad. Even when I had the whole cyber-stalker thing and he kept leaving inane comments, I rose to the occasion simply because that hateful, bitter person at least took the time to comment. It may not have been intelligent, uplifting or even coherent, but it was something.
I suppose I am a reactionary person. I don't so much provoke as I try to respond to what people have pitched to me.
I have no idea what to expect, and that's what makes comments cool. I guess it's interaction, but on a level that I am fond of, mainly in the written form. I am definitely more adept at expressing my attitudes through the written word, even with the lack of context and all that entails.
I wouldn't necessarily say that I am looking for insights, or even advice. I think I'm looking for people who feel as passionate as me, who will stand up for what they believe, even if it is just a measly comment on a small blog. But comments make me feel as if I am making at least a minimal impact.
I understand the reluctance on the part of others, but I seek to understand that reluctance. If I call it cowardice, it's because I cannot see any other definition. And when someone steps forward to define themselves, and I see that it is not rooted in fear, then that is something quite outstanding.
Someone asked, "What about those people who realized that they do not want what they once believed they did? And what of those who can not take the great risks you advocate because of their commitment to people who rely on them? Are they really cowards?"
I don't really have an answer for that. But in my experience I know that:
--Those who realize they have outgrown beliefs go to great lengths to explain it, which makes their reticence baffling to me...
--Those who cannot take risks because of commitments make a choice... it's not foisted upon them to commit to anything...
--Does that make them cowards? Only the person knows, and if they are truly not afraid then what I have to say won't deter them from their goals in the slightest.
I'm glad that my words have the effect they do, but I just wish more people would take that opportunity to demand the same of those around them. Ever been surrounded by people who complain about things but do nothing to change their environs? My rants and raves are usually a reaction to that kind of mentality. Maybe in real life people see me as a whiner or a complainer, but the same can be said about them. And when it comes down to it, my rants are broader and more generalized, even as I am using the details of my private life as fodder. And if there's one thing I loathe, it's being accused of being a complainer by people who complain.
That last part doesn't apply to anyone in particular, certainly not any of the people who did comment. The truth is, what I accuse my readers of doing is nothing more than a dare, and as we all know there's a choice involved when it comes to accepting dares. Not everyone who accepts the challenge of a dare should be applauded; likewise, not everyone who rejects the dare is doing it out of fear.
"A man who rails at the world for not directly facing the pain and suffering in it, will always be the fool, for he fails to realize that there is also great beauty in the world." But my point-- I think the point of everything I say, do and write -- is that in the pain there is beauty, and when people run away from their pain they are running away from an opportunity to see something just as beautiful as a sunset or a flower blooming or the twinkle in a child's eye.
I ask people to transform their pain into something. These posts can be seen as rants (as I like to call them) or they can be seen as attempts to turn my own pain into something that no longer eats away at my ability to be happy. Unfortunately, I cannot be the judge of that last part-- it's up to readers to decide that, and so if I am calling people out for not commenting, it's because I await their judgment. I know they are judging me anyway, so they may as well make it of some use to me, rather than reading what I've written in with the comfort of knowing that they never have to go that far out on a limb themselves.
I am sympathetic to those who are on the bandwagon with me because it makes me-- and them-- feel like we are not alone in this. Is it preaching to the choir, or is it just solidarity? I don't know, but I do know that all comments are welcome, even the ones that hurt or annoy or confuse me.
And I do care what people think-- otherwise, why write it out for people to see? I think it's wrong to put something out there and then dismiss any feedback with the notion that I don't care what they think. They cared enough to comment (even my stalker, although his concern was malevolent) so I should be brave enough to face that. If other people cannot bear that, I understand, but then again if I said the same things to them that they said to me, their thin skins would smart and then suddenly I'm the one who's an asshole... all the while a pretense to not caring what I think is in conflict with actions that show that, indeed, they DO care what I think.
That's why I stopped commenting regularly on other people's blogs: I got tired of being solicited for my comments, only to be set up as some straw man for the amusement of people I probably haven't even met.
"I would say that your intense sense of unhappiness and your indignance over lack of comments stems from a desire for attention. Which stems from a deep down lack of self-love. If you really love yourself, you no longer need to look to others for approval or disapproval to validate yourself." I agree with the first part, but if I no longer need approval from others, then I no longer need to write, create, or express myself in any way. And that's a lousy trade, because even if no one ever commented on my blog ever again, I'd still keep blogging and writing. Whether or not I ever find self-love is irrelevant; I'd go so far to say that the day I find self-love is the day my writing becomes ordinary, boring, and uninteresting, in which case I'd deserve to not receive comments.
The ironic part is that I'd probably get more comments if I were happy to write mediocre blogs.
This has all been fine and dandy, and I'm not being sarcastic. This is what it's all about, people. Why blog if you don't care what your audience wants? To me, that shows a lack of empathy for all those people out there who find some sort of relief or solace in my words, even when I'm being a curmudgeon.
Above all, I want to empathize, because I know what it's like to read something, be touched by it, and want to communicate my feelings towards it. I try not to cut people down or argue as much as I used to in this blog (which is why I deleted the old one, among other reasons) and yet even if I try to flatter people in this blog I end up pissing them off somehow.
It's a no-win situation, but the redeeming factor is that I don't care if I win. I'm not writing to win anything, and that is the sole instance where I do not care what others think. But at the same time I cannot summarily dismiss the opinions of others, because I'm not just writing this for myself.
Can't you see that I'm trying to save the world?
Maybe that's the foolish part. But that part never changes for me.
If I call my readers cowards, it's because I don't want them to be afraid. If they're OK with being afraid, then they should own it. But it's never glamorous to admit something like that... and yet, I am always doing that. I have no problem with admitting my faults or airing out my dirty laundry in public.
I guess I just get a little sore sometimes when people who cannot admit their own fear while I'm up here admitting mine. They have no obligation to do it-- it's their choice, once again. But for me, I feel like I have no choice: this is what I do. It's pathetic, and it's sad, and I don't get paid for it, but it's what I do.
And what's more, I care what people think, because I'm not writing this for automatons or pets. I'm writing this for people: good people, bad people, selfish people, confused people... they are all welcome here.
Thanks for the comments, people. You know, if I got more of them, I'd write more things along these lines.
*/*
On a seemingly unrelated note, this is what MSNBC's Keith Olbermann had to say in response to Donald "Rummy the Dummy" Rumsfeld's statement that war protestors are akin to fascists:
The man who sees absolutes, where all other men see nuances and shades of meaning, is either a prophet, or a quack.
Donald S. Rumsfeld is not a prophet.
Mr. Rumsfeld’s remarkable comments to the Veterans of Foreign Wars yesterday demand the deep analysis - and the sober contemplation - of every American.
For they do not merely serve to impugn the morality or intelligence - indeed, the loyalty — of the majority of Americans who oppose the transient occupants of the highest offices in the land; Worse, still, they credit those same transient occupants - our employees — with a total omniscience; a total omniscience which neither common sense, nor this administration’s track record at home or abroad, suggests they deserve.
Dissent and disagreement with government is the life’s blood of human freedom; And not merely because it is the first roadblock against the kind of tyranny the men Mr. Rumsfeld likes to think of as "his" troops still fight, this very evening, in Iraq.
It is also essential. Because just every once in a while… it is right — and the power to which it speaks, is wrong.
In a small irony, however, Mr. Rumsfeld’s speechwriter was adroit in invoking the memory of the appeasement of the Nazis. For, in their time, there was another government faced with true peril - with a growing evil - powerful and remorseless.
That government, like Mr. Rumsfeld’s, had a monopoly on all the facts. It, too, had the secret information. It alone had the true picture of the threat. It too dismissed and insulted its critics in terms like Mr. Rumsfeld’s - questioning their intellect and their morality.
That government was England’s, in the 1930’s.
It knew Hitler posed no true threat to Europe, let alone England.
It knew Germany was not re-arming, in violation of all treaties and accords.
It knew that the hard evidence it received, which contradicted policies, conclusions - and omniscience — needed to be dismissed.
The English government of Neville Chamberlain already knew the truth.
Most relevant of all - it "knew" that its staunchest critics needed to be marginalized and isolated. In fact, it portrayed the foremost of them as a blood-thirsty war-monger who was, if not truly senile - at best… morally or intellectually confused.
That critic’s name… was Winston Churchill.
Sadly, we have no Winston Churchills evident among us this evening. We have only Donald Rumsfelds, demonizing disagreement, the way Neville Chamberlain demonized Winston Churchill.
History - and 163 million pounds of Luftwaffe bombs over England - taught us that all Mr. Chamberlain had was his certainty - and his own confusion. A confusion that suggested that the office can not only make the man, but that the office can also make the facts.
Thus did Mr. Rumsfeld make an apt historical analogy.
Excepting the fact that he has the battery plugged in backwards.
His government, absolute - and exclusive - in its knowledge, is not the modern version of the one which stood up to the Nazis. It is the modern version of the government… of Neville Chamberlain.
But back to today’s Omniscients.
That about which Mr. Rumsfeld is confused… is simply this:
This is a Democracy. Still. Sometimes just barely. And as such, all voices count — not just his. Had he or his President perhaps proven any of their prior claims of omniscience - about Osama Bin Laden’s plans five years ago - about Saddam Hussein’s weapons four years ago - about Hurricane Katrina’s impact one* year ago - we all might be able to swallow hard, and accept their omniscience as a bearable, even useful recipe, of fact, plus ego.
But, to date, this government has proved little besides its own arrogance, and its own hubris.
Mr. Rumsfeld is also personally confused, morally or intellectually, about his own standing in this matter. From Iraq to Katrina, to the entire "Fog of Fear" which continues to envelope this nation - he, Mr. Bush, Mr. Cheney, and their cronies, have - inadvertently or intentionally - profited and benefited, both personally, and politically.
And yet he can stand up, in public, and question the morality and the intellect of those of us who dare ask just for the receipt for the Emperor’s New Clothes.
In what country was Mr. Rumsfeld raised?
As a child, of whose heroism did he read?
On what side of the battle for freedom did he dream one day to fight?
With what country has he confused… the United States of America?
The confusion we — as its citizens - must now address, is stark and forbidding. But variations of it have faced our forefathers, when men like Nixon and McCarthy and Curtis LeMay have darkened our skies and obscured our flag. Note - with hope in your heart - that those earlier Americans always found their way to the light… and we can, too.
The confusion is about whether this Secretary of Defense, and this Administration, are in fact now accomplishing what they claim the terrorists seek: The destruction of our freedoms, the very ones for which the same veterans Mr. Rumsfeld addressed yesterday in Salt Lake City, so valiantly fought.
And about Mr. Rumsfeld’s other main assertion, that this country faces a "new type of fascism."
As he was correct to remind us how a government that knew everything could get everything wrong, so too was he right when he said that — though probably not in the way he thought he meant it.
This country faces a new type of fascism - indeed.
Although I presumptuously use his sign-off each night, in feeble tribute… I have utterly no claim to the words of the exemplary journalist Edward R. Murrow.
But never in the trial of a thousand years of writing could I come close to matching how he phrased a warning to an earlier generation of us, at a time when other politicians thought they (and they alone) knew everything, and branded those who disagreed, "confused" or "immoral."
Thus forgive me for reading Murrow in full:
"We must not confuse dissent with disloyalty," he said, in 1954.
"We must remember always that accusation is not proof, and that conviction depends upon evidence and due process of law.
"We will not walk in fear - one, of another. We will not be driven by fear into an age of un-reason, if we dig deep in our history and our doctrine, and remember that we are not descended from fearful men; Not from men who feared to write, to speak, to associate, and to defend causes that were - for the moment - unpopular."
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
extremes
What's the point of writing this if none of you comment?
I've been over this countless times in this blog, but it's been a while since I ranted about the lack of comments so I guess I was overdue.
But seriously: Why is everyone else around me so chickenshit?
Why does everyone cling to the sure-fire thing? Remember what it was like to take risk? Remember how great you felt when you threw all caution to the wind and followed your heart?
Nowadays, people smother their dreams like stillborn children. It's safer to be in secure relationships and dead-end jobs than to actually go out on a limb and try something new. It's preferable for people to bury their heads in the sand like so many ostriches hiding away from the big, bad world.
I feel like I'm the only one out here giving it a shot. I know that I can't possibly be alone in my contempt for the safe path. And yet, I see no support, I meet no like-minded souls along the way-- they all gave up and decided they were going to stay in that fabled middle ground, that grey area of body and mind where everything freezes and nothing progresses.
Because everyone around me is so middle-of-the-road, it automatically casts me as a man of extremes. But I'm not. I don't see the world in black-and-white terms, despite what people who claim to know me well have to say.
I have been in the grey area, the middle ground, and it sucks. It's a prison. It's spiritual death. My soul is restless, and I wish that I was mundane and "normal". I wish I was better at kissing ass and being cuddly than I am at being provocative and obnoxious... but I was not born with that ability.
Even this job I hold, the one that I claim I am just doing for the money: I know nothing about this field of work. That's a huge risk to take, to throw yourself into a whole new world with no real compass or guide. There is no reassurance, there is no guarantee that it will work for me, and yet here I am.
I must be an idiot, or a madman, or a fool, because obviously everyone else thinks so. Everyone else looks at me like I'm a lunatic because I refuse to throw in the towel. They probably think, "Poor kid, so much to prove..." but the only thing I have to prove is that all of you are cowards.
Yes, I said it. Cowards.
Not that I'm any braver. It's just that I am sick and tired of being left out to dry by people who want to live vicariously through me. Fuck you if you can't walk the walk with me or go the full distance with me at your side. Do I inspire that much bad faith?
I guess so.
Go ahead, live your numb lives, wrap that suffocating cocoon around yourself ever so tight, and shut out the world, shut out the pain, anesthesize yourself to reality and its complications... I'm not having any of it.
I'll be here, ranting and raving as usual.
I've been over this countless times in this blog, but it's been a while since I ranted about the lack of comments so I guess I was overdue.
But seriously: Why is everyone else around me so chickenshit?
Why does everyone cling to the sure-fire thing? Remember what it was like to take risk? Remember how great you felt when you threw all caution to the wind and followed your heart?
Nowadays, people smother their dreams like stillborn children. It's safer to be in secure relationships and dead-end jobs than to actually go out on a limb and try something new. It's preferable for people to bury their heads in the sand like so many ostriches hiding away from the big, bad world.
I feel like I'm the only one out here giving it a shot. I know that I can't possibly be alone in my contempt for the safe path. And yet, I see no support, I meet no like-minded souls along the way-- they all gave up and decided they were going to stay in that fabled middle ground, that grey area of body and mind where everything freezes and nothing progresses.
Because everyone around me is so middle-of-the-road, it automatically casts me as a man of extremes. But I'm not. I don't see the world in black-and-white terms, despite what people who claim to know me well have to say.
I have been in the grey area, the middle ground, and it sucks. It's a prison. It's spiritual death. My soul is restless, and I wish that I was mundane and "normal". I wish I was better at kissing ass and being cuddly than I am at being provocative and obnoxious... but I was not born with that ability.
Even this job I hold, the one that I claim I am just doing for the money: I know nothing about this field of work. That's a huge risk to take, to throw yourself into a whole new world with no real compass or guide. There is no reassurance, there is no guarantee that it will work for me, and yet here I am.
I must be an idiot, or a madman, or a fool, because obviously everyone else thinks so. Everyone else looks at me like I'm a lunatic because I refuse to throw in the towel. They probably think, "Poor kid, so much to prove..." but the only thing I have to prove is that all of you are cowards.
Yes, I said it. Cowards.
Not that I'm any braver. It's just that I am sick and tired of being left out to dry by people who want to live vicariously through me. Fuck you if you can't walk the walk with me or go the full distance with me at your side. Do I inspire that much bad faith?
I guess so.
Go ahead, live your numb lives, wrap that suffocating cocoon around yourself ever so tight, and shut out the world, shut out the pain, anesthesize yourself to reality and its complications... I'm not having any of it.
I'll be here, ranting and raving as usual.
Monday, August 28, 2006
end week, day and night
Friday: conversation with an old friend, he says that he has to 'clip' a buddy, one that I never cared for, one with whom I saw Trouble coming as if standing on RR tracks and waiting for the train to barrel towards us...
I slept a splendid sleep, immersed deep in the waters of REMembrance, shallow details clouding and muddying the pond at the back of my skull...
Saturday: travels with new friends, art-obsessed ladies with eyes full of stars and minds ablaze with the fire of Meaning, a trip to the museum to encounter greatness, to bask in cold shadows cast long and forlorn, to sup and dine on literature and deli dishes, to sing songs and tap toes impatiently waiting for traffic lights to transform...
A feast with the family, a tribute to my younger sibling, she of motherhood and sisterhood and good grace and crazy luck, fine meals and lively talks punctuated by laughter and the unspoken psychic satellites of the bloodline...
Sunday: music alive in my abode as I dust away the debris of hard living, making way for the return of Autumn, tending to neglected chores and spent projects in need of rejuvenation...
Treading uneven paths to The Bowl, to behold pressure points of the planet mid-performance, assembled outdoors to pry open closed ears, to pound away on latent eardrums, and all in all there was Romance and Anger and Satisfaction and hands clapping, eyes drawn to the stage, ears pricked awake by the organzied cacophony of modern sounds...
...and now it is Monday.
I slept a splendid sleep, immersed deep in the waters of REMembrance, shallow details clouding and muddying the pond at the back of my skull...
Saturday: travels with new friends, art-obsessed ladies with eyes full of stars and minds ablaze with the fire of Meaning, a trip to the museum to encounter greatness, to bask in cold shadows cast long and forlorn, to sup and dine on literature and deli dishes, to sing songs and tap toes impatiently waiting for traffic lights to transform...
A feast with the family, a tribute to my younger sibling, she of motherhood and sisterhood and good grace and crazy luck, fine meals and lively talks punctuated by laughter and the unspoken psychic satellites of the bloodline...
Sunday: music alive in my abode as I dust away the debris of hard living, making way for the return of Autumn, tending to neglected chores and spent projects in need of rejuvenation...
Treading uneven paths to The Bowl, to behold pressure points of the planet mid-performance, assembled outdoors to pry open closed ears, to pound away on latent eardrums, and all in all there was Romance and Anger and Satisfaction and hands clapping, eyes drawn to the stage, ears pricked awake by the organzied cacophony of modern sounds...
...and now it is Monday.
Friday, August 25, 2006
"august"
I said August is all that I know
It’s with me wherever I go
It’s with me when I need a friend
It brings me good weather
It keeps me together
It picks me up when I’m down
Good evenings I love you I do
I share all my dinings with you
But I can’t help but wondering why
You are so good to me
You do good things for me
You pick me up when I’m down
--Arthur Lee (March 7, 1945 - August 3, 2006)
It’s with me wherever I go
It’s with me when I need a friend
It brings me good weather
It keeps me together
It picks me up when I’m down
Good evenings I love you I do
I share all my dinings with you
But I can’t help but wondering why
You are so good to me
You do good things for me
You pick me up when I’m down
--Arthur Lee (March 7, 1945 - August 3, 2006)
clarification
I'm not saying 'goodbye' to the blog.
It's just that the personal writing has been picking up lately. It began with some fits and starts but now I am in the process of writing for myself regularly again, making the blog excursions less intimate but still a necessary boon to my sanity, which is questionable at best.
Neptune is in Aquarius, along with Saturn and Uranus. This causes some crazy cosmic commotion thingy that shatters illusions and breaks new ground. I guess the last time there was a trifecta with the three aforementioned planets was in 1989, when the Berlin Wall came down and the protests in Tianamen Square were all the rage.
I guess things are going to get interesting around here very soon, and I want to be prepared.
I started running again, for at least 20 minutes a day. At first I was running with Daniel, but he threw out his back and now I'm reduced to running solo. It's not as fun but at least the initial runs with Daniel got me motivated to continue. I thought I would need to quit smoking but instead I find that I am just smoking less, and I'm not coughing up nasty phlegm in the mornings anymore.
I've reduced my pot-smoking to tolerable levels. However, I still like it. I have always entertained the notion of eating it instead of smoking it, but that remains to be seen.
I am addicted to Vitamin Water... I mean, like, ADDICTED. It's soooo good. I was never the type for super-sugary Kool-Aid or fruit punch-- I always watered my shit down because it tasted better. Now it's been bottled for me with plenty o' vitamins and only 13 grams of sugar, which is nothing compared to the average can of Coke.
Speaking of coke, I haven't done it in a while. That's another good thing too.
I am eating healthier, but I still love an occasional burger-and-fries combo from In-N-Out. I think the exercise-- coupled with the yoga and the power walks --is more important than what I am eating, because I had a terrible diet for years and only recently started having problems keeping the weight off.
These damned cushy jobs, corrupting my carriage and making me doughy and soft... I need to move, to walk around, lug equipment, jump around on stage, like the other night where I played in both of my bands in Los Feliz. I wasn't nervous at all, but to be honest I didn't really get warmed up until the second set.
I've been drawing stuff too. In addition to the web comic I am developing very soon, I found something that changed my whole view on comic strips in general: SCAN by Scott Bateman, a political cartoonist with a unique and novel approach to comic-book narratives. I found this book (or rather it found me) at Daniel and Laurie's apartment in the pool area while we were barbecuing last weekend-- someone was throwing it out.
And of course, the novel is steadily moseying along like some fattened turtle ready to spew eggs into the beach shore. Laurie footnoted the fuck out of Book I, and I am in the process of deciphering the dense code of Book II. I say 'dense code' because the original file was saved to floppy disk (!) in an old obsolete Microsoft program, and the data transfer converted some of it into a Matrix-style html jumble.
Finally, I bought an acoustic guitar with electric pick-ups from Ellen, whom I will not be playing with again. I just cannot support her anymore. I did it all as a favor to Holly, but Holly is gone and she isn't coming back. Ellen's music is bland and mediocre, and I figure that I can do a better job writing stuff for my own music rather than helping someone who doesn't have a clue.
That's what I meant by the New Start: I have accidentally concocted a life for myself. The new job helps me finance these endeavors, and I am making progress.
So, with all this creativity going on, why am I still totally unhappy?
*/*
My horoscope, when mentioning the Neptune-Saturn-Uranus connection, asked me to think about where I was and what I was doing around this time in 1989.
I know exactly where I was and what I was doing: I had just graduated from the 9th grade and was going into my sophomore year, which also happened to be my first year of high school.
My hair was long and matted, and my attitude was just as ratty. I showed up at the high school orientation with disdain in my heart. I was going to re-invent myself as the poet Fabian Rourke, the hyper-critical super-intellectual bad-boy of the Magnet school set.
I said 'goodbye' to all of my middle school friends. A few of them had come along with me to the Humanities curriculum but I was going to strike out on my own. I had no classes with any of my past acquaintances, and I was determined to start anew.
I did.
What's funny is that I didn't need my horoscope to force me to look back on that depressing, transitional year. I always look back on those days as a reference point. The novel I am completing is firmly rooted in the midst of those days.
But now I look at it with a different perspective, because back then I didn't realize that there were cosmic forces at work, determining which paths would be available to me. I don't believe in astrology so much as I defer to it, thinking that there is maybe a bit of relevance left in the near-dead pseudo-science. I don't think you can forecast anything with any degree of accuracy, but the personality types are always dead-on, and I just like the idea that the systems of the universe cut through the force of gravity and influence our behavior right here on this green planet.
I am knee-deep in serendipities, culminating in an explanation I gave to two friends of mine yesterday. I told them that I see signs everywhere, pointing to different themes and thoughts and expressions and concepts in my mind. Over the course of a few days I make mental notes of the events of my life with these imaginary projections emphasized for dramatic effect; those eventually turn into stories and poems and blog entries for me.
I see life as a story waiting to be told, unfolding in front of me, and only I have the clarity and presence of mind to tap into the moment and draw the narratives out of thin air.
*/*
This opportunity to refresh the internet browser of my existence has me excited, and although I am not happy at least I know I am in a position to achieve it on my own.
I have been shunning old friends, reaching out to new faces. I have spent a lot of time in the past five months trapped inside my head, held hostage my emotions and heartaches, tied to the stake of my own personal baggage.
I couldn't talk to anyone about it. No one was there that I could trust with it. No one wanted to hear it, because they have their own problems to attend to, just like 17 years ago, when my peers couldn't understand why I was taking my parents' divorce so badly... the difference now is that I am older and less helpless-- I can do something about it. I don't have to retreat into my own head and try to escape. I can be up front about it right in the open, without fear.
I endure.
I don't need to be judged, forgiven, or pitied. I just need to keep doing what I do. I may not be happy, but that's because I know that true happiness is hard work-- it doesn't come easy. If it seems too good to be true, then it is.
And yet, for all my misery and unhappiness, I am having fun at the same time. A contradiction? No, because the fun is to keep me from thinking about my unhappiness. Dwelling on the pain, trying to explain it, attempting to rationally analyze it... that's counter-productive. It's only when the gig is over, or when the night has ended and everyone is ready to go home and sleep it off, it's during those moments when I am suddenly confronted by my monstrous double, my evil twin, the dark side of my soul.
I sit and dine with the Devil every day, and he is lousy company. I'd rather be out and about, chasing dreams and making an ass of myself. It beats feeling defeated and lost. It beats settling for less. It beats the false promise of comfort or the dead isolation of the modern couple.
At least for now, it beats all else.
Have a nice weekend.
It's just that the personal writing has been picking up lately. It began with some fits and starts but now I am in the process of writing for myself regularly again, making the blog excursions less intimate but still a necessary boon to my sanity, which is questionable at best.
Neptune is in Aquarius, along with Saturn and Uranus. This causes some crazy cosmic commotion thingy that shatters illusions and breaks new ground. I guess the last time there was a trifecta with the three aforementioned planets was in 1989, when the Berlin Wall came down and the protests in Tianamen Square were all the rage.
I guess things are going to get interesting around here very soon, and I want to be prepared.
I started running again, for at least 20 minutes a day. At first I was running with Daniel, but he threw out his back and now I'm reduced to running solo. It's not as fun but at least the initial runs with Daniel got me motivated to continue. I thought I would need to quit smoking but instead I find that I am just smoking less, and I'm not coughing up nasty phlegm in the mornings anymore.
I've reduced my pot-smoking to tolerable levels. However, I still like it. I have always entertained the notion of eating it instead of smoking it, but that remains to be seen.
I am addicted to Vitamin Water... I mean, like, ADDICTED. It's soooo good. I was never the type for super-sugary Kool-Aid or fruit punch-- I always watered my shit down because it tasted better. Now it's been bottled for me with plenty o' vitamins and only 13 grams of sugar, which is nothing compared to the average can of Coke.
Speaking of coke, I haven't done it in a while. That's another good thing too.
I am eating healthier, but I still love an occasional burger-and-fries combo from In-N-Out. I think the exercise-- coupled with the yoga and the power walks --is more important than what I am eating, because I had a terrible diet for years and only recently started having problems keeping the weight off.
These damned cushy jobs, corrupting my carriage and making me doughy and soft... I need to move, to walk around, lug equipment, jump around on stage, like the other night where I played in both of my bands in Los Feliz. I wasn't nervous at all, but to be honest I didn't really get warmed up until the second set.
I've been drawing stuff too. In addition to the web comic I am developing very soon, I found something that changed my whole view on comic strips in general: SCAN by Scott Bateman, a political cartoonist with a unique and novel approach to comic-book narratives. I found this book (or rather it found me) at Daniel and Laurie's apartment in the pool area while we were barbecuing last weekend-- someone was throwing it out.
And of course, the novel is steadily moseying along like some fattened turtle ready to spew eggs into the beach shore. Laurie footnoted the fuck out of Book I, and I am in the process of deciphering the dense code of Book II. I say 'dense code' because the original file was saved to floppy disk (!) in an old obsolete Microsoft program, and the data transfer converted some of it into a Matrix-style html jumble.
Finally, I bought an acoustic guitar with electric pick-ups from Ellen, whom I will not be playing with again. I just cannot support her anymore. I did it all as a favor to Holly, but Holly is gone and she isn't coming back. Ellen's music is bland and mediocre, and I figure that I can do a better job writing stuff for my own music rather than helping someone who doesn't have a clue.
That's what I meant by the New Start: I have accidentally concocted a life for myself. The new job helps me finance these endeavors, and I am making progress.
So, with all this creativity going on, why am I still totally unhappy?
*/*
My horoscope, when mentioning the Neptune-Saturn-Uranus connection, asked me to think about where I was and what I was doing around this time in 1989.
I know exactly where I was and what I was doing: I had just graduated from the 9th grade and was going into my sophomore year, which also happened to be my first year of high school.
My hair was long and matted, and my attitude was just as ratty. I showed up at the high school orientation with disdain in my heart. I was going to re-invent myself as the poet Fabian Rourke, the hyper-critical super-intellectual bad-boy of the Magnet school set.
I said 'goodbye' to all of my middle school friends. A few of them had come along with me to the Humanities curriculum but I was going to strike out on my own. I had no classes with any of my past acquaintances, and I was determined to start anew.
I did.
What's funny is that I didn't need my horoscope to force me to look back on that depressing, transitional year. I always look back on those days as a reference point. The novel I am completing is firmly rooted in the midst of those days.
But now I look at it with a different perspective, because back then I didn't realize that there were cosmic forces at work, determining which paths would be available to me. I don't believe in astrology so much as I defer to it, thinking that there is maybe a bit of relevance left in the near-dead pseudo-science. I don't think you can forecast anything with any degree of accuracy, but the personality types are always dead-on, and I just like the idea that the systems of the universe cut through the force of gravity and influence our behavior right here on this green planet.
I am knee-deep in serendipities, culminating in an explanation I gave to two friends of mine yesterday. I told them that I see signs everywhere, pointing to different themes and thoughts and expressions and concepts in my mind. Over the course of a few days I make mental notes of the events of my life with these imaginary projections emphasized for dramatic effect; those eventually turn into stories and poems and blog entries for me.
I see life as a story waiting to be told, unfolding in front of me, and only I have the clarity and presence of mind to tap into the moment and draw the narratives out of thin air.
*/*
This opportunity to refresh the internet browser of my existence has me excited, and although I am not happy at least I know I am in a position to achieve it on my own.
I have been shunning old friends, reaching out to new faces. I have spent a lot of time in the past five months trapped inside my head, held hostage my emotions and heartaches, tied to the stake of my own personal baggage.
I couldn't talk to anyone about it. No one was there that I could trust with it. No one wanted to hear it, because they have their own problems to attend to, just like 17 years ago, when my peers couldn't understand why I was taking my parents' divorce so badly... the difference now is that I am older and less helpless-- I can do something about it. I don't have to retreat into my own head and try to escape. I can be up front about it right in the open, without fear.
I endure.
I don't need to be judged, forgiven, or pitied. I just need to keep doing what I do. I may not be happy, but that's because I know that true happiness is hard work-- it doesn't come easy. If it seems too good to be true, then it is.
And yet, for all my misery and unhappiness, I am having fun at the same time. A contradiction? No, because the fun is to keep me from thinking about my unhappiness. Dwelling on the pain, trying to explain it, attempting to rationally analyze it... that's counter-productive. It's only when the gig is over, or when the night has ended and everyone is ready to go home and sleep it off, it's during those moments when I am suddenly confronted by my monstrous double, my evil twin, the dark side of my soul.
I sit and dine with the Devil every day, and he is lousy company. I'd rather be out and about, chasing dreams and making an ass of myself. It beats feeling defeated and lost. It beats settling for less. It beats the false promise of comfort or the dead isolation of the modern couple.
At least for now, it beats all else.
Have a nice weekend.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Goodbye
Starting right now, I am going to lead a new life.
I am putting the past behind me. I am moving forward. No more dead weight.
I say 'goodbye' to the things that hold me back.
I bid farewell to the people who never understood.
This is my New Year. This is a New Age for me.
While I venture out into this New World and try to figure out a new way to live, read this article I found on a great website called The Straight Dope.
I promise I'll write.
Goodbye.
I am putting the past behind me. I am moving forward. No more dead weight.
I say 'goodbye' to the things that hold me back.
I bid farewell to the people who never understood.
This is my New Year. This is a New Age for me.
While I venture out into this New World and try to figure out a new way to live, read this article I found on a great website called The Straight Dope.
I promise I'll write.
Goodbye.
the pros and cons of invisibility
While standing in the lobby of the Matrix Theater last night I was approached by two homeless men, one African-American and one Anglo-Saxon. They walked in with a crowd of people, curious as to what was going on. They examined the lobby, with reviews of past productions on the walls and cast photos for the evening's presentation.
I sat silently, knowing no one around me. A beautiful brunette girl sat down next to me, eyelashes long and beating like hummingbird wings. People were starting to arrive and the lobby was getting full.
The black homeless man, looking like he was in his late 30s or early 40s, came up to me and asked me what was going on. I spied flecks of grey in his short natty dreads. He seemed to do all the talking for the two of them.
"Is this a play?" he asked me.
"I don't know. A friend invited me to come see her perform. '22 actors in 60 minutes'..." I pointed to the poster from whence my slogan was purloined.
"How much is it to watch?"
"It's free."
"Free?"
"Free."
"How long is it?"
"Oh, about an hour, judging from the ad."
"What's it about?"
"Not sure. I think it's scenes and sketches, mostly humorous."
There was going to be a reception after the show. I was hoping the two homeless guys, who didn't smell especially bad and were clothed decently enough, would stay and mingle with the uptight actor folk, who would never give these men the time of day if they'd been approached in the same manner.
These men were being watched by the staff. I know this because when I entered the theater to be seated, an usher asked me if I wanted to get a seat next to my 'friends'.
"But I'm here by myself," I told her.
She looked at me curiously. "Oh, I thought you were with those gentlemen over there," she said, and she pointed at the two men. The white one, a short surfer-looking guy with a Charlie Manson air to his good looks, looked back at me and smiled.
Maybe she made that assumption because I was dressed in ripped jeans. Either way, it kind of annoyed me but not enough for me to blow my stack.
I looked at her and said, "Just give me a seat please."
She sat me in the front row.
*/*
When the show was over, I went over to my friend, a tall ridiculously gorgeous black woman with whom I share not only a sweet friendship but also an impossibly hopeless chemistry. I congratulated her on her performance.
She introduced me to her scene partner, a Shannon Elizabeth look-alike with a slightly wider nose and a far greater range than her celebrity doppelganger.
There were a lot of look-alikes in the cast: One Latina actress, doing a scene from that one Matthew Perry-Salma Hayek movie, was a dead ringer for Fergie from Black-Eyed Peas; a sultry blonde who played Cybil Shepherd's Moonlighting character in her scene could be Anna Kournikova's tennis court understudy; and one particularly stunning actress (both in the looks department and in her acting skills) resembled Maggie Gyllenhaal, which is to say that she was attractive but in an extremely unconventional sense.
In addition to the look-alikes, there was one person in the crowd who really was who he looked like; unfortunately, not that many people know his name, even though they will surely know his face through the zillions of commercials he's been in over the years. Personally, I met him back at The Laugh Factory over six years ago, when he was doing stand-up. He was one of the few comics who was cool with me-- I had the unenviable task of soliciting money from comics to use their material for radio promotions. Most comics were happy to oblige, some of them were unable to due to contracts they'd signed, and still others just told me to get out of their faces.
He was one of the cool ones, but now the years have hardened him a bit. I admire the fact that he's still in the game, slugging it out, mentoring young actors and staying involved with the scene.
I didn't say anything to him, even though he knew my friend and her peers. I knew he wouldn't recognize me from all those years ago. What was I going to say? "Hey man, remember me? I used to tape your pedestrian comedy bits on DAT back in the days before you realized your calling and started doing commercials for snack foods and other household products! Glad to see you're still working!"
The Maggie Gyllenhaal look-alike kept staring at me. I could tell she was crazy-- the utter devastation of her performance on stage was one clue. Only a crazy girl could be that good at acting. Another clue was the stark gleam in her hazel eyes: usually the look of mania is accompanied by a sense that there is no one driving behind the wheel, but there was definitely something in her eyes, and it craved attention like a hungry lioness circling its prey. She passed by me three times as I stood by the far wall, engaged in small conversation with people I'd just met or just standing there by my lonesome, waiting to be pounced upon.
The Shannon Elizabeth look-alike came up to me and chatted me up for a spell.
"Has anyone ever told you..."
"That I look like Shannon Elizabeth?"
We both laughed.
"You must get that all the time, don't you?"
"Not really, but sometimes I do get it."
"You were great tonight-- the comic foil to the straight man, or in this case straight woman. How long did it take to prepare?"
"Six months."
"My God. And who found the source material?"
"I did. It was an unproduced TV movie pilot script. We thought it'd be perfect. Everyone else did popular movies or TV shows..."
"Yes, the Spider-Man sketch was quite hilarious."
"You know, I just saw that movie the other day on TV and when they started doing the dialogue tonight I was all like, 'Wow what a coinky-dinky!'"
I nodded gracefully. Bless her soul-- so squeaky and pert, so full of idealism and spunk. Will she make it in this town? She has the talent, but does she have the tenacity?
Speaking of tenacity, Maggie Gyllenhaal finally decided that she needed accolades from me. She walked right up to me and grabbed my wrist to see the time.
"Uh, my watch is slow. I'm waiting for Daylight Savings Time to go back an hour."
"Okay, so what time is it then?"
I wanted to say, "Time for you and me to go out back and get to know each other," but that one never works. So I said, "It's 9:30" and she dropped my wrist and walked past me as if to imply that time was of no importance to her.
I shrugged it off. I did not see her for the rest of the night.
They served beer and wine in addition to cheese and pastries at the reception. The homeless men were pounding down the Coronas like there was no tomorrow.
I stepped outside for a cigarette. A deliriously good-looking redhead asked me for a light. I gave her a light and walked away immediately. I didn't want to ponder it. I didn't want to find myself wondering what I was doing there.
How could I think of other women when I miss her so?
*/*
After saying farewell to my friend and her friends, I walked down Melrose towards my car. I passed a bus stop and saw the homeless guys sitting on a bench, waiting for the next bus.
"Hey guys," I called out, smiling. "How was the show? You enjoy it?"
The black guy turned around, recognized me, and smiled back. "Yes. We did. Thank you very much."
"Yeah, looks like you got some free booze out of it too, eh?" I shook their hands and warmed up to them.
The black guy then threw me for a loop by saying, "It was awesome to see creativity like that. Inspiring. Seeing niggers on the stage and not in the street. It gave me some hope, man. It made me think. Thank you."
I was moved, but of course I didn't let it show. "Come back tomorrow night-- they're doing it one more time."
"They're doing it tomorrow night too?"
"Yeah. And if you come tomorrow night, you can tell them about you coming tonight and how it made you feel. That will make them feel good, and who knows, maybe you'll meet someone who can give you even more inspiration."
They looked at me and smiled some more. "That's great. Thank you again, James. Peace be with you."
I walked off. I got halfway to my car before I realized that the black guy had called me by my first name. How did he know my name? Did he ask someone who was there who knew me? Did he overhear it when I was making conversation? Or did I tell him and simply forgot?
I got into my car and drove home, hitting a jag of traffic around the Cahuenga Pass but otherwise making great time.
I sat silently, knowing no one around me. A beautiful brunette girl sat down next to me, eyelashes long and beating like hummingbird wings. People were starting to arrive and the lobby was getting full.
The black homeless man, looking like he was in his late 30s or early 40s, came up to me and asked me what was going on. I spied flecks of grey in his short natty dreads. He seemed to do all the talking for the two of them.
"Is this a play?" he asked me.
"I don't know. A friend invited me to come see her perform. '22 actors in 60 minutes'..." I pointed to the poster from whence my slogan was purloined.
"How much is it to watch?"
"It's free."
"Free?"
"Free."
"How long is it?"
"Oh, about an hour, judging from the ad."
"What's it about?"
"Not sure. I think it's scenes and sketches, mostly humorous."
There was going to be a reception after the show. I was hoping the two homeless guys, who didn't smell especially bad and were clothed decently enough, would stay and mingle with the uptight actor folk, who would never give these men the time of day if they'd been approached in the same manner.
These men were being watched by the staff. I know this because when I entered the theater to be seated, an usher asked me if I wanted to get a seat next to my 'friends'.
"But I'm here by myself," I told her.
She looked at me curiously. "Oh, I thought you were with those gentlemen over there," she said, and she pointed at the two men. The white one, a short surfer-looking guy with a Charlie Manson air to his good looks, looked back at me and smiled.
Maybe she made that assumption because I was dressed in ripped jeans. Either way, it kind of annoyed me but not enough for me to blow my stack.
I looked at her and said, "Just give me a seat please."
She sat me in the front row.
*/*
When the show was over, I went over to my friend, a tall ridiculously gorgeous black woman with whom I share not only a sweet friendship but also an impossibly hopeless chemistry. I congratulated her on her performance.
She introduced me to her scene partner, a Shannon Elizabeth look-alike with a slightly wider nose and a far greater range than her celebrity doppelganger.
There were a lot of look-alikes in the cast: One Latina actress, doing a scene from that one Matthew Perry-Salma Hayek movie, was a dead ringer for Fergie from Black-Eyed Peas; a sultry blonde who played Cybil Shepherd's Moonlighting character in her scene could be Anna Kournikova's tennis court understudy; and one particularly stunning actress (both in the looks department and in her acting skills) resembled Maggie Gyllenhaal, which is to say that she was attractive but in an extremely unconventional sense.
In addition to the look-alikes, there was one person in the crowd who really was who he looked like; unfortunately, not that many people know his name, even though they will surely know his face through the zillions of commercials he's been in over the years. Personally, I met him back at The Laugh Factory over six years ago, when he was doing stand-up. He was one of the few comics who was cool with me-- I had the unenviable task of soliciting money from comics to use their material for radio promotions. Most comics were happy to oblige, some of them were unable to due to contracts they'd signed, and still others just told me to get out of their faces.
He was one of the cool ones, but now the years have hardened him a bit. I admire the fact that he's still in the game, slugging it out, mentoring young actors and staying involved with the scene.
I didn't say anything to him, even though he knew my friend and her peers. I knew he wouldn't recognize me from all those years ago. What was I going to say? "Hey man, remember me? I used to tape your pedestrian comedy bits on DAT back in the days before you realized your calling and started doing commercials for snack foods and other household products! Glad to see you're still working!"
The Maggie Gyllenhaal look-alike kept staring at me. I could tell she was crazy-- the utter devastation of her performance on stage was one clue. Only a crazy girl could be that good at acting. Another clue was the stark gleam in her hazel eyes: usually the look of mania is accompanied by a sense that there is no one driving behind the wheel, but there was definitely something in her eyes, and it craved attention like a hungry lioness circling its prey. She passed by me three times as I stood by the far wall, engaged in small conversation with people I'd just met or just standing there by my lonesome, waiting to be pounced upon.
The Shannon Elizabeth look-alike came up to me and chatted me up for a spell.
"Has anyone ever told you..."
"That I look like Shannon Elizabeth?"
We both laughed.
"You must get that all the time, don't you?"
"Not really, but sometimes I do get it."
"You were great tonight-- the comic foil to the straight man, or in this case straight woman. How long did it take to prepare?"
"Six months."
"My God. And who found the source material?"
"I did. It was an unproduced TV movie pilot script. We thought it'd be perfect. Everyone else did popular movies or TV shows..."
"Yes, the Spider-Man sketch was quite hilarious."
"You know, I just saw that movie the other day on TV and when they started doing the dialogue tonight I was all like, 'Wow what a coinky-dinky!'"
I nodded gracefully. Bless her soul-- so squeaky and pert, so full of idealism and spunk. Will she make it in this town? She has the talent, but does she have the tenacity?
Speaking of tenacity, Maggie Gyllenhaal finally decided that she needed accolades from me. She walked right up to me and grabbed my wrist to see the time.
"Uh, my watch is slow. I'm waiting for Daylight Savings Time to go back an hour."
"Okay, so what time is it then?"
I wanted to say, "Time for you and me to go out back and get to know each other," but that one never works. So I said, "It's 9:30" and she dropped my wrist and walked past me as if to imply that time was of no importance to her.
I shrugged it off. I did not see her for the rest of the night.
They served beer and wine in addition to cheese and pastries at the reception. The homeless men were pounding down the Coronas like there was no tomorrow.
I stepped outside for a cigarette. A deliriously good-looking redhead asked me for a light. I gave her a light and walked away immediately. I didn't want to ponder it. I didn't want to find myself wondering what I was doing there.
How could I think of other women when I miss her so?
*/*
After saying farewell to my friend and her friends, I walked down Melrose towards my car. I passed a bus stop and saw the homeless guys sitting on a bench, waiting for the next bus.
"Hey guys," I called out, smiling. "How was the show? You enjoy it?"
The black guy turned around, recognized me, and smiled back. "Yes. We did. Thank you very much."
"Yeah, looks like you got some free booze out of it too, eh?" I shook their hands and warmed up to them.
The black guy then threw me for a loop by saying, "It was awesome to see creativity like that. Inspiring. Seeing niggers on the stage and not in the street. It gave me some hope, man. It made me think. Thank you."
I was moved, but of course I didn't let it show. "Come back tomorrow night-- they're doing it one more time."
"They're doing it tomorrow night too?"
"Yeah. And if you come tomorrow night, you can tell them about you coming tonight and how it made you feel. That will make them feel good, and who knows, maybe you'll meet someone who can give you even more inspiration."
They looked at me and smiled some more. "That's great. Thank you again, James. Peace be with you."
I walked off. I got halfway to my car before I realized that the black guy had called me by my first name. How did he know my name? Did he ask someone who was there who knew me? Did he overhear it when I was making conversation? Or did I tell him and simply forgot?
I got into my car and drove home, hitting a jag of traffic around the Cahuenga Pass but otherwise making great time.
Monday, August 21, 2006
faith
Someone who reads this blog and knows me very well asked me a good question regarding my last post:
You talk about women not having faith in you. But you never state what it is that you yourself have faith in.
Well? What do YOU have faith in?
Of course, I didn't have an immediate answer. The question has never really popped into my head. I had to go to lunch, eat, smoke and deliberate on it before I could come close to having an answer.
This is what I came up with.
I have faith in the humbling of the ego. Whether it is a "higher power" (religion) or belief systems (family, friendships, trust, values, moral codes) or just a hunch that someone has regarding the unknowable, it is all a part of our human consciousness and its attempts to keep our egos in check.
Believing in God says more about the person's ego than it does about their beliefs. Most religious people are smug about their religious convictions, which is an amplification of their ego. But every now and then you meet someone who knows that all of humanity is folly, because it is predicated on mankind's inherent hubris, the belief that man is the ultimate ideal. Their belief in God stems from having lost faith in mankind.
I have always maintained that any system of beliefs that helps an individual to become a better human being is not bad at all. I'm not talking about on a mass scale-- the mob mentality is too pervasive and uncontrollable to be reckoned with in the same light as, say, my uncle's conversion to Christianity, which keeps him out of jail and places him where he belongs: in the midst of his family and loved ones.
I have a massive ego, and I'm aware of this, but it doesn't mean that I can always control the urge to put myself above all others. But rather than have faith in something like my ego, which is fallible and inconsistent, I invest my faith in knowing that the desires and wishes of my ego have little to no bearing on my overall happiness.
I indulge my ego plenty, but I have no faith in the ritual. It leaves me feeling temporarily satisfied; eventually I tire of it, and sometimes I regret the things I've said or done while my ego was running rampant.
On the other hand, the times when I humble my ego, or have my ego humbled for me... those are great moments, always welcome (even if they are occasionally painful and humiliating) and never without some sort of message or lesson to be learned.
I was going to answer the faith question by focsuing on petty things, like having faith that traffic will always be a drag on the 5, or having faith that no matter what I do I'll always be me.
Those are cop-outs. They don't really answer the question.
So what do I have faith in? I have faith in knowing that my faith will always be tested, and that sometimes I will pass and sometimes I will fail.
That's the only answer I can give in all honesty.
And now, let me ask YOU: What do YOU have faith in?
You talk about women not having faith in you. But you never state what it is that you yourself have faith in.
Well? What do YOU have faith in?
Of course, I didn't have an immediate answer. The question has never really popped into my head. I had to go to lunch, eat, smoke and deliberate on it before I could come close to having an answer.
This is what I came up with.
I have faith in the humbling of the ego. Whether it is a "higher power" (religion) or belief systems (family, friendships, trust, values, moral codes) or just a hunch that someone has regarding the unknowable, it is all a part of our human consciousness and its attempts to keep our egos in check.
Believing in God says more about the person's ego than it does about their beliefs. Most religious people are smug about their religious convictions, which is an amplification of their ego. But every now and then you meet someone who knows that all of humanity is folly, because it is predicated on mankind's inherent hubris, the belief that man is the ultimate ideal. Their belief in God stems from having lost faith in mankind.
I have always maintained that any system of beliefs that helps an individual to become a better human being is not bad at all. I'm not talking about on a mass scale-- the mob mentality is too pervasive and uncontrollable to be reckoned with in the same light as, say, my uncle's conversion to Christianity, which keeps him out of jail and places him where he belongs: in the midst of his family and loved ones.
I have a massive ego, and I'm aware of this, but it doesn't mean that I can always control the urge to put myself above all others. But rather than have faith in something like my ego, which is fallible and inconsistent, I invest my faith in knowing that the desires and wishes of my ego have little to no bearing on my overall happiness.
I indulge my ego plenty, but I have no faith in the ritual. It leaves me feeling temporarily satisfied; eventually I tire of it, and sometimes I regret the things I've said or done while my ego was running rampant.
On the other hand, the times when I humble my ego, or have my ego humbled for me... those are great moments, always welcome (even if they are occasionally painful and humiliating) and never without some sort of message or lesson to be learned.
I was going to answer the faith question by focsuing on petty things, like having faith that traffic will always be a drag on the 5, or having faith that no matter what I do I'll always be me.
Those are cop-outs. They don't really answer the question.
So what do I have faith in? I have faith in knowing that my faith will always be tested, and that sometimes I will pass and sometimes I will fail.
That's the only answer I can give in all honesty.
And now, let me ask YOU: What do YOU have faith in?
"concubines"
At the end of 1996 going into 1997, my roommate Sharky was preparing to leave to Spain for a year. He had landed a job teaching conversational English at the university where his then-girlfriend was going to spend a year studying abroad.
Sharky and I were inseparable as friends, spending most of our time together partying and acting dumb. Between him and Purple Paulie, my former bandmate, my time was occupied and tied up constantly.
But around the end of '96 I wasn't talking to Paulie all that much, and when Sharky left there was an enormous gap in my personal schedule. I soon realized that all of my friends had gone off to other cities to attend college, and that for the first time in my life I was totally alone: no roomies, no co-horts, no hangers-on, and my family all lived miles and miles away from me.
Up until that point, I had never lived on my own. I shared a room with my older brother growing up; my first apartment was a share, as well as my second apartment. And now, here I was, all by myself-- I didn't even have my cats yet!
With all this free time and nothing to do (besides working at a 9 to 5), I eventually sat down and began to write the novel that I'd been trying to write for ten years, a novel that has taken almost ten additional years to edit and arrange in a way that won't make the average reader's head swoon.
And now, thanks to the efforts of my friend Laurie, the novel is closer to completion than it has ever been.
I warned Laurie about the task I wanted her to undertake. She accepted the challenge with natural aplomb. She saw the potential for the novel to be coherent and yet still retaining the lawless nature of my writing. She has been very helpful and gracious with her time and input.
Nobody else could've done what she has done, which is to get me engaged with the material again, to have me thinking about what I wrote, why I wrote it, and what is relevant.
I don't blame anyone else for not being as involved: the novel was enormous, with an incalculable number of pages and any number of possible paths it could take. I'd had close friends read it for feedback, and their notes were invaluable, but Laurie went one further and chopped the shit out of it, breaking it down to elemental set pieces and wresting from my head the themes and main concepts of the book.
It isn't nearly finished, but I see an end in sight, and it is exciting.
*/*
I bring this up as a way of tying my latest obsession to this post.
Lately I've been going on about my own nature, and why I seek inspiration from women whether as muses or as catalysts for my passions, and although I am not much closer to knowing the answer, I think I have a good idea why I am so inclined to present my ideas to women for approval.
Women like me.
Let me get one thing clear: I didn't say they love me, or adore me. I didn't say they worship me or mythologize me or romanticize me, although I've had my share of experiences along those lines.
Women in general like me, because... well, I don't really know the 'because'... I just know that they like me, and that I am happier when they like me.
I like women, in return. I like the way they smile, the way they listen, the way the go on and on and on when I am listening. I like the way they wear their hearts on their sleeves, and I like the way they are modest when their emotions are on display.
I like their words of support when they know I am heartbroken. I like the way they do things for me, not out of necessity but out of generosity.
Don't get me wrong: there's plenty of women out there that I dislike. They are narcissistic and closed-minded, cynical and greedy, loveless and artless. The ones I dislike are clingy and shrewish and paranoid and ungrateful and bitter.
That's not to say that the women I like are perfect. Far from putting them on pedestals, I simply appreciate their kindness and their willingness to embrace the open end of infinity. They are more than just women: they are mothers, daughters, sisters and lovers, confidants and debutantes, and no matter what kind of relationship I have with them-- carnal or platonic or simply indefinable --I am always rewarded.
Of course, sometimes these same women whom I entrust with my heart and ideals infuriate me. They make me mad with their insane decisions, their deep-rooted insecurities, their stubborn pride and unwillingness to see certain things my way. But that's part of their appeal, after all, and maybe therein lies a clue as to what they like about me: I can be frank and open with them in a way that I cannot be with my male friends.
They sense this, and it draws them to me.
How else to explain what has become an annual phenomenon, where I go for long stretches of isolation and introspection, only to emerge from my hermitage with a score of ladies at the end of the tunnel, wishing me well and urging me to trudge forward, despite the heartaches and pangs of searching for love in the Waste Land of modern life?
This past weekend, I received phone calls, e-mails, and messages from all sorts of women who just wanted to let me know they were alive and thinking of me. This has been reassuring to say the least, because I haven't felt loved or wanted as of late.
Even someone like Eve, who has moved on and is working on her own personal boy-toy, took the time to drop me a line. Granted, I don't really want to hear from her right now, but it's nice to know that I still have a place in her heart, albeit a marginalized, trivial spot that is a mere fraction of what I once occupied.
Ironically, Eve was not cool with the prospect of my having a bunch of "emotional concubines"-- it ate at her deepest fears and caused her grief. She told me recently that I would have to give them up if I ever wanted to have a serious relationship with anyone.
That's proof of her doubts, her lack of faith. Any woman who knows me well also knows that I am a one-woman man. It's not my fault if my past girlfriends were too insecure to notice the fact that, although I may have a lot of female friends, my heart can only devote 100% of its romantic faculties to one woman.
The woman for me will be strong enough to know where my heart's devotion lies. She will be loyal to me, and I to her.
*/*
I started writing the novel back in '96-'97, when Amy (the female lead in my novel) had given me the heave-ho: she told me that she hated me and that we could never be friends again, and instructed me to never call her again. And she meant it-- even when I sent her a Christmas card the following month, she called me back to bitch me out and maintain the distance between us.
It bears noting that she did this at a time when she had found the man of her dreams, the one she was going to marry and have children with, and I knew it, and it made me so angry and I felt so defeated, like she was winning some sort of battle that had always been waged between us. She used the comfort of her newfound love to kick me in the groin, when I needed her the most.
My soul crushed, I used the pain as the impetus for the novel. I thought it was going to end up being one of those revenge-type of novels, where I get even with her for all the bullshit she put me through.
Friends who read excerpts of my novel at the time knew the score: they always wondered why I spent so much time trying to make Amy like me, when it was obvious that she treated me like dirt and made me sad. Out of respect for me, they often held their tongues when it came to how they honestly felt about her, so when I started venting about it they were all too eager to let me know what they felt.
Years passed. The novel grew. I'd made a whole new set of friends. I'd traveled on my own, had new adventures and met all sorts of beautiful women. I was making good money at a respectable job, lived in a comfortable apartment in Sherman Oaks, and began to play music again.
I came home one day, and there was a letter from Amy Coates in my mailbox. By that time, she'd been in her relationship for about three years and was well on her way to domestic oblivion, which is what she had always wanted (even when she used to claim to be a feminist, I always knew she would settle for marriage and motherhood at the drop of a dime).
The letter was typical Amy: she turned the situation around to make it seem like I was the one who stopped calling. She tried to maneuver it in a way to where I was the one who needed to apologize, and that I was the one who ruined this great bond we supposedly had.
To add insult to injury, she offered an olive branch to me in the most condescending manner possible: "If you don't want to be my friend anymore, then don't respond. I'll take your silence to mean we are done, and that will be the end of one of the most rewarding yet disappointing friendships I have ever had."
Normally, this kind of thing from Amy would've caused steam to rapidly escape from my ears. But time had passed, and I had some perspective on the whole thing. And I realized that I had wasted a lot of time on a woman who would never accept me for who I am.
I was also struggling to find an ending for my novel, and when the letter came I instantly knew that this was the way to end it.
So I wrote her back, and in my lengthy letter I put forth to her my realization that even as she claimed to love me, her actions belied different motivations. I told her that she never made me feel like she even liked me, and that was far more important than whether or not we were 'soul mates' or what have you.
It put the ball in her court, but it also forced her to recognize what she'd done to me over the years. She panicked, and called me up on the phone immediately. We talked for hours, and although we made up as friends, I never saw her again.
Shortly after that conversation, she and her man set a wedding date. They were married the week after 9/11.
*/*
Around the time that I forgave my father, I decided to write an e-mail to Amy Coates.
As documented in this blog, she and I were supposed to meet earlier this year. I flaked on her, partly because Eve showed up at my office minutes before I was supposed to see her, and partly because I was afraid to see Amy again.
Amy was not amused. For a moment, I was thrilled at the idea of standing her up. It served her right, no? All those years of keeping me at arm's length, making me feel like I had to earn her love...
But when I forgave my father, I also decided to apologize to her for leaving her hanging in front of P.F. Chang's, in the freezing cold. So I e-mailed her and said what I had to say. And she wrote me back and wondered why I just didn't come out and say it. And I replied that I just had 'cold feet' and couldn't face her knowing that she was married with a kid.
And that was it.
As far as I am concerned, even though she lives on in my novel, she and I are finally through. It is over. It has been over for almost ten years. And with it go the doubts and fears she instilled in me. I never have to feel like I have something to prove to her ever again.
It is liberating, especially when coupled with the affection bestowed upon me by women who actually do like me, who think I am a nice person and want to hear what I have to say, even if I am wrong or obstinate or closed-minded.
They have faith in me, and I don't want to let them down.
Amy never had faith in me. If I had somehow struck it rich or became successful overnight, then she would've wanted to be with me. But I would've known the truth, because for all of her talents Amy Coates was also as transparent as a panel of glass, and maybe that's what she resented about me. She could never fool me the way she could fool other men, who were too stupid or self-involved to see what she was really doing to them.
I feel sorry for her husband. He is a good man, and I guarantee you that, though he may love her, she will hurt him far worse than she ever hurt me. Out of all her past suitors, I'm the only one who actually has stories about making Amy Coates pay for her numerous sins. I was the only one who ever called her on her bullshit.
Who knows? Maybe she has changed. I think she has mellowed out some, with the birth of her baby and all. But she remains the same to me, mainly because she is immortalized in my novel, set in stone, unwilling to conform to the changes and ravages of time.
I will always remember her as that fucking bitch that I was so madly in love with, and it serves as a reminder to me, to never fall prey to that kind of abuse again.
As I finish up the novel and reflect upon these things, I know that I will probably make the same mistakes again. But at least I know how to deal with them, and I know now that all I have to do is weather the initial storm and I'll find a way out of it. And when I do, there will be people waiting for me on the other side, people who care and understand and sympathize.
I guess it's called "growing up" and I'm doing it at an accelerated pace, to make up for all the time I lost, all the time wasted on people less deserving than Amy Coates.
I'm beginning to see the light, and it is so bright that I have to close my eyes and visualize inside of my head.
And I'm cool with that.
Sharky and I were inseparable as friends, spending most of our time together partying and acting dumb. Between him and Purple Paulie, my former bandmate, my time was occupied and tied up constantly.
But around the end of '96 I wasn't talking to Paulie all that much, and when Sharky left there was an enormous gap in my personal schedule. I soon realized that all of my friends had gone off to other cities to attend college, and that for the first time in my life I was totally alone: no roomies, no co-horts, no hangers-on, and my family all lived miles and miles away from me.
Up until that point, I had never lived on my own. I shared a room with my older brother growing up; my first apartment was a share, as well as my second apartment. And now, here I was, all by myself-- I didn't even have my cats yet!
With all this free time and nothing to do (besides working at a 9 to 5), I eventually sat down and began to write the novel that I'd been trying to write for ten years, a novel that has taken almost ten additional years to edit and arrange in a way that won't make the average reader's head swoon.
And now, thanks to the efforts of my friend Laurie, the novel is closer to completion than it has ever been.
I warned Laurie about the task I wanted her to undertake. She accepted the challenge with natural aplomb. She saw the potential for the novel to be coherent and yet still retaining the lawless nature of my writing. She has been very helpful and gracious with her time and input.
Nobody else could've done what she has done, which is to get me engaged with the material again, to have me thinking about what I wrote, why I wrote it, and what is relevant.
I don't blame anyone else for not being as involved: the novel was enormous, with an incalculable number of pages and any number of possible paths it could take. I'd had close friends read it for feedback, and their notes were invaluable, but Laurie went one further and chopped the shit out of it, breaking it down to elemental set pieces and wresting from my head the themes and main concepts of the book.
It isn't nearly finished, but I see an end in sight, and it is exciting.
*/*
I bring this up as a way of tying my latest obsession to this post.
Lately I've been going on about my own nature, and why I seek inspiration from women whether as muses or as catalysts for my passions, and although I am not much closer to knowing the answer, I think I have a good idea why I am so inclined to present my ideas to women for approval.
Women like me.
Let me get one thing clear: I didn't say they love me, or adore me. I didn't say they worship me or mythologize me or romanticize me, although I've had my share of experiences along those lines.
Women in general like me, because... well, I don't really know the 'because'... I just know that they like me, and that I am happier when they like me.
I like women, in return. I like the way they smile, the way they listen, the way the go on and on and on when I am listening. I like the way they wear their hearts on their sleeves, and I like the way they are modest when their emotions are on display.
I like their words of support when they know I am heartbroken. I like the way they do things for me, not out of necessity but out of generosity.
Don't get me wrong: there's plenty of women out there that I dislike. They are narcissistic and closed-minded, cynical and greedy, loveless and artless. The ones I dislike are clingy and shrewish and paranoid and ungrateful and bitter.
That's not to say that the women I like are perfect. Far from putting them on pedestals, I simply appreciate their kindness and their willingness to embrace the open end of infinity. They are more than just women: they are mothers, daughters, sisters and lovers, confidants and debutantes, and no matter what kind of relationship I have with them-- carnal or platonic or simply indefinable --I am always rewarded.
Of course, sometimes these same women whom I entrust with my heart and ideals infuriate me. They make me mad with their insane decisions, their deep-rooted insecurities, their stubborn pride and unwillingness to see certain things my way. But that's part of their appeal, after all, and maybe therein lies a clue as to what they like about me: I can be frank and open with them in a way that I cannot be with my male friends.
They sense this, and it draws them to me.
How else to explain what has become an annual phenomenon, where I go for long stretches of isolation and introspection, only to emerge from my hermitage with a score of ladies at the end of the tunnel, wishing me well and urging me to trudge forward, despite the heartaches and pangs of searching for love in the Waste Land of modern life?
This past weekend, I received phone calls, e-mails, and messages from all sorts of women who just wanted to let me know they were alive and thinking of me. This has been reassuring to say the least, because I haven't felt loved or wanted as of late.
Even someone like Eve, who has moved on and is working on her own personal boy-toy, took the time to drop me a line. Granted, I don't really want to hear from her right now, but it's nice to know that I still have a place in her heart, albeit a marginalized, trivial spot that is a mere fraction of what I once occupied.
Ironically, Eve was not cool with the prospect of my having a bunch of "emotional concubines"-- it ate at her deepest fears and caused her grief. She told me recently that I would have to give them up if I ever wanted to have a serious relationship with anyone.
That's proof of her doubts, her lack of faith. Any woman who knows me well also knows that I am a one-woman man. It's not my fault if my past girlfriends were too insecure to notice the fact that, although I may have a lot of female friends, my heart can only devote 100% of its romantic faculties to one woman.
The woman for me will be strong enough to know where my heart's devotion lies. She will be loyal to me, and I to her.
*/*
I started writing the novel back in '96-'97, when Amy (the female lead in my novel) had given me the heave-ho: she told me that she hated me and that we could never be friends again, and instructed me to never call her again. And she meant it-- even when I sent her a Christmas card the following month, she called me back to bitch me out and maintain the distance between us.
It bears noting that she did this at a time when she had found the man of her dreams, the one she was going to marry and have children with, and I knew it, and it made me so angry and I felt so defeated, like she was winning some sort of battle that had always been waged between us. She used the comfort of her newfound love to kick me in the groin, when I needed her the most.
My soul crushed, I used the pain as the impetus for the novel. I thought it was going to end up being one of those revenge-type of novels, where I get even with her for all the bullshit she put me through.
Friends who read excerpts of my novel at the time knew the score: they always wondered why I spent so much time trying to make Amy like me, when it was obvious that she treated me like dirt and made me sad. Out of respect for me, they often held their tongues when it came to how they honestly felt about her, so when I started venting about it they were all too eager to let me know what they felt.
Years passed. The novel grew. I'd made a whole new set of friends. I'd traveled on my own, had new adventures and met all sorts of beautiful women. I was making good money at a respectable job, lived in a comfortable apartment in Sherman Oaks, and began to play music again.
I came home one day, and there was a letter from Amy Coates in my mailbox. By that time, she'd been in her relationship for about three years and was well on her way to domestic oblivion, which is what she had always wanted (even when she used to claim to be a feminist, I always knew she would settle for marriage and motherhood at the drop of a dime).
The letter was typical Amy: she turned the situation around to make it seem like I was the one who stopped calling. She tried to maneuver it in a way to where I was the one who needed to apologize, and that I was the one who ruined this great bond we supposedly had.
To add insult to injury, she offered an olive branch to me in the most condescending manner possible: "If you don't want to be my friend anymore, then don't respond. I'll take your silence to mean we are done, and that will be the end of one of the most rewarding yet disappointing friendships I have ever had."
Normally, this kind of thing from Amy would've caused steam to rapidly escape from my ears. But time had passed, and I had some perspective on the whole thing. And I realized that I had wasted a lot of time on a woman who would never accept me for who I am.
I was also struggling to find an ending for my novel, and when the letter came I instantly knew that this was the way to end it.
So I wrote her back, and in my lengthy letter I put forth to her my realization that even as she claimed to love me, her actions belied different motivations. I told her that she never made me feel like she even liked me, and that was far more important than whether or not we were 'soul mates' or what have you.
It put the ball in her court, but it also forced her to recognize what she'd done to me over the years. She panicked, and called me up on the phone immediately. We talked for hours, and although we made up as friends, I never saw her again.
Shortly after that conversation, she and her man set a wedding date. They were married the week after 9/11.
*/*
Around the time that I forgave my father, I decided to write an e-mail to Amy Coates.
As documented in this blog, she and I were supposed to meet earlier this year. I flaked on her, partly because Eve showed up at my office minutes before I was supposed to see her, and partly because I was afraid to see Amy again.
Amy was not amused. For a moment, I was thrilled at the idea of standing her up. It served her right, no? All those years of keeping me at arm's length, making me feel like I had to earn her love...
But when I forgave my father, I also decided to apologize to her for leaving her hanging in front of P.F. Chang's, in the freezing cold. So I e-mailed her and said what I had to say. And she wrote me back and wondered why I just didn't come out and say it. And I replied that I just had 'cold feet' and couldn't face her knowing that she was married with a kid.
And that was it.
As far as I am concerned, even though she lives on in my novel, she and I are finally through. It is over. It has been over for almost ten years. And with it go the doubts and fears she instilled in me. I never have to feel like I have something to prove to her ever again.
It is liberating, especially when coupled with the affection bestowed upon me by women who actually do like me, who think I am a nice person and want to hear what I have to say, even if I am wrong or obstinate or closed-minded.
They have faith in me, and I don't want to let them down.
Amy never had faith in me. If I had somehow struck it rich or became successful overnight, then she would've wanted to be with me. But I would've known the truth, because for all of her talents Amy Coates was also as transparent as a panel of glass, and maybe that's what she resented about me. She could never fool me the way she could fool other men, who were too stupid or self-involved to see what she was really doing to them.
I feel sorry for her husband. He is a good man, and I guarantee you that, though he may love her, she will hurt him far worse than she ever hurt me. Out of all her past suitors, I'm the only one who actually has stories about making Amy Coates pay for her numerous sins. I was the only one who ever called her on her bullshit.
Who knows? Maybe she has changed. I think she has mellowed out some, with the birth of her baby and all. But she remains the same to me, mainly because she is immortalized in my novel, set in stone, unwilling to conform to the changes and ravages of time.
I will always remember her as that fucking bitch that I was so madly in love with, and it serves as a reminder to me, to never fall prey to that kind of abuse again.
As I finish up the novel and reflect upon these things, I know that I will probably make the same mistakes again. But at least I know how to deal with them, and I know now that all I have to do is weather the initial storm and I'll find a way out of it. And when I do, there will be people waiting for me on the other side, people who care and understand and sympathize.
I guess it's called "growing up" and I'm doing it at an accelerated pace, to make up for all the time I lost, all the time wasted on people less deserving than Amy Coates.
I'm beginning to see the light, and it is so bright that I have to close my eyes and visualize inside of my head.
And I'm cool with that.
Friday, August 18, 2006
snow maze
Here's a link to a commencement address given at Cornell University that references Thomas Pynchon, in particular The Crying Of Lot 49.
I found this link just as a thought entered my head, in response to a friend's e-mail. This friend wondered why I had an e-mail address for one of my alter-egos.
It seemed like a weird question. Why wouldn't I have an e-mail address for my alter-egos, my characters, my personal demons and imaginary figments?
That's when I realized: I am a poor man's Pierce Inverarity.
There is no end to the deception and chicanery that I have wrought online, and there never will be an end to it. It is a part of me that I cannot seem to stop or limit.
I have an innumerable amount of My Space profiles, Friendster profiles, e-mail accounts, websites, and web pages. You can find comments from me all over the web, in forums and chat rooms and whatnot, under various names and guises. You can find letters to the editor that I wrote, or you can find someone with a similar name who happens to be a Sugar Regulatory Administrator.
For all my talk about straight talk and no-bullshit, I am nothing but a jokester and a prankster. I obscure my trail at every turn, like Danny Boy in The Shining, stepping back onto his footprints in the snow maze to fool his psychopathic father, played by Jack "I'm fucking crazy" Nicholson.
And yet, as I play my games and pull my red herrings in and out of the line of sight, I am also telling people the absolute truth. I'm not a liar, that's for sure. I have no reason to lie. I am quite capable of lying, but if you really look at everything I concern myself with, there is a consistency at the core.
It all relates to each other, and it all falls back upon itself upon closer inspection.
But if you ever hope to decode it, you have to be able to negotiate the snow maze. And if you think it's all just a snow job to begin with, then that means you won't play along, and I'm fine with that.
But I have yet to meet someone who didn't want to play along. And anyone who ever quit the game and walked away came running back after scratching their craw for a few days.
It's a blessing, a curse, and a heavy burden to bear under certain gravitational pulls.
HAVE A NICE WEEKEND...
I found this link just as a thought entered my head, in response to a friend's e-mail. This friend wondered why I had an e-mail address for one of my alter-egos.
It seemed like a weird question. Why wouldn't I have an e-mail address for my alter-egos, my characters, my personal demons and imaginary figments?
That's when I realized: I am a poor man's Pierce Inverarity.
There is no end to the deception and chicanery that I have wrought online, and there never will be an end to it. It is a part of me that I cannot seem to stop or limit.
I have an innumerable amount of My Space profiles, Friendster profiles, e-mail accounts, websites, and web pages. You can find comments from me all over the web, in forums and chat rooms and whatnot, under various names and guises. You can find letters to the editor that I wrote, or you can find someone with a similar name who happens to be a Sugar Regulatory Administrator.
For all my talk about straight talk and no-bullshit, I am nothing but a jokester and a prankster. I obscure my trail at every turn, like Danny Boy in The Shining, stepping back onto his footprints in the snow maze to fool his psychopathic father, played by Jack "I'm fucking crazy" Nicholson.
And yet, as I play my games and pull my red herrings in and out of the line of sight, I am also telling people the absolute truth. I'm not a liar, that's for sure. I have no reason to lie. I am quite capable of lying, but if you really look at everything I concern myself with, there is a consistency at the core.
It all relates to each other, and it all falls back upon itself upon closer inspection.
But if you ever hope to decode it, you have to be able to negotiate the snow maze. And if you think it's all just a snow job to begin with, then that means you won't play along, and I'm fine with that.
But I have yet to meet someone who didn't want to play along. And anyone who ever quit the game and walked away came running back after scratching their craw for a few days.
It's a blessing, a curse, and a heavy burden to bear under certain gravitational pulls.
HAVE A NICE WEEKEND...
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
dialogue
Wolfie and I sat up late last night, doing lines, drinking beer, smoking cigarettes, and feeling sorry for ourselves.
The Wolf Man is hung up on this girl named Allison.
"She called you last week?"
"Yeah, she called me. Her dad died. She's totally upset."
"And she called you?"
"Out of nowhere. We haven't spoken in months... since I was playing with The Nine."
"Did you talk to her or did she leave a message?"
"She left a message. I haven't decided to call her back yet."
"I say don't call her back."
"I know, I know... but I probably will."
Wolfie leaned over to inhale a rail.
"I can't judge you, man. It's not like I'm any better."
"I don't know what it is. I just want to be with her."
"Is it just the sex that you dig? 'Cause she seems to treat you pretty badly."
"It's not just the sex, although I gotta admit the sex is what keeps me stupid. She knows what she's doing. She's a master manipulator."
"You have to exercise some self-control. It's easier said than done, but it's what you have to do in order to retain a shred of dignity. However, she did call you, so it sounds like she still cares for you."
"Yeah, but so what? If this is the way she expresses caring, then I don't want to care about her, know what I mean?"
"All too well."
"And I don't want her to love me either, if this is how it's going to be. Why do girls do that shit anyway? They fuck the ones they don't love and they don't fuck the ones they love. I don't get it."
"Literally and figuratively."
We both laughed. I did my line. As I slapped my nostrils around, The Wolf continued to howl.
"But you know what I'm getting at. Just once I'd like her to be my dirty little whore. But then she stops giving it out to me. Then I think I fucked up somehow."
"Only explanation I can offer is that sometimes a girl wants to know if a guy thinks of her as more than a sex object."
"I do think of her as more than sex object."
"Yeah, well, girls don't seem to understand that about us. Just like we don't understand how they can blow 50 guys and not love a single one of them. We see it as being a slut or a whore, but think about this: out of those 50 guys, how many do you think would fall in love with her after the deed is done?"
"Depends on the guy."
"True, true. Let's assume that half the 50 guys are the type to get whipped at the drop of a dime. That's 25 guys who now want to marry the bitch, and she doesn't like ANY of them."
"She liked them enough to suck their dicks!"
"Don't get carried away, bro-- it's all rhetorical. And in this case, the imaginary girl in question doesn't like them, remember? That's why she sucked them off in the first place. So imagine that now she has 25 guys who think she's the best thing to come around since the cel phone, and they were all supposed to be temporary fuck-arounds. How would you feel if every dirty snatch you ever balled came back after you with a wedding veil on their heads and a bouquet in their arms?"
"I'd fucking freak out, that's what!"
"Right. It's a double-standard, and unfortunately guys like you and me... we're trapped by it. But girls feel it worse, because it's never an insult to a man to be called a whore or a sex maniac."
"So you're saying you'd be cool if your girl went out and fucked a million guys."
"Fuck no! But, at the same time, I'd know deep down that she must be pretty empty inside to fuck a million guys like that. Any girl who can do that and not bat an eye-- they're the ones we need to stay away from. Do you think Allison is like that?"
"Sometimes. I don't know. She's got daddy issues. Can't I just meet one decent chick who doesn't have an extreme hang-up over her dad?"
Wolf finished dicing up another round of powder. We stopped talking long enough to indulge.
I said, "Good luck trying to find a woman like that. They all have issues. But so do we. Every guy wants to feel like he's sowed enough seed to clone himself 70 different ways 'til Tuesday. It's never enough. If we ever meet a girl who is freaky enough for us, we get scared and call her a whore. But they get jealous of us just as much as we get jealous of them."
"Allison totally gets jealous. I kind of dig it."
"Right. Now think about that. Wouldn't you be mad if you knew for a fact that she was enjoying your misery right now?"
A pause. Reflection. Silence. A snort.
"Yeah, I would be. I'm a scumbag, what can I say?"
We both laugh. I know deep down inside that The Wolf isn't really a scumbag. He is just like every other single guy I know: completely insecure and a bit upset that the cretins and assholes and jerks of the world get to enjoy the spoils of the hunt while the "nice" guys like us are ignored.
I often have to remind guys like Wolfie (and myself as well) that we're not really nice guys. Truly nice guys don't complain about being stepped all over. Truly nice guys don't get mad when other guys get the girls.
I contend that all those "nice" guys out there are not nice at all-- they just pretend to be, so long as the prospects look good. But the minute things don't go their way, then the lurking asshole beneath the nice-guy facade reveals itself.
Wolf is one of those guys who wishes he had a girlfriend who was submissive and loyal, the kind of girl that wears a T-shirt that says I LOVE MY BOYFRIEND and would bring another girl into their bed to please him. But Wolf has had girls like that before, and he dumped them because they were "too weak".
So he goes after heartbreakers like this girl Allison, and is surprised when they turn out to be just as bad, if not worse, than the "clingy" ones.
So, if guys like Wolfie and I are not scumbags and not nice, then what are we?
Confused?
Frustrated?
Stressed out?
Fickle?
Or just plain human?
And doesn't the same go for girls like Allison, who look perfect on the outside but feel ugly on the inside because of what life has put them through, because what life has made them out to be, because what life has divined as their path and their fate?
I told Wolf that he should feel good that she called him when her father passed away. That means that she sought him out at a time of crisis. That means that, even though she may act like she doesn't need him, deep down inside she does. And he should see it for what it is, not for what he thinks it is.
At the same time, however, he needs to get over her and move on.
Such contradictory arguments make our heads spin, even more than the illicit substances we ingest.
At least with the drugs we can moderate our intake.
It was nearly 1 AM when I finally told The Wolf Man that he had to skeedaddle. He obliged happily, grateful for my bended ear. I was grateful for the high and for the lively conversation, as I always am.
I don't know how I got to sleep after all that partying, but I did. And I didn't have any dreams.
The Wolf Man is hung up on this girl named Allison.
"She called you last week?"
"Yeah, she called me. Her dad died. She's totally upset."
"And she called you?"
"Out of nowhere. We haven't spoken in months... since I was playing with The Nine."
"Did you talk to her or did she leave a message?"
"She left a message. I haven't decided to call her back yet."
"I say don't call her back."
"I know, I know... but I probably will."
Wolfie leaned over to inhale a rail.
"I can't judge you, man. It's not like I'm any better."
"I don't know what it is. I just want to be with her."
"Is it just the sex that you dig? 'Cause she seems to treat you pretty badly."
"It's not just the sex, although I gotta admit the sex is what keeps me stupid. She knows what she's doing. She's a master manipulator."
"You have to exercise some self-control. It's easier said than done, but it's what you have to do in order to retain a shred of dignity. However, she did call you, so it sounds like she still cares for you."
"Yeah, but so what? If this is the way she expresses caring, then I don't want to care about her, know what I mean?"
"All too well."
"And I don't want her to love me either, if this is how it's going to be. Why do girls do that shit anyway? They fuck the ones they don't love and they don't fuck the ones they love. I don't get it."
"Literally and figuratively."
We both laughed. I did my line. As I slapped my nostrils around, The Wolf continued to howl.
"But you know what I'm getting at. Just once I'd like her to be my dirty little whore. But then she stops giving it out to me. Then I think I fucked up somehow."
"Only explanation I can offer is that sometimes a girl wants to know if a guy thinks of her as more than a sex object."
"I do think of her as more than sex object."
"Yeah, well, girls don't seem to understand that about us. Just like we don't understand how they can blow 50 guys and not love a single one of them. We see it as being a slut or a whore, but think about this: out of those 50 guys, how many do you think would fall in love with her after the deed is done?"
"Depends on the guy."
"True, true. Let's assume that half the 50 guys are the type to get whipped at the drop of a dime. That's 25 guys who now want to marry the bitch, and she doesn't like ANY of them."
"She liked them enough to suck their dicks!"
"Don't get carried away, bro-- it's all rhetorical. And in this case, the imaginary girl in question doesn't like them, remember? That's why she sucked them off in the first place. So imagine that now she has 25 guys who think she's the best thing to come around since the cel phone, and they were all supposed to be temporary fuck-arounds. How would you feel if every dirty snatch you ever balled came back after you with a wedding veil on their heads and a bouquet in their arms?"
"I'd fucking freak out, that's what!"
"Right. It's a double-standard, and unfortunately guys like you and me... we're trapped by it. But girls feel it worse, because it's never an insult to a man to be called a whore or a sex maniac."
"So you're saying you'd be cool if your girl went out and fucked a million guys."
"Fuck no! But, at the same time, I'd know deep down that she must be pretty empty inside to fuck a million guys like that. Any girl who can do that and not bat an eye-- they're the ones we need to stay away from. Do you think Allison is like that?"
"Sometimes. I don't know. She's got daddy issues. Can't I just meet one decent chick who doesn't have an extreme hang-up over her dad?"
Wolf finished dicing up another round of powder. We stopped talking long enough to indulge.
I said, "Good luck trying to find a woman like that. They all have issues. But so do we. Every guy wants to feel like he's sowed enough seed to clone himself 70 different ways 'til Tuesday. It's never enough. If we ever meet a girl who is freaky enough for us, we get scared and call her a whore. But they get jealous of us just as much as we get jealous of them."
"Allison totally gets jealous. I kind of dig it."
"Right. Now think about that. Wouldn't you be mad if you knew for a fact that she was enjoying your misery right now?"
A pause. Reflection. Silence. A snort.
"Yeah, I would be. I'm a scumbag, what can I say?"
We both laugh. I know deep down inside that The Wolf isn't really a scumbag. He is just like every other single guy I know: completely insecure and a bit upset that the cretins and assholes and jerks of the world get to enjoy the spoils of the hunt while the "nice" guys like us are ignored.
I often have to remind guys like Wolfie (and myself as well) that we're not really nice guys. Truly nice guys don't complain about being stepped all over. Truly nice guys don't get mad when other guys get the girls.
I contend that all those "nice" guys out there are not nice at all-- they just pretend to be, so long as the prospects look good. But the minute things don't go their way, then the lurking asshole beneath the nice-guy facade reveals itself.
Wolf is one of those guys who wishes he had a girlfriend who was submissive and loyal, the kind of girl that wears a T-shirt that says I LOVE MY BOYFRIEND and would bring another girl into their bed to please him. But Wolf has had girls like that before, and he dumped them because they were "too weak".
So he goes after heartbreakers like this girl Allison, and is surprised when they turn out to be just as bad, if not worse, than the "clingy" ones.
So, if guys like Wolfie and I are not scumbags and not nice, then what are we?
Confused?
Frustrated?
Stressed out?
Fickle?
Or just plain human?
And doesn't the same go for girls like Allison, who look perfect on the outside but feel ugly on the inside because of what life has put them through, because what life has made them out to be, because what life has divined as their path and their fate?
I told Wolf that he should feel good that she called him when her father passed away. That means that she sought him out at a time of crisis. That means that, even though she may act like she doesn't need him, deep down inside she does. And he should see it for what it is, not for what he thinks it is.
At the same time, however, he needs to get over her and move on.
Such contradictory arguments make our heads spin, even more than the illicit substances we ingest.
At least with the drugs we can moderate our intake.
It was nearly 1 AM when I finally told The Wolf Man that he had to skeedaddle. He obliged happily, grateful for my bended ear. I was grateful for the high and for the lively conversation, as I always am.
I don't know how I got to sleep after all that partying, but I did. And I didn't have any dreams.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
detective work
I'm what you could call a "emotional hypochondriac" in that I keep thinking there must be something wrong with me.
My latest obsession with myself is thinking that maybe I was sexually abused as a child after all.
I have never entertained the notion, but over the years people have told me that they think I may have been victimized. I have always laughed at the assertion, but not in a condescending way.
I laugh at it because I know survivors of sexual abuse, incest, and all sorts of bad things. Some of them are pretty together despite the after-effects; others are a total wreck and cannot deal with anything stressful.
Lately, however, my mind has drifted into different territories. I know for a fact that I was never systematically or habitually raped, abused, fondled, molested or touched... but what if it was a one-time thing?
What if someone in my family crossed a delicate line without even knowing it? What if it was a well-meaning aunt or a female friend of the family helping my mother out with some of the kid chores?
I have this memory of one of my aunts wanting to give me a bath at age 8, and I recall resisting and screaming "NO!" but I have always thought this was because I was getting older and was craving privacy slowly but surely.
Still, it is weird to think that she wanted to give me a bath when I was 8 years old. You chalk it up to embarassing things your parents or older relatives do, such as Dad walking around the house in his underwear or Mom showing off your baby pics to strangers.
I don't know what I'm getting at, but let me assure you that I am not blaming or pointing a finger at anyone. I am just trying to get to the bottom of my neuroses concerning women.
Why do I flock to older women for support? Why do I have so many platonic female friends? Why do I have a compulsion to stay in touch with all of my exes? What is the real cause of my desire for a "muse" anyway?
Anyone out there have any suggestions?
My latest obsession with myself is thinking that maybe I was sexually abused as a child after all.
I have never entertained the notion, but over the years people have told me that they think I may have been victimized. I have always laughed at the assertion, but not in a condescending way.
I laugh at it because I know survivors of sexual abuse, incest, and all sorts of bad things. Some of them are pretty together despite the after-effects; others are a total wreck and cannot deal with anything stressful.
Lately, however, my mind has drifted into different territories. I know for a fact that I was never systematically or habitually raped, abused, fondled, molested or touched... but what if it was a one-time thing?
What if someone in my family crossed a delicate line without even knowing it? What if it was a well-meaning aunt or a female friend of the family helping my mother out with some of the kid chores?
I have this memory of one of my aunts wanting to give me a bath at age 8, and I recall resisting and screaming "NO!" but I have always thought this was because I was getting older and was craving privacy slowly but surely.
Still, it is weird to think that she wanted to give me a bath when I was 8 years old. You chalk it up to embarassing things your parents or older relatives do, such as Dad walking around the house in his underwear or Mom showing off your baby pics to strangers.
I don't know what I'm getting at, but let me assure you that I am not blaming or pointing a finger at anyone. I am just trying to get to the bottom of my neuroses concerning women.
Why do I flock to older women for support? Why do I have so many platonic female friends? Why do I have a compulsion to stay in touch with all of my exes? What is the real cause of my desire for a "muse" anyway?
Anyone out there have any suggestions?
Friday, August 11, 2006
annual
This is an excerpt from my blog, approximately one year ago today:
So that's been what's going on with me lately. No romance, no intrigue, nothing on par with my past exaggerations and anecdotes. Just plowing through the day, running through the motions, with my focus fixed upon the road ahead of me at all times.
I mean, there ARE things happening, but on subliminal levels, intangible tiers of wonder that I am only halfway aware of, smoky wisps of energy emanating from everyone around me...
And yet, it's music to my ears.
Today is the one year anniversary of my first gig with The Nine (my pet name for this band). We played a show at the Lava Lounge with Wolfie, the drummer I recruited to fill in for Evan, the guy who got me the gig in the first place.
Evan had been replaced by Wolfie when he announced a week in advance that he was going to be out of town until the night of the show.
I learned a few months ago that Evan met a girl and fell in love on the night that he was supposed to be playing my first show with the band.
So it's an anniversary for him, too.
Funny how things work out. At the time, I was the one who decided to get a fill-in, and it was partly a reaction to the fact that, in the band I'd been in with Evan prior, he was always pulling some shit on us.
I see it now, in perspective, as karma realigning our respective paths. It's no surprise that Evan quit playing music when he met that girl, to whom he is now engaged.
*/*
That excerpt from last year's blog is very similar to what's going on for me now. It's like deja vu, really.
But this time around, there's a deeper shade coloring the palette.
Last year I was caught up in hearing Beefheart for the first time, fashioning myself as some sort of painter, joining a new band in order to keep me from going stir crazy, and basically trying to start a new life out of the ashes of my relationship with Eve and the petty dalliances I had indulged in as a distraction.
This year, I've got everything I didn't have last year: a good-paying job, steady plans for the near future, a focus and resolve that is getting leaner and meaner every second...
...but it feels like I have nothing.
Pardon me if I am pitying myself, but I do it so well...
I have nothing. There is no love in my life, nor in my heart. There is no love in mind nor my soul. There is no happiness and there is no peace.
Last year I was living like a king comparatively, and yet I was making less money and had less prospects.
I think I am happier when I am poor and dejected. Having money and no one to spend it on, or wanting love and not receiving it... those are terrible things to endure.
Maybe I'm just complaining. Maybe I'm a malcontent who will never be satisfied with anything, no matter how good it may seem to others.
Or maybe I just know what it feels like to be truly happy and I haven't had that feeling for so long that now I am wondering if it will ever return.
Maybe this is happiness: Living each day expecting nothing, worrying and fretting until every base gets covered. Is it possible that I am happy and just don't know it?
We'll see.
*/*
I have a show tonight and a show on Sunday with The Nine. Tonight we play the Viper Room-- should be fun. Sunday we play in Glendale, to a crowd that doesn't know who we are. Then we have a show later on this month, followed by a few days of shooting a music video courtesy of some of our Lava Lounge friends who major in cinema.
At the show later this month, I will be playing in BOTH of my bands, one after the other, at the same venue. I will be busy busy BUSY.
Anything to keep my mind off the crap, the sewage that is seeping into the cracks of my consciousness.
I need a vacation. Perhaps I will go up north, like I planned in February, and visit with old friends. It would be nice to just get away for a while.
I have no one to go with, but maybe that's the point. Maybe I need to go off on my own for a while and forget that there's people I miss and want to reconcile with but don't know how to begin the healing.
Once again, we'll just have to wait and see.
I'm no good at waiting. I have no patience.
Have a nice weekend, people.
So that's been what's going on with me lately. No romance, no intrigue, nothing on par with my past exaggerations and anecdotes. Just plowing through the day, running through the motions, with my focus fixed upon the road ahead of me at all times.
I mean, there ARE things happening, but on subliminal levels, intangible tiers of wonder that I am only halfway aware of, smoky wisps of energy emanating from everyone around me...
And yet, it's music to my ears.
Today is the one year anniversary of my first gig with The Nine (my pet name for this band). We played a show at the Lava Lounge with Wolfie, the drummer I recruited to fill in for Evan, the guy who got me the gig in the first place.
Evan had been replaced by Wolfie when he announced a week in advance that he was going to be out of town until the night of the show.
I learned a few months ago that Evan met a girl and fell in love on the night that he was supposed to be playing my first show with the band.
So it's an anniversary for him, too.
Funny how things work out. At the time, I was the one who decided to get a fill-in, and it was partly a reaction to the fact that, in the band I'd been in with Evan prior, he was always pulling some shit on us.
I see it now, in perspective, as karma realigning our respective paths. It's no surprise that Evan quit playing music when he met that girl, to whom he is now engaged.
*/*
That excerpt from last year's blog is very similar to what's going on for me now. It's like deja vu, really.
But this time around, there's a deeper shade coloring the palette.
Last year I was caught up in hearing Beefheart for the first time, fashioning myself as some sort of painter, joining a new band in order to keep me from going stir crazy, and basically trying to start a new life out of the ashes of my relationship with Eve and the petty dalliances I had indulged in as a distraction.
This year, I've got everything I didn't have last year: a good-paying job, steady plans for the near future, a focus and resolve that is getting leaner and meaner every second...
...but it feels like I have nothing.
Pardon me if I am pitying myself, but I do it so well...
I have nothing. There is no love in my life, nor in my heart. There is no love in mind nor my soul. There is no happiness and there is no peace.
Last year I was living like a king comparatively, and yet I was making less money and had less prospects.
I think I am happier when I am poor and dejected. Having money and no one to spend it on, or wanting love and not receiving it... those are terrible things to endure.
Maybe I'm just complaining. Maybe I'm a malcontent who will never be satisfied with anything, no matter how good it may seem to others.
Or maybe I just know what it feels like to be truly happy and I haven't had that feeling for so long that now I am wondering if it will ever return.
Maybe this is happiness: Living each day expecting nothing, worrying and fretting until every base gets covered. Is it possible that I am happy and just don't know it?
We'll see.
*/*
I have a show tonight and a show on Sunday with The Nine. Tonight we play the Viper Room-- should be fun. Sunday we play in Glendale, to a crowd that doesn't know who we are. Then we have a show later on this month, followed by a few days of shooting a music video courtesy of some of our Lava Lounge friends who major in cinema.
At the show later this month, I will be playing in BOTH of my bands, one after the other, at the same venue. I will be busy busy BUSY.
Anything to keep my mind off the crap, the sewage that is seeping into the cracks of my consciousness.
I need a vacation. Perhaps I will go up north, like I planned in February, and visit with old friends. It would be nice to just get away for a while.
I have no one to go with, but maybe that's the point. Maybe I need to go off on my own for a while and forget that there's people I miss and want to reconcile with but don't know how to begin the healing.
Once again, we'll just have to wait and see.
I'm no good at waiting. I have no patience.
Have a nice weekend, people.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
dumb songs, dumber people
David Kamp and Steven Daly wrote this book that I picked up at Book Soup yesterday. It's called The Rock Snob's Dictionary.
It's really fucking funny. It perfectly encapsulates the entire music geek phenomenon in 150 pages. Much like Ambrose Bierce's legendary Devil's Dictionary, it's completely satirical and yet spot-on with its targets.
Here's a sample definition from Kamp and Daly's book:
Crowley, Aleister. Suave gentleman Satanist (1975-1947) who stands second only to Charles Manson as the mascot of choice for danger-craving bad-boy rockers. From the early twentieth century until his death, Crowley quilled messianic tracts about "magick", a crepuscular practice that, though it held little entertainment value, proved seductive to impressionable rockers like The Beatles, who included Crowley's face on the cover of Sgt. Pepper, and Led Zeppelin's Jimmy Page, who purchased Crowley's old estate in Scotland and is the world's premier [sic] collector of Crowley memorabilia. Crowley's rock acolytes haven't been deterred, and may indeed be encouraged, by scholarly suggestions that his dabbling in the black arts were really a clever front for a libertine kink 'n' coke lifestyle.
Funny stuff. And like any self-respecting/alternately self-loathing rock nerd out there, I am familiar with at least 75% of the definitions listed; the remaining 25% is all stuff that I've heard of but haven't actually listened to...
But then again, while I may be a rock nerd, I have discovered that I'm not a rock snob. Reading this book made me realize that I embrace too many embarrassing genres and mainstream acts to technically qualify as a bona fide Rock Snob.
Sure, I can hang with the Snob Literati and hold conversations with them and possibly even revel in a few snobbish tangents, but I'm not snobby about rock music. How can ANYONE be snobby about rock music?
It's rock music. There is no measure of taste. You can split hairs and show the contrast between a group like The Stooges and a group like Boston, but at the end of the day both bands are rock groups, and that's that. So the singer of one of those groups has a huge set of balls and a penchant for self-mutilation: big whup. Iggy Pop, as great as he is, would probably even tell you himself that it's only rock and roll.
I have the mental trivia reservoir and acerbic point-of-view of a Rock Snob, I suppose, but I am more welcoming of middle-of-the-road acts and time-tested oldies than my peers. Not everything has to be avant-garde cutting-edge with me; sometimes I like dumb songs sung by even dumber people.
I mean, have you actually listened to some of the bands I've played bass for in the past three years? If you have, then that's all the proof I need to demonstrate how un-snobbish I am regarding music. A true Rock Snob could never join the kinds of groups I've joined; I would go so far to wager that the majority of Rock Snobs either cannot play an instrument or sing, or would be too afraid of derision should they actually have the guts to commit to a band.
Musicians have these needless phobias about the bands they are in: Are we cool enough? Do we have what it takes to make it?
My buddy The Wolf Man was like that. He didn't want to be in this group I asked him to play in because he thought it was mediocre and bland. Fair enough-- he had a point, the songs aren't Bacharach or even Cobain for that matter... but did Wolfie have anything that was better?
No, of course not. SO now he is working on it, which is good. At least he is doing something about it, instead of crowing about how un-hip the world is.
People can say what they want about me and my bands, the things I do and the hobbies I keep. I don't give three and a half shits. I do what I want, and what I want is clearly defined at all times.
I want to be creative, above all.
It's no surprise that I use my overwhelming facility for liner notes recall and band line-up indexing less to impress and more to smite the snobs when they are talking loudly about what is cool and why this is cooler and why that is the coolest. I know they are full of shit. I have nothing to prove to them.
Therefore, taking the piss out of them seems like a public service to all those who dance the Macarena and think that Natalie Imbruglia wrote that hit song "Torn".
Seriously, though: is dressing up like Roz from Christian Death any less lame than buying Billy Ray Cyrus' "Achy Breaky Heart" single? In my book, no. In my book, they are equally lame and not for snobby reasons but simply because they are both examples of people shutting their minds off, and not in the name of good old fashioned fun but in the pursuit of hipper-than-thou sainthood.
But then again, this is not my book. It's Kamp and Daly's book. And it's downright hysterical.
It's really fucking funny. It perfectly encapsulates the entire music geek phenomenon in 150 pages. Much like Ambrose Bierce's legendary Devil's Dictionary, it's completely satirical and yet spot-on with its targets.
Here's a sample definition from Kamp and Daly's book:
Crowley, Aleister. Suave gentleman Satanist (1975-1947) who stands second only to Charles Manson as the mascot of choice for danger-craving bad-boy rockers. From the early twentieth century until his death, Crowley quilled messianic tracts about "magick", a crepuscular practice that, though it held little entertainment value, proved seductive to impressionable rockers like The Beatles, who included Crowley's face on the cover of Sgt. Pepper, and Led Zeppelin's Jimmy Page, who purchased Crowley's old estate in Scotland and is the world's premier [sic] collector of Crowley memorabilia. Crowley's rock acolytes haven't been deterred, and may indeed be encouraged, by scholarly suggestions that his dabbling in the black arts were really a clever front for a libertine kink 'n' coke lifestyle.
Funny stuff. And like any self-respecting/alternately self-loathing rock nerd out there, I am familiar with at least 75% of the definitions listed; the remaining 25% is all stuff that I've heard of but haven't actually listened to...
But then again, while I may be a rock nerd, I have discovered that I'm not a rock snob. Reading this book made me realize that I embrace too many embarrassing genres and mainstream acts to technically qualify as a bona fide Rock Snob.
Sure, I can hang with the Snob Literati and hold conversations with them and possibly even revel in a few snobbish tangents, but I'm not snobby about rock music. How can ANYONE be snobby about rock music?
It's rock music. There is no measure of taste. You can split hairs and show the contrast between a group like The Stooges and a group like Boston, but at the end of the day both bands are rock groups, and that's that. So the singer of one of those groups has a huge set of balls and a penchant for self-mutilation: big whup. Iggy Pop, as great as he is, would probably even tell you himself that it's only rock and roll.
I have the mental trivia reservoir and acerbic point-of-view of a Rock Snob, I suppose, but I am more welcoming of middle-of-the-road acts and time-tested oldies than my peers. Not everything has to be avant-garde cutting-edge with me; sometimes I like dumb songs sung by even dumber people.
I mean, have you actually listened to some of the bands I've played bass for in the past three years? If you have, then that's all the proof I need to demonstrate how un-snobbish I am regarding music. A true Rock Snob could never join the kinds of groups I've joined; I would go so far to wager that the majority of Rock Snobs either cannot play an instrument or sing, or would be too afraid of derision should they actually have the guts to commit to a band.
Musicians have these needless phobias about the bands they are in: Are we cool enough? Do we have what it takes to make it?
My buddy The Wolf Man was like that. He didn't want to be in this group I asked him to play in because he thought it was mediocre and bland. Fair enough-- he had a point, the songs aren't Bacharach or even Cobain for that matter... but did Wolfie have anything that was better?
No, of course not. SO now he is working on it, which is good. At least he is doing something about it, instead of crowing about how un-hip the world is.
People can say what they want about me and my bands, the things I do and the hobbies I keep. I don't give three and a half shits. I do what I want, and what I want is clearly defined at all times.
I want to be creative, above all.
It's no surprise that I use my overwhelming facility for liner notes recall and band line-up indexing less to impress and more to smite the snobs when they are talking loudly about what is cool and why this is cooler and why that is the coolest. I know they are full of shit. I have nothing to prove to them.
Therefore, taking the piss out of them seems like a public service to all those who dance the Macarena and think that Natalie Imbruglia wrote that hit song "Torn".
Seriously, though: is dressing up like Roz from Christian Death any less lame than buying Billy Ray Cyrus' "Achy Breaky Heart" single? In my book, no. In my book, they are equally lame and not for snobby reasons but simply because they are both examples of people shutting their minds off, and not in the name of good old fashioned fun but in the pursuit of hipper-than-thou sainthood.
But then again, this is not my book. It's Kamp and Daly's book. And it's downright hysterical.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
the tables turn
"Thanks for helping me out with my car again, Dad."
"Oh, it's always a pleasure. As long as I can help."
"Yes, well, you've been there for me plenty of times. And I just want to say something to you, because I've never actually said it, but... I forgive you."
"You didn't have to say that."
"Yes I did. I can't live another minute without getting that off of my chest."
"Thank you. I love you son. And I think about all the hurt and pain I caused you, your brothers, your sister, your mother... A day doesn't go by when I don't think about it."
He then proceeded to tell me how God's good graces have helped him overcome his own problems. He didn't take credit for it once. He attributed it all to God.
That's amazing to me. Most people would be patting themselves on the back, proud that they have "cured" themselves.
My father knows he is nothing without God in his life. Of course, he had God in his life back then, but maybe he was fooling himself, and maybe that was God's way of showing him that he was fooling himself.
I cried on the drive back to the backyard party, where I escaped into the haze of alcohol, drugs and pretty young girls sitting in the hot tub sipping margaritas as me and my bandmates collected accolades for our set earlier in the day.
The tears were gone, and the pain was momentarily sated, but when I got home I crashed hard and I fell down on my face in the living room. My cat Otis sat down beside me and pawed my hair as if he were petting me.
*/*
Forgiveness is an exhausting task. I don't think I have it in me to do any more forgiving for a while. I feel like I have been dragged across the hot Mojave desert sands.
There is always someone else to forgive. I could sit here all day and list, one by one, every grievance that was ever committed against me, but I won't. I can't.
It's too hard.
I keep thinking that love will rescue me or save me from despair, but all too often it does the opposite: it throws me straight into the depths of depression and self-pity.
Maybe I don't need a muse, or a lover. Maybe I need me. Maybe I need to spend less time on helping others achieve their goals and more time on making myself happy.
Is it already time for me to be selfish again?
*/*
A woman sells her preteen daughter into prostitution to pay for her longtime speed habit.
If this woman was someone you knew, or someone you were related to-- would you forgive it? Would you understand it?
I have had to understand and forgive more than I ever imagined. Maybe that's why I had a hard time forgiving my father-- I feel like I've forgiven the world so many other things, and that there is more to forgive coming up. I needed one thing to hold onto, one thing to not forgive because then I would feel that I had some sort of control over my life.
Now that I have forgiven him, there is a void. I am empty. My unwillingness to be compassionate was the core of my being. Now I have nothing inside of me to make up for the loss.
Even though the void was filled by hate and rage, it was still filled. Now that the emptiness of existence is again upon me, I don't know where to turn.
I think it would be healthy-- even wise-- to be a jerk for a while, so that way people will have to forgive me. Turn the tables, so to speak. Let the people around me feel what it is like to love a complete asshole.
Problem is, the people around me are weak, and they will not forgive me. So I guess I am on my own again, like I was when I was 16, like I was when I was 23 and starting to write the novel that I am finishing.
I cannot expect to be forgiven for the sins I commit: the jealousy, the envy, the pride, the lust, the greed, the wrath... No one is ever going to do for me what I have done for them. And I'm OK with that, because I realize now why they cannot forgive: because it is simply too hard of a thing to do.
I don't feel any better for doing it, so let me crawl off to a dark place, like a wounded cat, and nurse my wounds.
*/*
I almost did not wake this morning
I wanted to stay in my comfortable coffin
sheets pulled over me like a funeral veil
I was opposed to greeting the light
It made me want to vomit and shake my fists
in defiance of the natural order of things
which always descends into chaos
no matter what
If I'd elected to stay in bed
I would not have ever left the apartment
I would've let myself emaciate into nothing
because it would be preferable to living
In This World That Makes Me Crazy
I am lucid-eyed and sane
watching madmen make claims
and victims lay blame
I am waiting for the critical mass
the peak moment when I can run
and forget the physical pain
the mental anguish
outrunning the ghosts and demons
of my past incarnations
for slightly longer
Someday the person that you know me as
will disappear
and a new personality will arise
out of the ashes of the old
and create movements so bold
that there will be no way for anyone
to hold their ground
once they discover what I have found
to be true:
You are not me and I am not
You
"Oh, it's always a pleasure. As long as I can help."
"Yes, well, you've been there for me plenty of times. And I just want to say something to you, because I've never actually said it, but... I forgive you."
"You didn't have to say that."
"Yes I did. I can't live another minute without getting that off of my chest."
"Thank you. I love you son. And I think about all the hurt and pain I caused you, your brothers, your sister, your mother... A day doesn't go by when I don't think about it."
He then proceeded to tell me how God's good graces have helped him overcome his own problems. He didn't take credit for it once. He attributed it all to God.
That's amazing to me. Most people would be patting themselves on the back, proud that they have "cured" themselves.
My father knows he is nothing without God in his life. Of course, he had God in his life back then, but maybe he was fooling himself, and maybe that was God's way of showing him that he was fooling himself.
I cried on the drive back to the backyard party, where I escaped into the haze of alcohol, drugs and pretty young girls sitting in the hot tub sipping margaritas as me and my bandmates collected accolades for our set earlier in the day.
The tears were gone, and the pain was momentarily sated, but when I got home I crashed hard and I fell down on my face in the living room. My cat Otis sat down beside me and pawed my hair as if he were petting me.
*/*
Forgiveness is an exhausting task. I don't think I have it in me to do any more forgiving for a while. I feel like I have been dragged across the hot Mojave desert sands.
There is always someone else to forgive. I could sit here all day and list, one by one, every grievance that was ever committed against me, but I won't. I can't.
It's too hard.
I keep thinking that love will rescue me or save me from despair, but all too often it does the opposite: it throws me straight into the depths of depression and self-pity.
Maybe I don't need a muse, or a lover. Maybe I need me. Maybe I need to spend less time on helping others achieve their goals and more time on making myself happy.
Is it already time for me to be selfish again?
*/*
A woman sells her preteen daughter into prostitution to pay for her longtime speed habit.
If this woman was someone you knew, or someone you were related to-- would you forgive it? Would you understand it?
I have had to understand and forgive more than I ever imagined. Maybe that's why I had a hard time forgiving my father-- I feel like I've forgiven the world so many other things, and that there is more to forgive coming up. I needed one thing to hold onto, one thing to not forgive because then I would feel that I had some sort of control over my life.
Now that I have forgiven him, there is a void. I am empty. My unwillingness to be compassionate was the core of my being. Now I have nothing inside of me to make up for the loss.
Even though the void was filled by hate and rage, it was still filled. Now that the emptiness of existence is again upon me, I don't know where to turn.
I think it would be healthy-- even wise-- to be a jerk for a while, so that way people will have to forgive me. Turn the tables, so to speak. Let the people around me feel what it is like to love a complete asshole.
Problem is, the people around me are weak, and they will not forgive me. So I guess I am on my own again, like I was when I was 16, like I was when I was 23 and starting to write the novel that I am finishing.
I cannot expect to be forgiven for the sins I commit: the jealousy, the envy, the pride, the lust, the greed, the wrath... No one is ever going to do for me what I have done for them. And I'm OK with that, because I realize now why they cannot forgive: because it is simply too hard of a thing to do.
I don't feel any better for doing it, so let me crawl off to a dark place, like a wounded cat, and nurse my wounds.
*/*
I almost did not wake this morning
I wanted to stay in my comfortable coffin
sheets pulled over me like a funeral veil
I was opposed to greeting the light
It made me want to vomit and shake my fists
in defiance of the natural order of things
which always descends into chaos
no matter what
If I'd elected to stay in bed
I would not have ever left the apartment
I would've let myself emaciate into nothing
because it would be preferable to living
In This World That Makes Me Crazy
I am lucid-eyed and sane
watching madmen make claims
and victims lay blame
I am waiting for the critical mass
the peak moment when I can run
and forget the physical pain
the mental anguish
outrunning the ghosts and demons
of my past incarnations
for slightly longer
Someday the person that you know me as
will disappear
and a new personality will arise
out of the ashes of the old
and create movements so bold
that there will be no way for anyone
to hold their ground
once they discover what I have found
to be true:
You are not me and I am not
You
Friday, August 04, 2006
Bye Bye Love
Syd's dead.
Now Arthur's dead.
Who's next? Roky Erikson?
All of my heroes are dying. But that's OK, because my heroes should've been dead a long time ago, and the fact that they kept going is a testament to just how heroic they were.
Mind you, they didn't save babies from burning buildings, or fight terrorism, or band together to fight off aliens from outer space.
No, they just made music. Good music, the kind that Top 40 radio never played, the kind that ended up in discount bins, waiting for eager cultural vultures such as myself to gorge and grow fat on the psychedelic goodness these platters contained.
The High Fidelity era is officially over. Nick Hornby's novel captured the last fleeting glance of a time where anal-retentive nerds such as myself labored over the construction of mix tapes, right down to the proper sequencing of tracks and (in my case) in-between bits of dialogue and/or filler to keep listeners entertained.
Arthur, Syd and Roky were my secret weapons: hip enough to influence the bands of the day but obscure enough to remain the best-kept secrets in rock and roll. Their esoteric appeal was like a code: If I was looking at an album track list and spied that the band had covered a Love song or a 13th Floor Elevators tune, it was a hint and a way of winking at me, letting me know, "Yeah, we like the good shit too!"
No matter what flash-in-the-pan bands my friends pelted me with, invoking the Holy Underground Trinity was my constant trump card. No one was cooler, crazier or more self-destructive.
The ones who survived the 60's and the 70's-- Iggy Pop, Keith Richards, David Johansen, Lou Reed --are now thought of as living legends who went through their fair share of ups and downs.
They are famous, whereas Arthur Lee was not.
But people like me know that even someone like Iggy Pop, as cool and bad-ass as he is, owes it to Arthur as much as he owes it to Jim Morrison or David Bowie.
*/*
Even in his dying hour, Arthur Lee was an innovator:
Lee was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia this year. In May, facing certain death after three rounds of chemotherapy failed, he became the first adult in Tennessee to undergo a bone marrow transplant using stem cells from an umbilical cord, according to The (Memphis) Commercial Appeal.
--excerpt from a Reuters report on the death of Arthur Lee
I don't need to tell you what a big fan of Lee I was-- it's in these blog pages. I saw him play shortly after he was released from jail in early 2002 at Spaceland with Baby Lemonade as his backing band. I also saw the Forever Changes tour a few years back, and although his voice was sore the music sounded terrific.
I am glad, in a way, that Lee is dead. Now he can find peace, that's how the cliche goes, and in Lee's case it is fitting. His restlessness bled through the analog master tapes and into my head, causing me to stand up and notice what was going on around me.
I don't need to listen to any Arthur in the next few days, because there hasn't been a day that's gone by since I first found out about Love in 1988 when I haven't played one of their songs, either on the guitar or on the stereo or in my head.
I am going to e-mail some friends with the news, in case they haven't already heard.
Won't somebody please
help me with my miseries
Won't somebody see
what this world has done to me.
And I know, I know
and I say, oh, I say
that no matter where I go
I will always see your face
Won't somebody please
help me with my memory
Can somebody see
what this world has done to me
And I know, I know
and I say, oh, I say
that no matter where you go
you will always see my face
And no matter where you go
you will always see my face
and no matter where you go
you will always see my face
and no matter where I go
I will always see your face
I'm looking I can see your face
Look and you can see my face
I'm looking at you looking at me
--Arthur Lee & Love, "Always See Your Face"
Now Arthur's dead.
Who's next? Roky Erikson?
All of my heroes are dying. But that's OK, because my heroes should've been dead a long time ago, and the fact that they kept going is a testament to just how heroic they were.
Mind you, they didn't save babies from burning buildings, or fight terrorism, or band together to fight off aliens from outer space.
No, they just made music. Good music, the kind that Top 40 radio never played, the kind that ended up in discount bins, waiting for eager cultural vultures such as myself to gorge and grow fat on the psychedelic goodness these platters contained.
The High Fidelity era is officially over. Nick Hornby's novel captured the last fleeting glance of a time where anal-retentive nerds such as myself labored over the construction of mix tapes, right down to the proper sequencing of tracks and (in my case) in-between bits of dialogue and/or filler to keep listeners entertained.
Arthur, Syd and Roky were my secret weapons: hip enough to influence the bands of the day but obscure enough to remain the best-kept secrets in rock and roll. Their esoteric appeal was like a code: If I was looking at an album track list and spied that the band had covered a Love song or a 13th Floor Elevators tune, it was a hint and a way of winking at me, letting me know, "Yeah, we like the good shit too!"
No matter what flash-in-the-pan bands my friends pelted me with, invoking the Holy Underground Trinity was my constant trump card. No one was cooler, crazier or more self-destructive.
The ones who survived the 60's and the 70's-- Iggy Pop, Keith Richards, David Johansen, Lou Reed --are now thought of as living legends who went through their fair share of ups and downs.
They are famous, whereas Arthur Lee was not.
But people like me know that even someone like Iggy Pop, as cool and bad-ass as he is, owes it to Arthur as much as he owes it to Jim Morrison or David Bowie.
*/*
Even in his dying hour, Arthur Lee was an innovator:
Lee was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia this year. In May, facing certain death after three rounds of chemotherapy failed, he became the first adult in Tennessee to undergo a bone marrow transplant using stem cells from an umbilical cord, according to The (Memphis) Commercial Appeal.
--excerpt from a Reuters report on the death of Arthur Lee
I don't need to tell you what a big fan of Lee I was-- it's in these blog pages. I saw him play shortly after he was released from jail in early 2002 at Spaceland with Baby Lemonade as his backing band. I also saw the Forever Changes tour a few years back, and although his voice was sore the music sounded terrific.
I am glad, in a way, that Lee is dead. Now he can find peace, that's how the cliche goes, and in Lee's case it is fitting. His restlessness bled through the analog master tapes and into my head, causing me to stand up and notice what was going on around me.
I don't need to listen to any Arthur in the next few days, because there hasn't been a day that's gone by since I first found out about Love in 1988 when I haven't played one of their songs, either on the guitar or on the stereo or in my head.
I am going to e-mail some friends with the news, in case they haven't already heard.
Won't somebody please
help me with my miseries
Won't somebody see
what this world has done to me.
And I know, I know
and I say, oh, I say
that no matter where I go
I will always see your face
Won't somebody please
help me with my memory
Can somebody see
what this world has done to me
And I know, I know
and I say, oh, I say
that no matter where you go
you will always see my face
And no matter where you go
you will always see my face
and no matter where you go
you will always see my face
and no matter where I go
I will always see your face
I'm looking I can see your face
Look and you can see my face
I'm looking at you looking at me
--Arthur Lee & Love, "Always See Your Face"
Thursday, August 03, 2006
ask
The topic has been forgiveness.
The latest question is: Who asks to be forgiven?
In my life, there is only one person I have ever known who ever seriously asked me for forgiveness. I am not talking about people burping and then saying, "I beg your pardon," or some smart-ass imploring, "Forgive me for being so blunt." I am talking about someone doing me grievous harm and then asking me to show mercy and compassion for them.
There was only one person in my life that I needed to forgive. I have accomplished it in my mind, but can I do it when I'm in front of them?
Will it make any difference if I say it or not? I suppose it will, since this person took the time to ask. They also humbled themselves mightily just by asking. Of course, what they did was despicable, but the fact that they asked me to forgive them for their terrible deeds shows a sign of remorse, no?
Who am I to judge? Why has it taken me so long to forgive him? Is it because it is easier to walk around with that chip on your shoulder, that hardened heart with the steely resolve deflecting all pleas for understanding and empathy?
All he has ever done since those nightmarish days is ask me to forgive him. Even when we fought and argued over the years, it was because I could not stand to hear him speak with his self-righteous piety, as if hearing a thousand Biblical quotations could ever make me forget how he ruined our lives.
So maybe now that I am finally coming around to it, I wonder: Do I owe him the honor of verbalizing it, of giving voice to mine and his wishes? Is that part of the deal? Can't I just go on living with the knowledge that I am no longer mad at him?
Well, that's the thing-- I'm still mad about it. But that's because I always squelch the pangs and emotions that go with remembering those days. I have never really tried to deal with those feelings. I just escape-- into drugs, sex, partying, music, writing, celebrating my short existence on this craggy cosmic berg...
So I guess I'm going to have to say it. If I really mean to forgive him, it's going to have to be official.
I'm going to be a mess. Maybe I should do it over the phone.
Maybe I shouldn't do it at all.
I'm gonna cry cry cry, Lord how I'm gonna cry...
*/*
Like I said, no one else has asked me to forgive them, and when I feel like they have wronged me it infuriates me to know that I have to pull teeth just to get an apology.
They are not truly sorry for what they did to me, and therefore I do not need to forgive anyone who hasn't asked me on their own.
Have I ever asked for forgiveness? In an earlier post, I said that I didn't. But I'm sure that I have, and I'm sure they granted it to me. It didn't make everything hunky-dory again, but it helped. I cannot recall anything significant at the moment, but I'm sure it will come to me in due time.
What constitutes forgiveness anyway? Does it have to do with the relationship one has with the person? For example: I wouldn't forgive President Bush for his crimes even if he asked me. And why is that? Is it because to me he is a symbol of every malformed gene in the body politic of this once-great country? Or is it because I don't know him as a person?
Unlike my colleagues and peers on the Left, I can admit that there is a possibility that the President is a likeable person. Not smart, not especially humble, and certainly not the kind of person I'd like to have a beer with (I imagine he'd be a mean drunk with a proclivity for torturing small woodland animals)... But likeable? Sure, why not?
"Likeable" is a very broad term. Nixon could be likeable. Lenin was likeable. So was Stalin. And that guy who ran Germany during WWII-- lots of people thought he was likeable.
But do those politicians that I mentioned deserve to be forgiven for the mass murders they instigated, the pandering to hatred that they fomented, or the evil actions they inspired in others?
Fuck no. And anyone who says that they do deserve to be forgiven is a fucking fool.
(I guess I'm not quite there yet, am I?)
*/*
Buoyant music this morning on the way to work: From the Rushmore soundtrack, a song called "Concrete & Clay" by a British vocal group curiously named Unit 4 + 2. It has a Calypso feel to it, upbeat and bouncy.
This song was a cult favorite for years on the legendary UK pirate radio circuit that inspired the 1967 album The Who Sell Out. By that time, Unit 4 + 2 was barely functioning and The Who were poised to become rock megastars.
I love The Who, and I am still listening to "A Quick One" to keep my mood forgivable... But this morning I had to dance in my car a little. The overcast sky was oppressive and gloomy, in sharp contrast to the broiling heat we experienced for the past month or so.
I think I should start writing songs again, and this time I should make them into pop tunes, with actual melodies and cliched rhyming schemes and mundane topics such as love and jealousy. And I should sing them in a loud, proud voice, with a stupid smile on my face and trendy clothes on my frame.
I should do this because I've never tried it before, and you should try everything at least once, right?
Yes, it will be a facade and a forgery and a fake, but it might make someone blue feel a little better. It also might make someone want to throw up, but that's not my problem. I can't save those who do not ask to be saved.
The question is, who does want to be saved?
Anyone?
The latest question is: Who asks to be forgiven?
In my life, there is only one person I have ever known who ever seriously asked me for forgiveness. I am not talking about people burping and then saying, "I beg your pardon," or some smart-ass imploring, "Forgive me for being so blunt." I am talking about someone doing me grievous harm and then asking me to show mercy and compassion for them.
There was only one person in my life that I needed to forgive. I have accomplished it in my mind, but can I do it when I'm in front of them?
Will it make any difference if I say it or not? I suppose it will, since this person took the time to ask. They also humbled themselves mightily just by asking. Of course, what they did was despicable, but the fact that they asked me to forgive them for their terrible deeds shows a sign of remorse, no?
Who am I to judge? Why has it taken me so long to forgive him? Is it because it is easier to walk around with that chip on your shoulder, that hardened heart with the steely resolve deflecting all pleas for understanding and empathy?
All he has ever done since those nightmarish days is ask me to forgive him. Even when we fought and argued over the years, it was because I could not stand to hear him speak with his self-righteous piety, as if hearing a thousand Biblical quotations could ever make me forget how he ruined our lives.
So maybe now that I am finally coming around to it, I wonder: Do I owe him the honor of verbalizing it, of giving voice to mine and his wishes? Is that part of the deal? Can't I just go on living with the knowledge that I am no longer mad at him?
Well, that's the thing-- I'm still mad about it. But that's because I always squelch the pangs and emotions that go with remembering those days. I have never really tried to deal with those feelings. I just escape-- into drugs, sex, partying, music, writing, celebrating my short existence on this craggy cosmic berg...
So I guess I'm going to have to say it. If I really mean to forgive him, it's going to have to be official.
I'm going to be a mess. Maybe I should do it over the phone.
Maybe I shouldn't do it at all.
I'm gonna cry cry cry, Lord how I'm gonna cry...
*/*
Like I said, no one else has asked me to forgive them, and when I feel like they have wronged me it infuriates me to know that I have to pull teeth just to get an apology.
They are not truly sorry for what they did to me, and therefore I do not need to forgive anyone who hasn't asked me on their own.
Have I ever asked for forgiveness? In an earlier post, I said that I didn't. But I'm sure that I have, and I'm sure they granted it to me. It didn't make everything hunky-dory again, but it helped. I cannot recall anything significant at the moment, but I'm sure it will come to me in due time.
What constitutes forgiveness anyway? Does it have to do with the relationship one has with the person? For example: I wouldn't forgive President Bush for his crimes even if he asked me. And why is that? Is it because to me he is a symbol of every malformed gene in the body politic of this once-great country? Or is it because I don't know him as a person?
Unlike my colleagues and peers on the Left, I can admit that there is a possibility that the President is a likeable person. Not smart, not especially humble, and certainly not the kind of person I'd like to have a beer with (I imagine he'd be a mean drunk with a proclivity for torturing small woodland animals)... But likeable? Sure, why not?
"Likeable" is a very broad term. Nixon could be likeable. Lenin was likeable. So was Stalin. And that guy who ran Germany during WWII-- lots of people thought he was likeable.
But do those politicians that I mentioned deserve to be forgiven for the mass murders they instigated, the pandering to hatred that they fomented, or the evil actions they inspired in others?
Fuck no. And anyone who says that they do deserve to be forgiven is a fucking fool.
(I guess I'm not quite there yet, am I?)
*/*
Buoyant music this morning on the way to work: From the Rushmore soundtrack, a song called "Concrete & Clay" by a British vocal group curiously named Unit 4 + 2. It has a Calypso feel to it, upbeat and bouncy.
This song was a cult favorite for years on the legendary UK pirate radio circuit that inspired the 1967 album The Who Sell Out. By that time, Unit 4 + 2 was barely functioning and The Who were poised to become rock megastars.
I love The Who, and I am still listening to "A Quick One" to keep my mood forgivable... But this morning I had to dance in my car a little. The overcast sky was oppressive and gloomy, in sharp contrast to the broiling heat we experienced for the past month or so.
I think I should start writing songs again, and this time I should make them into pop tunes, with actual melodies and cliched rhyming schemes and mundane topics such as love and jealousy. And I should sing them in a loud, proud voice, with a stupid smile on my face and trendy clothes on my frame.
I should do this because I've never tried it before, and you should try everything at least once, right?
Yes, it will be a facade and a forgery and a fake, but it might make someone blue feel a little better. It also might make someone want to throw up, but that's not my problem. I can't save those who do not ask to be saved.
The question is, who does want to be saved?
Anyone?
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
fo sheezy
Thanks to Ayelet's blog, I found this hilarious link to a site known as Gizoogle, a hip-hop version of Google.
This technology is nothing new. I've seen it before, in other incarnations... but it's still mad funny. Check out what it did to my blog here.
Word 'em up, G!
This technology is nothing new. I've seen it before, in other incarnations... but it's still mad funny. Check out what it did to my blog here.
Word 'em up, G!
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
August horoscope
Aquarius (January 20- February 18)
Your August Horoscope by Susan Miller
If you are thinking of entering into a serious new relationship, whether for business or in your personal life, do so as August dawns. Mercury is no longer retrograde, so you have an open road, although Mercury will break into brand new territory from August 12 onward. That will pick up your pace quite a bit. Watch how things develop around that time.
Saturn will be unusually busy this month, meeting with the Sun, full moon, Mercury, Venus, and Neptune. Since Saturn's job is to bring rational, logical thinking and a sense of solidify and longevity to everything it touches, you seem ready to make a serious commitment. You also appear to be very cognizant of both the privileges and responsibility involved in a serious relationship, and that bodes well for your future.
If you have been involved with a troubled close relationship, in early August it will be time to come to a final decision about it, for it appears to be reaching a critical stage. Your decision will be whether to leave, or to stay and fix problems. With five planets about to oppose your Sun in your house of committed relationships, your partner will be quite vocal about grievances. You may feel you've heard it all before, but in truth there could be something new said now. If you want to salvage this relationship, spotlight areas of agreement before you tackle differences. Still, this won't be easy, and it will be hard to avoid a confrontation, ultimatum, or complete meltdown. Emotions will run very high.
If you have already split some time ago from someone close, but hope to have reconciliation, make your overture in the earliest days of the month. The new moon that appeared at the end of July will still be strong in early August and will help you enter into a serious, thoughtful discussion. If there is any chance that you can come together again, early August would be your best point of the month, albeit, the year, to try.
If, on the other hand, you feel you've stayed too long in this relationship, this month's harsh push-pull of the planets will mark your time to leave. If you left this alliance months ago, but have not been able to fully let go and move on, you may finally find all the strength to do so now.
A very tough day for any type of close relationship is due on August 7. This is the day when the fiery hot Sun will meet up with icy Saturn in conjunction, literally bringing a meeting of fire and ice. It's usually one of the most depressing days of the year, but one meant to quickly dispel fantasy in favor of replacing it with clear-eyed realism.
Reality can be necessary when it comes to romance, but in massive doses, as is likely on this day, August 7, it could turn out to be too much of a good thing. It is also possible that you see a cold, aloof side to someone that you've never seen before, quite a disillusioning experience.
If you have been very realistic about this relationship, you will feel the effects far less. Saturn will only give you as much advice as you need - some people need a little and others need a lot, and it changes within each individual on a case by case basis!
If you are not in a difficult relationship but a good one, then the other way it could work out is that you become quite worried about your partner's health or well being. Your partner may not be well or will be going through a hard patch. In this case, you will want to pitch in.
The full moon will appear in Aquarius on August 9, bringing to culmination all your relationship issues and concerns. If you are in a basically good relationship, although the focus will have been strongly on your partner during the first week of August, now it will switch to you and your own needs. Keep your own health up to par, as you may feel a bit worn out by this full moon. It will be physically, mentally, and emotionally draining - and possibly financially draining, too.
If you have been in a troubled relationship, you may have a meditation about what you want for yourself the future. As an Aquarius, your need for a certain space, autonomy, and feeling of freedom is strong, but you also have needs for closeness in a relationship too, of course. For each person, the proportions for closeness and space are different. If the balance for you is off, you may want to readjust it now. Planets building in Aquarius versus Leo would bring up that kind of meditation.
You may also wonder if you gave too much of yourself in the relationship and lost track of your core identity, perhaps after having had a baby or for other reasons. If so, it's important to talk about that and find ways to bring back a bit more of "you."
On the other hand, if you are in a good alliance that satisfies you, you will also know that to be true this month, as full moons bring understanding and truth to bear.
If you were born on or within five days of February 7, you will feel this full moon on August 9 most directly.
On the heels of this full moon will be the month's most inflammatory aspect, Mars opposition to Uranus, due August 13. This will be your roughest point of the month, for these two planets, when together, are akin to lighting a match and throwing it into a box of firecrackers. Everyone of every sign will feel the turbulence, but you might feel it a little more than most, as Uranus is your ruling planet.
You may hear of a major expense that you will have to cover - taxes, a credit card bill, or some other payment due, or you may have an angry confrontation about money with a partner, collaborator, representative, agent, banker, broker, or with someone with whom you share money, such as a spouse or live-in lover.
Although the reason for the disagreement will surface without warning, in truth, this problem has likely been a sore point for some time, but now has reached nuclear level. It will finally meet the breaking point, and there is some sort of possibility that you may have a parting of the ways.
There is also a possibility that you will hear that you need an operation or medical procedure, perhaps on your foot, intestine, colon, or other part of you. If so, stay calm and get another medical opinion if you feel you need one. In this case, you may simply be shocked to hear you need an operation, but that it could be good for you, so don't cancel it.
If money or health concerns you on August 13, operative plus or minus seven days, keep of good cheer. Cosmic help is on the way.
An excellent new moon will surface on August 23, one that will light your eighth house of other people's money. As your mother probably told you, "It's always darkest before dawn," and this new moon may prove it.
The house that will bring an opportunity will be the house that rules loans, venture capital, alimony, child support, income from insurance companies, commission, royalties, licensing fees, mortgages, scholarships, prizes, financial aid, and other windfalls. This is the area of expansion in your life, and the area you should focus on to expand.
This same area of your chart, the eighth house, rules surgery, and it would be a superb time to discuss or schedule an operation or procedure after this new moon appears. If you can't wait until August 23, it may mean that your health will noticeably improve after this date. I would ideally like you to schedule your procedure to take advantage of all the positive energy being sent to you on and after August 23, but go with the flow, and work with your doctor's schedule. Mercury is no longer retrograde (as it was in August), so you do have an open road.
Let's talk about the aspects to this glorious new moon, August 23.
Jupiter, the planet of good luck, will be very positively angled to this new moon, a good sign that if you do find a pipeline of cash, it is likely to be quite a lucrative one. Pluto will also be helpful, a sign that a friend may tip you off about where to find your bounty. (Pluto will also suggest that you can benefit from clubs and organizations as well.) If you work for an employer, you may be able to negotiate better benefits and other perks. Buy a raffle ticket at this time just for fun - you might win a small prize.
Jupiter is also the planet of healing and even miracles, and I am so excited that Jupiter will be helpful to you at this new moon. A new moon is not just operative for a day, but for the two weeks that follow. Your best days will be those that follow in the first seven days.
Also, Pluto is the planet known to help in any physical, psychological, or even financial transformation, so having a positive Pluto behind you is very lucky!
Be sure to schedule your key meetings with doctors or if those meetings are about money, with your employer, broker, banker, financial consultant, or perspective clients in the days that follow August 23, for a strong window will open for you then.
I will close with the most exciting news I have for you!
August 29, a truly five-star day, will create dazzling career news, right out of the blue! Jupiter, now shining in your house of fame and honors, will reach out to Uranus, now in your house of personal earned income. What a wonderful day for your professional advancement! On this day, a career opportunity is about to come to you out of the blue, possibly because you find yourself at the right place at the right time. What's so special is that not only will your status be on the rise, but you are likely to see a financial benefit, too.
Try not to be away on vacation on such a stellar day!
Summary
At the start of August you will be focused on a close relationship. You appear to be exploring the possibility of merging energies through marriage or a work-related partnership. The new moon that appeared just prior to the start of August will drive this trend. Saturn is prominent, so the alliance that you build will be a formidable one and will last a long time.
The full moon on August 9 will be in Aquarius and bring this point home. At the same time, you will focus on your budding partnership and may make your plan official. You may get engaged or sign papers with a business collaborator.
However, this full moon will be a hard one, because it coincides with a very harsh opposition between Mars and Uranus the same week, due on or within seven days of August 13. You may hear news about a surgery or illness, or be subject to some sort of unusual stress, perhaps because you are concerned about someone close.
If health or life's pressures are not unusual at the time, you may be confronted with a sudden expense. With your ruling planet, Uranus, under siege by warrior Mars, the period from August 9 to 18 will be tense and you'll be impeded by at least one obstacle that you will need to circumvent.
Keep your chin up, though, for the new moon August 23 will bring you both medical options AND financial ones. The fortunate opportunity that opens up may help you find the perfect solution for something that's clearly made you tense.
Get as much rest as much as you can this month. You have been under draining circumstances lately, and this month will exact much from you.
Remarkably, the month will continue to get better as you go along. While expenses are likely to continue to rise, with the movement of Mars and Virgo you have one sterling aspect, so strong that it has the power of undoing so much of the frustration you may feel as you go through the month.
On August 29, Jupiter and Uranus, your guardian planet, will bring an unexpected lucky career break. You will receive an offer you never in a million years though you'd ever get, and one that will represent a true milestone in your personal history. Celebrate! This one calls for friends, fun, and lots of cold champagne!
Your August Horoscope by Susan Miller
If you are thinking of entering into a serious new relationship, whether for business or in your personal life, do so as August dawns. Mercury is no longer retrograde, so you have an open road, although Mercury will break into brand new territory from August 12 onward. That will pick up your pace quite a bit. Watch how things develop around that time.
Saturn will be unusually busy this month, meeting with the Sun, full moon, Mercury, Venus, and Neptune. Since Saturn's job is to bring rational, logical thinking and a sense of solidify and longevity to everything it touches, you seem ready to make a serious commitment. You also appear to be very cognizant of both the privileges and responsibility involved in a serious relationship, and that bodes well for your future.
If you have been involved with a troubled close relationship, in early August it will be time to come to a final decision about it, for it appears to be reaching a critical stage. Your decision will be whether to leave, or to stay and fix problems. With five planets about to oppose your Sun in your house of committed relationships, your partner will be quite vocal about grievances. You may feel you've heard it all before, but in truth there could be something new said now. If you want to salvage this relationship, spotlight areas of agreement before you tackle differences. Still, this won't be easy, and it will be hard to avoid a confrontation, ultimatum, or complete meltdown. Emotions will run very high.
If you have already split some time ago from someone close, but hope to have reconciliation, make your overture in the earliest days of the month. The new moon that appeared at the end of July will still be strong in early August and will help you enter into a serious, thoughtful discussion. If there is any chance that you can come together again, early August would be your best point of the month, albeit, the year, to try.
If, on the other hand, you feel you've stayed too long in this relationship, this month's harsh push-pull of the planets will mark your time to leave. If you left this alliance months ago, but have not been able to fully let go and move on, you may finally find all the strength to do so now.
A very tough day for any type of close relationship is due on August 7. This is the day when the fiery hot Sun will meet up with icy Saturn in conjunction, literally bringing a meeting of fire and ice. It's usually one of the most depressing days of the year, but one meant to quickly dispel fantasy in favor of replacing it with clear-eyed realism.
Reality can be necessary when it comes to romance, but in massive doses, as is likely on this day, August 7, it could turn out to be too much of a good thing. It is also possible that you see a cold, aloof side to someone that you've never seen before, quite a disillusioning experience.
If you have been very realistic about this relationship, you will feel the effects far less. Saturn will only give you as much advice as you need - some people need a little and others need a lot, and it changes within each individual on a case by case basis!
If you are not in a difficult relationship but a good one, then the other way it could work out is that you become quite worried about your partner's health or well being. Your partner may not be well or will be going through a hard patch. In this case, you will want to pitch in.
The full moon will appear in Aquarius on August 9, bringing to culmination all your relationship issues and concerns. If you are in a basically good relationship, although the focus will have been strongly on your partner during the first week of August, now it will switch to you and your own needs. Keep your own health up to par, as you may feel a bit worn out by this full moon. It will be physically, mentally, and emotionally draining - and possibly financially draining, too.
If you have been in a troubled relationship, you may have a meditation about what you want for yourself the future. As an Aquarius, your need for a certain space, autonomy, and feeling of freedom is strong, but you also have needs for closeness in a relationship too, of course. For each person, the proportions for closeness and space are different. If the balance for you is off, you may want to readjust it now. Planets building in Aquarius versus Leo would bring up that kind of meditation.
You may also wonder if you gave too much of yourself in the relationship and lost track of your core identity, perhaps after having had a baby or for other reasons. If so, it's important to talk about that and find ways to bring back a bit more of "you."
On the other hand, if you are in a good alliance that satisfies you, you will also know that to be true this month, as full moons bring understanding and truth to bear.
If you were born on or within five days of February 7, you will feel this full moon on August 9 most directly.
On the heels of this full moon will be the month's most inflammatory aspect, Mars opposition to Uranus, due August 13. This will be your roughest point of the month, for these two planets, when together, are akin to lighting a match and throwing it into a box of firecrackers. Everyone of every sign will feel the turbulence, but you might feel it a little more than most, as Uranus is your ruling planet.
You may hear of a major expense that you will have to cover - taxes, a credit card bill, or some other payment due, or you may have an angry confrontation about money with a partner, collaborator, representative, agent, banker, broker, or with someone with whom you share money, such as a spouse or live-in lover.
Although the reason for the disagreement will surface without warning, in truth, this problem has likely been a sore point for some time, but now has reached nuclear level. It will finally meet the breaking point, and there is some sort of possibility that you may have a parting of the ways.
There is also a possibility that you will hear that you need an operation or medical procedure, perhaps on your foot, intestine, colon, or other part of you. If so, stay calm and get another medical opinion if you feel you need one. In this case, you may simply be shocked to hear you need an operation, but that it could be good for you, so don't cancel it.
If money or health concerns you on August 13, operative plus or minus seven days, keep of good cheer. Cosmic help is on the way.
An excellent new moon will surface on August 23, one that will light your eighth house of other people's money. As your mother probably told you, "It's always darkest before dawn," and this new moon may prove it.
The house that will bring an opportunity will be the house that rules loans, venture capital, alimony, child support, income from insurance companies, commission, royalties, licensing fees, mortgages, scholarships, prizes, financial aid, and other windfalls. This is the area of expansion in your life, and the area you should focus on to expand.
This same area of your chart, the eighth house, rules surgery, and it would be a superb time to discuss or schedule an operation or procedure after this new moon appears. If you can't wait until August 23, it may mean that your health will noticeably improve after this date. I would ideally like you to schedule your procedure to take advantage of all the positive energy being sent to you on and after August 23, but go with the flow, and work with your doctor's schedule. Mercury is no longer retrograde (as it was in August), so you do have an open road.
Let's talk about the aspects to this glorious new moon, August 23.
Jupiter, the planet of good luck, will be very positively angled to this new moon, a good sign that if you do find a pipeline of cash, it is likely to be quite a lucrative one. Pluto will also be helpful, a sign that a friend may tip you off about where to find your bounty. (Pluto will also suggest that you can benefit from clubs and organizations as well.) If you work for an employer, you may be able to negotiate better benefits and other perks. Buy a raffle ticket at this time just for fun - you might win a small prize.
Jupiter is also the planet of healing and even miracles, and I am so excited that Jupiter will be helpful to you at this new moon. A new moon is not just operative for a day, but for the two weeks that follow. Your best days will be those that follow in the first seven days.
Also, Pluto is the planet known to help in any physical, psychological, or even financial transformation, so having a positive Pluto behind you is very lucky!
Be sure to schedule your key meetings with doctors or if those meetings are about money, with your employer, broker, banker, financial consultant, or perspective clients in the days that follow August 23, for a strong window will open for you then.
I will close with the most exciting news I have for you!
August 29, a truly five-star day, will create dazzling career news, right out of the blue! Jupiter, now shining in your house of fame and honors, will reach out to Uranus, now in your house of personal earned income. What a wonderful day for your professional advancement! On this day, a career opportunity is about to come to you out of the blue, possibly because you find yourself at the right place at the right time. What's so special is that not only will your status be on the rise, but you are likely to see a financial benefit, too.
Try not to be away on vacation on such a stellar day!
Summary
At the start of August you will be focused on a close relationship. You appear to be exploring the possibility of merging energies through marriage or a work-related partnership. The new moon that appeared just prior to the start of August will drive this trend. Saturn is prominent, so the alliance that you build will be a formidable one and will last a long time.
The full moon on August 9 will be in Aquarius and bring this point home. At the same time, you will focus on your budding partnership and may make your plan official. You may get engaged or sign papers with a business collaborator.
However, this full moon will be a hard one, because it coincides with a very harsh opposition between Mars and Uranus the same week, due on or within seven days of August 13. You may hear news about a surgery or illness, or be subject to some sort of unusual stress, perhaps because you are concerned about someone close.
If health or life's pressures are not unusual at the time, you may be confronted with a sudden expense. With your ruling planet, Uranus, under siege by warrior Mars, the period from August 9 to 18 will be tense and you'll be impeded by at least one obstacle that you will need to circumvent.
Keep your chin up, though, for the new moon August 23 will bring you both medical options AND financial ones. The fortunate opportunity that opens up may help you find the perfect solution for something that's clearly made you tense.
Get as much rest as much as you can this month. You have been under draining circumstances lately, and this month will exact much from you.
Remarkably, the month will continue to get better as you go along. While expenses are likely to continue to rise, with the movement of Mars and Virgo you have one sterling aspect, so strong that it has the power of undoing so much of the frustration you may feel as you go through the month.
On August 29, Jupiter and Uranus, your guardian planet, will bring an unexpected lucky career break. You will receive an offer you never in a million years though you'd ever get, and one that will represent a true milestone in your personal history. Celebrate! This one calls for friends, fun, and lots of cold champagne!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)