Monday, September 25, 2006

dee dee


"We had all these other songs with 'I Don't Wanna' - 'I Don't Wanna Walk Around With You,' 'I Don't Wanna Go Down To The Basement.' The only other positive song we had was 'Now I Wanna Sniff Some Glue'..."

--The Ramones


Last Monday was September 18th. Unbeknownst to me, it was the late Dee Dee Ramone's birthday.

As I sat at home, recuperating from an all-night coke bender that left me too tired to go to work and too sniffly to put anything else up my nose, I became possessed by the spirit of Dee Dee Ramone.

I've always dug The Ramones, because it was hearing them that caused me to realize that I didn't have to wait until I was a masterful musician before I started my own group; I could just do it NOW, while I was young and willing, and I never stopped.

But I never considered Dee Dee to be anything but the bass player of The Ramones.

Then I read Legs McNeil's history of punk music, Please Kill Me. Dee Dee was quoted liberally in it, and he was the real thing: A junkie-poet-musician-painter who grew up in Germany and came to Forest Hills, Queens with his family and fell in with a bunch of delinquent no-future-having outcasts; he turned tricks in Manhattan and scored smack and sniffed glue and got into fights with his harpy of a girlfriend; and through it all, everyone seemed to love Dee Dee because he was so sincere, so honest...

And now, I love Dee Dee.

The voices of other dead rock stars and celebrities were echoing in my head, telling me to not stop with just one day off work, to go whole hog and quit the job altogether and spend all of my money on coke and sit in my apartment and let my hair grow and stop shaving and stop going out and stop doing anything creative because all I needed was a line up my nose and nothing else...

Instead, I got up and called The Snake, a buddy from the Holly Golightly days. He's been helping me promote the animation I've been working on for two years by trying to get it featured on the hit TV show he is working on currently. He told me to come by and he'd call in a drive-on set pass for me.

I rolled up in the rusty Sentra, my nose bloodied and coagulating. I parked in front of the In-N-Out mobile restaurant, whose address (according to the print on the side of the truck) is situated somewhere in Baldwin Park, on "Hamburger Lane"-- no doubt the nearest cross street being Milkshake Drive.

At one point, I went to the souvenir store and bought two DVDs: Richard Pryor Live In Concert and End Of The Century: The Story Of The Ramones. Dee Dee's ghost was whispering something into my ear.

The message: "1-2-3-4!"

To make a long blog entry short, I ended up on the set of the TV show, talking with the stars and describing the contents of my store bag. It turned out that a girl I knew from way back was working as a guest star on the show, and in between takes I walked up to her and asked her if she remembered me. She did. Before long, I was being talked to by the stars of the show, and because I'm not a star-struck numb-nut bastard I held my own and paid my respects at the same time.

It was a great moment. I think it helped me somehow, just being who I am, not trying, not caring. I should've been at work, I should've been sober, I should've been giving a fuck.

I didn't.

After The Snake and I retired to a bar for a quick drink and a chat, I dropped him off at his place near the River Bottom in Burbank. Then I listened to The Ramones' second album on the way home.

I kept playing "Commando", a Dee Dee composition, if I'm not mistaken. It's a song about a commando flying back and forth between Vietnam and Germany, recruiting soldiers to fight off the Communist threat.

The music is propulsive, as most early Ramones tunes are wont to be. I drove through red lights, cut off slow cars, ratcheted up my speed to beyond the legal limit (the speedometer in my car is busted, so I have no idea how fast I was going) and plowed through surly traffic doldrums like a hot bullet through gelatin.

I got home and watched the Ramones DVD, and the transformation was complete: for all intents and purposes, I am Dee Dee Ramone now.

I just don't care anymore. You only have one life to live, you know.

Check out this link to Dee Dee's artwork before you go.

take a gander at this

Thrill to the adventures of "Stan", a hapless movie studio intern who somehow manages to get by even though everyone around him is fucking nuts.

It's a weekly strip, and right now there are a few things that need work (such as the "Contact Us" page) but that shouldn't stop anyone from enjoying it outright.

btw: The preferred browser setting is 1280 x 1024-- otherwise you'll have to scroll up and down a bit when you read the latest strip.

ENJOY!!

take a gander at this

Thrill to the adventures of "Stan", a hapless movie studio intern who somehow manages to get by even though everyone around him is fucking nuts.

It's a weekly strip, and right now there are a few things that need work (such as the "Contact Us" page) but that shouldn't stop anyone from enjoying it outright.

btw: The preferred browser setting is 1280 x 1024-- otherwise you'll have to scroll up and down a bit when you read the latest strip.

ENJOY!!

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

I Think I'm Going To Be O.K.

The worst is over.

I rode out the storm.

It is calm and peaceful now.

I see great things ahead of me.

I'm going to quit my job in November, I think.

The extra money has been helpful but not satisfying. "More money, more problems" goes the saying.

I hate to say it, but I'm happier when I'm poor.

I can't say the same about other people, though.

She's gone. She's been gone since before the summer.

It hurt. But now it doesn't hurt anymore.

She's shallow, she went for the money.

Fuck her.

Doesn't she know what happens to the people who give in to their greed?

No, she doesn't.

She will never know, nor will she ever learn.

But I have learned something: I don't need her.

Time to move on and forget I ever met her.

Yes, that's it. Time to move on...

Monday, September 11, 2006

LIFE DURING WARTIME pt. 5

I was definitely looking for laughs. Watching John Stewart of The Daily Show refrain from a near-complete emotional breakdown actually made me feel, for the first time since all this madness began, very sad and mournful. The moment that the clowns begin to cry in plain view is a terrible moment to behold. It means that there is real sorrow sweeping throughout the land. Normally, the clowns and the jesters (the ones who snicker and ridicule everything because they must) cry in private, their demons and tortured natures hidden from the public.

My friend and co-worker Hoss asked me to go with him to a comedy club.

"This is the first event they've put on since the attacks," Hoss said, standing in the doorway of my office. "They didn't want to do it, but no one wants to stop either. It's their jobs, you know? That's how they made their livings... Anyway, my boy Georgie is doin' a set tonight, and I don't wanna go all the way out to Santa Monica alone..."

"Yeah, I'll go," I said. This was remarkable: for the last two years Hoss has been trying to get me to go with him to one of his friend's comedy spots. I've always resisted, not because of Hoss or anything like that. Hoss is a cool character, and we've hung out on many other occasions. But I could never get it up to see any stand-up, because it was always hit-or-miss. Too many unfunny comics and not enough genuine talent, that's how I felt.

But now I was curious: How does laughter hold up in the face of unrepentant horror?

After work, I went home and changed clothes. The phone rang-- it was Wyatt, Sharky's younger brother. He wanted to know what was going on for the evening; I told him to come along with us. We met Hoss over at his place, smoked some buddha, and then drove out to Santa Monica.

The club was actually a bar and grill; the promoters moved the comedy venue from location to location, and this was the Wednesday night spot. Comics milled about, talking to friends and regular attendees. We met with Georgie, who'd lost at least fifty pounds since I'd last seen him. Hoss had brought Georgie to my apartment for bong rips. He was very funny. His act consisted of his pissed-off ruminations about life. Georgie is one of those guys who are funny when they are seriously upset. He was appreciative of our support, shaking all of our hands and thanking us for coming out, quite a contrast to his stage persona.

We got ourselves a table and, in a stoned mix-up, asked the waiter for menus as opposed to just ordering drinks. None of us had any money beyond the two-drink minimum, and none of us were particularly hungry... at least not yet. Still, we sat there and opened the menus and our eyes bulged out of their sockets as we read the prices.

The waiter, snide in his observation and sizing-up of us, snatched the menus back and took our drink orders. I was drinking seven-and-seven, Hoss had a Long Island, and Wyatt settled for a Diet Coke, being that he was the DD.

"That waiter's a dick," Hoss said, shaking his head.

"Well, he knew we weren't going to eat. But you're right, he didn't have to be snippy about it... Oh well, I'm sure that's not the last nugget of rudeness we'll be seeing in the days to come..."

"You think anyone's going to be funny?" Wyatt asked, in a somber tone. "I mean... I wonder if anyone's going to address it..."

"They have to, man... But maybe they'll just devote a minute to talk about it, then go into some jokes... who knows?" Hoss was just as curious as we were.

I had plenty to say about it. "George Carlin once said that anything can be funny, as long as the exaggeration is funny. Every joke has an exaggeration, and whatever that exaggeration happens to be is what makes a joke funny or not. He said you could even make rape funny, if you imagine Elmer Fudd raping Porky Pig." Hoss and Wyatt laughed.

Hoss said, "Yeah, I think I heard that CD a long time ago back at UCSB."

"I haven't heard much Carlin," Wyatt said, as our drinks came to us.

We toasted-- to what I can't remember --and drank up just as the show started. The host came out and said a few words, tossing out jokes here and there, gauging the crowd.

I whispered to Hoss, "I figure, if people came out to see comedy, they're looking for laughter. Or comfort, maybe."

Hoss said, "Georgie's the ninth comic up tonight." I wasn't sure if he'd heard what I said.

The comedians were, once again, hit-or-miss, but it was also a visible struggle for some. One woman sounded like she used to do nothing but George W. Bush jokes, because she had absolutely nothing to offer beyond mother's-point-of-view anecdotes and I'm-so-mad-I-could-scream-in-the-supermarket-style one-liners. The second female comic fared no better: joke upon joke about the guys she's dated. The third female comic, and the fourth for that matter, were hysterical by comparison. Their jokes were intelligent and caustic, and revealed a vulnerability when they had to reference the attacks somehow.

The rest of the comics were male, and even though it sounds sexist I have to say that the comics got better as the night went on. Two or three of them had done the Leno show or the Letterman show, and one even had a Comedy Central stand-up special out recently. They all mentioned the attacks either before or after their sets. One comic hit a nerve with me when he wondered aloud whether men were now going to use the old End Of The World line on women they wanted to sleep with. I had wondered the same thing, perhaps three or four days after the 11th, and kept it to myself because it seemed too terrible a thing to say out loud.

Georgie went up to do his thing. The crowd was happy, slightly drunk, less restless than they were at the show's start. He took the mike and gave a warning, of sorts.

"I usually get up here, and I talk a lot of shit... and I just want to say right now, for those who have never seen my act before, that this is what I do. And all this material is old to me, but to those who have never seen me perform, I apologize if anything I say offends you. This is what I do, and I never talked about politics anyway, so I didn't have to change my act at all. This is what I do.

"I also extend my condolences to anyone who has lost a friend or loved one in the bombings." He cleared his throat, and then he did his act. And it was funny, partly because I'd never seen him do it. The crowd reacted well, and responded at all the right moments. It wasn't as inflammatory as he'd made it out to be: his main topic is how much working sucks, but he never said anything overtly outrageous or untrue. I was wondering if he would make a joke about how the attacks gave everyone a day off from work, but then again it wasn't me in front of several dozen drunk people, on a stage with a microphone, taking a risk.

We left after Georgie performed, and I concluded that having a sense of humor was probably going to be the biggest avenue for those looking to cope with the loss and the hurt. The clowns could cry, and they could even cry in public now if they wanted to, but they would not be clowns if they did not feel a bloodlust for euphoria. The laughter that they wish to instill in their audiences is contagious, and is meant to spread all over and make us feel good. We cannot fault them for obeying their instincts, even if they seem to cross the line or talk tastelessly about certain subjects.

Nevertheless, it is hard, with the wound so freshly inflicted, to find anything funny about it, which goes to show how protected Americans were prior to this. Critics and scholars decried, in recent years, the jaded cynicism and nihilism that was consuming our culture. We were becoming desensitized, shallow, voyeuristic, sadistic, sycophantic, materialistic, soulless monsters through our choices of amusement and recreation. It was decadence, when you think about it, and prior to the Twin Towers going bust there was very little in the way of sacred cows. Everything under the sun was up for grabs when it came to satire and parody. Shows like South Park and The Simpsons were scathing and relentless in their skewering of any and all cultural notions.

We were thick-skinned and sometimes callous, impervious to the opinions of others. A common phrase heard all over the United States, before the World Trade Center went up in flames: "Boy, you've got too much time on your hands..." Another one: "That was way more information than I needed to know..." Nowadays, who among us can be so flippant to say or even mean such sentiments? And if there is someone who can utter those phrases with any conviction, can't we just write it off as repressed fear in the face of the morbid?

In the face... I say that a lot in reference to the attacks. And it describes how I feel very accurately. This thing is all up in our faces. There is no way around it. It must be confronted, and that unsettles many Americans because in the past there wasn't anything on this planet that an American couldn't somehow avoid confronting. There was always a safety valve or a hideaway for us when it came to the ugly reality of today's world.

As rats in the maze, we always knew where the cheese was. Now, someone or something has moved the cheese, and we don't know where to go or what to do. But for a rat like me, who wasn't too enthusiastic about having to negotiate obstacles just for a piece of cheese, I know what I have to do and where I have to go.

I have to go on, and I have to do it now.

LIFE DURING WARTIME pt. 4

What is there to believe in, in these days when war looms large and casts the shadow of all shadows upon the landscape?

If not God or a higher power, then what?

People are rallying around the flag, around the symbols of Americana. The candles that were lit on the following Friday almost seemed like a religious ritual. I imagine that next year, and for years after that, people will commemorate the anniversary of the attacks in this fashion, but more like a holiday, like July 4th or Veterans Day.

Patriotism is natural at a time like this. Yet, do we really believe in our country? I think we believe that we could get through this. I believe that we believe in our country. I sure do. I believe that we will persevere. But other than God and country, what can we believe in?

Magic, maybe?

A week after the attacks, I was in my office, checking the quality of CDs our company was sending out to radio affiliates. The past week had been such a turnaround for me. I was glad, for the first time since I started working at Showcase Media, to be at work. People were tolerable, in that they no longer lorded their pursuit of wealth over me.

People were quiet, and since I wasn't intent on rocking any boats they looked at me with a strange resolve. I think they wondered how I could be so calm when the world as we know it was ending.

I played one CD, an oldies-but-goodies countdown show that goes out weekly. The show focused on the hits of the mid-Sixties.

Track number five: "Do You Believe In Magic" by the Lovin' Spoonful.

I cranked it loud, wanting all my hallway neighbors to hear it. John Sebastian's voice sounded secure and hopeful.

As a pop song, it's a near-perfect two minute extravaganza. Only a cynic could dislike the emotions that the song can stir. Even in my dark days, when punk and thrash metal were my genres of choice, a song like "Do You Believe in Magic" was a welcome ray of light into the abyss of my life... although I was too cool to admit it at the time.

Suzie, the girl whose office was two doors down, passed by and stopped. She peeked her head in. "I love this song!"

The pretty blonde girl in her mid-twenties then began to dance around my office, to the cadences of the music. I was already playing fake drums on my desk, and started to swirl and twirl in my chair. I tried to do the Fish, or whatever that weird Sixties' dance was called, the one where you hold your nose and pretend to submerge under water.

Suzie bounced and clapped and kicked. I kept twirling, singing along.

The song ended, and Suzie laughed and said, "Thanks for cheering me up."

And she left.

But the magic didn't leave me, and that's why I am writing a book about life during wartime.

I wrote a book about life during times of peace, when our priorities hadn't shifted so abruptly and we as a nation became obsessed with ourselves. It was about narcissism and selfishness. But that one is still in the works. This one is more relevant at this time.

Wartime is surreal. I have never lived during a wartime, except for the Persian Gulf war, and that didn't have a tenth of the effect this whole thing is having on the world. Yet I feel like my whole life has been a war zone. I feel like the bad neighborhoods of my youth and the traumas of my family have equipped me for the absurdity and violence to come. As a fly on the wall, an observer, I already know that people are losing their minds over this. Beliefs are being put to the test, and people are not who they were prior to the WTC attacks. But I feel relatively the same.

Is that bad, to not feel changed or altered by such events?

The fact is, I have been changed. I now know what my purpose is: to listen, to give solace, to comfort, to cause laughter and to point out what's wrong with everything. I was the same way before all of this, but now it's amplified.

People are going to be doing some dumb stuff as the war rages on. They are going to forget who they are if they're not careful.

People are also going to live a little more. Take more risks, live out more dreams... Why not? The end could come tomorrow, and we all know it.

I understand why the hippies were so promiscuous. With war in the background, and young people facing the prospect of going over to Southeast Asia to die on foreign soil, it is no surprise that they were screwing everything in sight.

It's already starting to happen, in small ways.

TOMORROW: THE CONCLUSION

LIFE DURING WARTIME pt. 3

The next day was surreal. I had told Mac the day before that I wasn't going to argue with people as this thing carried on. I didn't want to upset someone who had lost a friend or loved one in the tragedy. I didn't want to cause anymore grief than had already been caused.

Of course, my close friends knew what I really felt, but they knew me well. A complete stranger with emotional ties to the WTC massacre didn't know me from anyone else, and I decided it wasn't worth trying to make a point with anyone who wasn't thinking rationally.

The offices were quiet and subdued. It was on everyone's minds. The few people who did talk about it warranted a response from me, but I stuck to facts and tried to keep in mind that, unlike myself, most of these people at this company weren't mentally prepared to confront the horror of such things.

"We're gonna bomb 'em back to the Stone Age," a Born-Again Christian co-worker of mine said aloud.

"Bomb who?" I asked. "Who are we going to bomb?"

"Whoever did this to us," he said, shaking his head. There was a lot of head-shaking going on.

"Afghanistan," another co-worker said. "Those Taliban motherfuckers, that's who."

"The Taliban, maybe. But the people of Afghanistan didn't do this. They're oppressed too. They don't want the Taliban in their country."

"Then how come there were little kids on the news dancing and laughing at our misery? How could they do that? Fuck 'em, that's what I say!"

"Those kids were in Palestine. Older people handed them candy. And I bet that, if the cameraman had turned his camera, you would've seen people who were not happy ith this. To them, it means they have to get the fuck out of Dodge before we start killing them." I kept my cool. They all knew me, and were prepared to read me the Riot Act if I was out of line.

Someone acting as the Voice of Reason said, "It's too early to tell what's going to happen next. So until then..."

"We keep to the facts," I said, finishing his sentence.

I started talking to another co-worker, a man named Bill who was a Born-Again Christian but less prone to angry outbursts. Weeks earlier, Bill and I had gotten into a lengthy discussion about the R&B singer Aaliyah, whose Cessna plane crashed on its way back from the Bahamas, killing everyone onboard. In tribute, I posted pictures of her all over my office. He had seen them and came in to ask me what I thought.

I said, "I think it's a shame. She was truly talented, and to lose her life at 22 when she had so much to offer is tragic. I wasn't the biggest fan of hers, but I definitely thought she deserved her fame, more so than someone like Britney Spears or N'Sync, who I hate."

Bill said, "Yeah, and it is a shame... but people die all over the world all the time, and I think the media plays up the death of one girl who no doubt was talented but nevertheless didn't have the kind of impact that warrants all the hooplah..." Bill was stern and unemotional.

"I understand why you think that, Bill. But take Princess Diana's death for example: I didn't feel that sad for her, and that's because she wasn't that big of a deal to my generation. To your generation, it was sad for sure. But it didn't do a thing for me."

"Yeah, but Princess Di was a princess. She had a family, had children, she was royalty."

"She also had affairs, and divorced her husband, as opposed to trying to make it work. Not that I care, because Dodi Fayed was there for her anyway... But she was no saint. Neither was Aaliyah. But she did more in her short life than most people who are three times her age will ever do. And there was more to come. That's what saddens me. From all accounts, she was a humble and grateful and truly beautiful person, and she had a grip of talent."

"Not to be callous, because I see your point, but I just think it's odd how the media plays these things up like it's the end of the world. I guess I'm just sick of it, that's all."

"It's not that you're sick of it, Bill. It's that it doesn't affect you personally. You said yourself that Aaliyah's death didn't warrant all this hype... well, imagine how I felt when Elton John put out that song, originally written for Marilyn Monroe, as a tribute to Di. I liked the song when it was about Marilyn, yet Elton was friends with Di, so it made sense. But I found it a bit capitalistic-- yes, the proceeds went to charities, but why couldn't he just pay a humble tribute instead of putting out this one-time single? In short, I wasn't affected by the death of your princess. But Aaliyah was my generation's princess. We all have our princesses."

And that was that. But now, Bill was at my door, and he said:

"This WTC thing sheds a whole lot of light onto what we discussed a couple of weeks ago, doesn't it?"

"And how, " I said. "It's crazy. You didn't lose anyone in New York, did you?"

"No, thank the Lord. But it's too unreal. Like a scene from a movie or something."

"I know. It's hard to believe. A whole generation of kids will never know what the Twin Towers looked like." I was working as I spoke to him, listening to CDs and making sure they were all ready to go.

"This is a wake-up call, when you think about it," Bill said, head turned down.

"I agree. We have it way too easy in America. Like you said, thousands, if not millions, die all the time. But as I said, it only means something when it hits close to home."

Our conversation was cordial and heartfelt. We talked for some time, and then he left.

All day, that day, I ended up listening instead of speaking. I went to smoke a cigarette, and let the other smokers in the plaza vent. I wanted to speak out and correct the speakers who were wrong about this or that, but I held my tongue. I decided to listen. I'm good at listening. I know this about myself, maybe more than ever. I'm better at listening than making proclamations. I knew that all I could offer was an open ear and (in terms of words) solace.

Sitting in the plaza, smoking, listening, I remembered how I had christened the year 2001 "The Year of Death". It started at the end of 2000, when my friend Sharky's girlfriend lost her father a week before Christmas. A month later came the funeral, which I attended despite not ever really having known her father.

Sharky's girl, Brenda, loved her father, who was very old and very well-liked by his friends and family and co-workers. Mr. McNeil was the man who had single-handedly invented the cue card as we know it in Hollywood today. He was Bob Hope's cue card guy for decades, an interesting footnote considering that everyone in the world knows that Bob Hope used cue cards but yet never knew who was actually holding them. People just assume it was some Union kid with acne and a ridiculous salary.

At the funeral, I recognized a lot of celebrities. Brenda's dad had lived a long, full, rich life. He'd seen the Great Depression, WWII, the post-war boom, and Vietnam. At the funeral a colleague of his retold the story of how Mr. McNeil had inadvertantly saved Bob Hope's life in Saigon: it seems that McNeil was constantly late, no matter what the occasion was, and when the USO troupe had landed in Saigon he left his cue cards in the Huey that transported them. They went back and retrieved them, and then when they arrived at their hotel they found out that the Viet Cong had bombed it. They were hoping to kill the USO troupe to demoralize the American forces in Saigon. The bombing had occurred fifteen minutes before they arrived at the hotel; if it hadn't been for McNeil and his chronic absent-mindedness, Bob Hope and the whole troupe would've become more casualties in that war.

Many celebrities were there, but what was amazing was the number of celebrities that McNeil had known who weren't there-- they'd all died years and decades before. And now he was going to be with them again: Lucille Ball, Ed Wynn, Bing Crosby, Donald O'Connor, Orson Welles, Jack Lemmon, Jimmy Stewart, Red Skelton, Ernie Kovacs, John Wayne, William Holden, Montgomery Clift... the list of names went on, and at the Presbyterian church where the services were being held there were innumerable photos on display, some that McNeil had taken himself. In each photo, any of the above-mentioned names and more posed with him. I came to realize that, even though no one knew who he was, McNeil in fact had been the most important person in Hollywood, especially during its Golden Age.

And one of his colleagues, in an eloquent and telling eulogy, stated that McNeil was well-liked because "he knew how to listen to people. And that's what I say to you today, as we mourn the loss of one of the nicest, sweetest, kindest persons to ever grace the planet with his prescence."

"The key to life is to LISTEN."

The church was quiet. They were listening. I was listening. I heard it loud and clear.

And all throughout The Year of Death, I have been listening. I've been listening to the tears of daughters and wives who lost their respective fathers and husbands; I've heard the sobs of my younger sister, whose boyfriend died in a car wreck as he was on his way to see her in Lancaster; I trembled at the sound of a co-worker informing me that his wife had suffered a miscarriage, right after I had asked how she was doing; I listened to Aaliyah's records when Death came for her; I listened to another co-worker grieve his ailing son, who was close to dying, and the boy was only two years-old...

There is more than just those things, but I can't remember them all. There has been much death, and so I called 2001 The Year of Death. But I didn't know how right I was.

I hate being right, now more than ever. I was right about Flora and her doomed marriage. I was right about America having a lot to answer for. But I get no satisfaction out of being right about catastrophe and destruction. I think I'm starting to get it now: it's easy to make predictions, but it's hard to live with the results.

I don't want to be right. I want to be wrong. I want to be completely wrong about how things are going. Right now I feel like America is confused and doesn't know what to do and that it will get far more worse than it is right now.

I hope to God that I am wrong.

Speaking of God (and getting back to the day after the attacks), my friend Mac, an atheist, started getting right-wing on me. He wants to go to war, he actually wants to enlist. He doesn't forsee a short end to this whole situation. He wants to nuke innocent Arabs, in some weird "an eye for an eye" bloodlust. When I reminded him that "an eye for an eye" comes from the Bible, he scoffed. And then the thought entered my mind that, if someone doesn't believe in a higher power, what does one do when it seems like the world is going to end? The answer: find a stationary object, like a rock or an immovable structure, and hold on to dear life.

After all, even John Lennon, an atheist at a time when it wasn't fashionable, eventually began to write things in his lyrics that alluded to God. In 1975, when he was separated from Yoko Ono, he witnessed a UFO above New York City. He was so convinced he'd seen it that he called a local radio station the next day and regaled them with the story. On the cover of one of his solo albums, Lennon wrote (in small type) that he'd witnessed a close encounter of the first kind. Then, when he reunited with Yoko, he took five years off from making music to raise their first child together, Sean. When he came back, shortly before he was assassinated, he was wriitng different songs, influenced no doubt by spending time with his baby boy. In the demo for the song "Real Love", which was unfinished until the surviving Beatles reunited and recorded it for their Beatles Anthology collection, Lennon sang, "I don't expect for you to understand / The kingdom of heaven is in your hands..."

In the song "Beautiful Boy", which was included on the Double Fantasy album that was released before his death, Lennon sang, "Before you go to sleep / Say a little prayer..." And in the song "Nobody Told Me" from the posthumous Milk & Honey record, he talks about "UFOs over New York / And I'm not a bit surprised..."

Nowadays, certain corporations who own a disproportionate amount of radio stations in major markets let their Program Directors decide which popular songs are "inappropriate" for airplay in the wake of this terrible assault on American freedom. John Lennon's "Imagine" was one of those songs, included on a list with "all Rage Against The Machine Songs" and "Fire and Rain" by James Taylor, among others.

As for me, it seems like all I've been listening to is John Lennon. My sister played his greatest hits on the way back from Vegas. I surprised myself by knowing the lyrics to ALL of the songs on the CD. If anything, we need to listen to more of John. He was a man in search of peace, who didn't truly find it until the months before he died.

I'm not insinuating that a belief in God is essential to inner peace. Rather, I'm trying to say that Lennon was the type of person who wanted to believe, but had no evidence, and it wasn't until he saw a UFO and genuinely raised a child (as opposed to being an absentee father with his other son, Julian) that he found evidence of something beyond him. Some would call it God, some would call it enlightenment, some would argue that he came to terms with his demons.

But for a man who'd gone to India looking for inner illumination, for a man who had money and girls and drugs and devoted followers, for a man who stayed in bed for a week with his newly-married wife to promote peace in a time of war, it's fair to say that whatever he found at the end of his life that made him change his tune was close to God, or whatever one elects to call it. He was humbled in the final years, and he wasn't ashamed of it. "No longer riding on the merry-go-round / I just had to let it go..." he sang on "Watching The Wheels", and I believe it. Which is why, in the aftermath of September 11th, 2001, I break down into tears when I hear his music.

When that happens, I put on "Hope" by Bauhaus. That song makes me feel better. I think that I will play that song every year on this terrible date from now on. Because a year won't go by without a newspaper or TV show commemorating this dark and gloomy day in history.

I believe there's a God, or something beyond us that we can't begin to comprehend. I read an article in a recent Los Angeles Magazine which argued that humans possess, in their brains, a region that is stimulated by religious fervor. Scientists studied Tibetan monks as they were meditating and found that certain parts of the limbic system and the frontal lobes in the brain experienced high levels of activity. According to the author of the piece, Vince Rause, this begs the question: "Does this mean that God is just a perception generated by the brain, or has the brain been wired to experience the reality of God?"

The neuroscientist who is researching these matters, Andrew Newburg, replied, "The best and most rational answer I can give you is yes."

When I think of that, I think of John Lennon, singing "Yes is the answer" on the Mind Games LP.

Mac won't have it, however. He chided me once, for being so naive and foolish as to think that there is a Grand Design to all things.

"Dude, you're not too far off from all those religious wackos out there," he said. "Science is what matters, not religion."

"What makes you think I'm religious?" I asked. "Just because I was raised in a religious home doesn't mean that I have to be a Christian or an Athiest. It's not a question of Either/Or. It's a question of what one believes. Science has been wrong before, on several occasions. Even Einstein admitted to purposely fudging figures when it came to quantum physics, because he was afraid he would accidentally disprove the existence of God. But no man can disprove the existence of God, just as they cannot prove it incontrovertably."

"There is no God, okay?" Mac was getting upset.

I knew how upset he could get. One time he told me that The Beatles' White Album had originally featured a cover photo of the Fab Four dressed as butchers, with bloodied baby dolls strewn around them. The controversy caused them to pasted plain white covers over the album, and as a result there were a limited number of vinyl editions that had the original covers underneath the new ones.

At the time, Mac said, "Dude, if you do it right, you can remove the plain white cover, and you'll have the original cover underneath!"

And I said, "You're partly right. Yes, there was a butcher cover. But it wasn't for the White Album. It was for Yesterday and Today, a compilation released in 1965."

"Naw, man," he said, getting huffy, "it was the White Album. Believe me, I'm a huge Beatles fan. The guy who told me about it was a big fan too."

"Yeah, but you've also done enough LSD in your life to dose all of us in the building. I'm a big Beatles fan too, and it wasn't the White Album. It was Yesterday and Today." I was absolutely sure of this.

Mac got angry very quickly, especially since we were in the workroom, surrounded by co-workers who often had to witness our discussions on politics and culture. But Mac and I were always on the same side; this time was different.

"Dude, I'll bet you $50 that you're wrong!"

Whenever someone wants to bet me on something that I am 100% sure of, I take the bet. People who know me very well have figured out that, if I take up a bet, it's because I know that I am right. I never bet on things I am unsure of. Any friend of mine who ever took a bet from me instantly knew to call it off, because it meant that I was about to make some easy money.

"Why not bet $100?" I smirked.

"You're on!" Mac was near-furious at this point. I was taken aback at his hostility, and so were all my co-workers. they'd never seen him so angry.

I went online, typed "beatles butcher cover" into a search engine, and tallied the results. There were many links to choose from. I selected one that would have photos to accompany the text.

When I showed Mac the error of his ways, he got visibly upset, saying things along the lines of "you can't be sure of anything online anyway". I showed him three more sites to shut him up. They all said the same thing: the infamous Butcher cover was for Yesterday and Today.

After I showed him the last site, I said, "Forget about the money. I don't argue with people to make money. I argue to make points."

Later on he apologized for being so hostile, but that incident told me all I needed to know about Mac. I'd only known the guy for two years. I met him through my weed connection. Mac was already in his thirties, and tended to condescend when he talked to me. It was no different with the discussions of God, and it was no different when discussing "America's New War."

"When did you become Rush Limbaugh?" I asked him the day after the attack.

"Yesterday, man," he said, almost screaming. "They can't get away with this. Dude, you know me-- I used to be all for the underdogs and all that. But this.... this...."

One symptom of this crisis: people cannot articulate their hurt, rage, and confusion over such an event. Words fail to describe it, even as I am writing this.

I am tempted to remember the old maxim: "The man who stands for nothing will fall for anything."

LIFE DURING WARTIME pt. 2

Monday came and went without incident. Our lunch took an hour and a half, and my boss warned me about being late, but other than that the day was unremarkable in every way. I went home and watched TV for a while. Then I worked on some music. I waited up to see if Flora was going to show up. It was midnight before I knew it, and I went to sleep knowing that at least she had the code to get into my apartment complex and a key to get in the apartment. I hit the hay and slept long and good.

I was awakened in the night by a phone call, but I was too tired to get up and get it.

The next morning, as I got up to take a shower, I realized that Flora hadn't come back at all. I wondered if she was going back to Fred. I wondered if she was okay.

Flora walked in around 7:30 AM and changed her clothes. She had slept in her car-- she couldn't remember the code to get into the complex, and couldn't figure out how to open the security gate with the key I'd given her. She tried phoning me, but I was asleep. So she slept in the car, and I felt somewhat guilty.

"I think I'm going to stay with my parents," she told me before she left for work.

"You're probably better off, " I said. I knew she wouldn't last here. It's hard to go from having your own house and your own life to sharing a run-down apartment with an old high school friend. "If you're parents are cool with it..."

"Yeah, they are. I was over there last night, talking to my sisters and my parents. They were really understanding. I thought they'd be upset at my failure."

"Failure? Give me a break. Eight years is not a failure to me." She was being too hard on herself. "If you'd given up after a year, that's one thing. But you stuck it out and gave it your best. That's nothing to scoff at. Most people don't last half of the time that you lasted."

Flora left for work, and I had time to kill so I turned on the TV. I looked for CNN, one of my favorite news channels.

I saw the Twin Towers burning out of control. I saw the second airliner ram the Towers. I saw one of the Towers crumble, like a fuse burning down the length of its wick.

I called Mac and told him to turn on CNN. He couldn't believe it.

"Dude, should we even go to work?"

"Let's show up anyway. They'll tell us to go home. But we should show up."

I was in shock, but I was also alarmed that I wasn't in a major shock. I was more upset at the fact that I wa so anti-American the day before. It seemed like I got what I wanted. I ranted the day prior about how someone needs to blow up all the Credit Unions, so that we can all start again debt-free. And now I was watching CNN, and it was saying that the Stock Market and the World Bank had to shut down.

But as angry as I could get about captialism and greed, I never wanted it to end up like this.

At all.

Mac picked me up and we went to work. We discovered that our New York offices were closed and evacuated. People were fearing that there was a jet on its way to L.A.

We worked in a skyscraper, the tallest in Sherman Oaks, and our building was empty by ten in the morning.

I tried to call Diane, my friend in New York, but the phone lines were dead. We were sent home, and the whole time Mac and I tried to make sense of it all.

"Fuuuccckkkk...." he said, shaking his head. "How fucking wild is this? What do we do now?"

"We go back to my pad, light some bowls, and watch the news, I guess." I was trying not to emote.

"Sounds like a plan."

Conspiracy theories swarmed in my brain as we approached my apartment. As a lover of paranoid literature, I weighed the possibilities in my head: Who did this? An American? Osama Bin Laden? Wasn't he CIA at one time? Our economy was in the dumps-- and wars always make an economy go up. Will anyone take credit for this? Did we know about this in advance? Would the U.S. let terrorists kill thousands of innocent people just so we could go to war? WHAT'S GOING ON HERE?

No amount of marijuana could match the numb, dull effect the footage had on us. In between channel hops I called New York, trying to see if Diane was okay. She worked for Viacom in Times Square, but you never know if someone has to be in Lower Manhattan for whatever reason.

"What does this mean for us now?" I asked Mac, curious as to what his answer would be.

"This means WAR, man!" He said. Mac's voice was the type that carried, no matter where he was. "We've got to get them for this!"

"But who's 'they', in this case?" I asked. "I mean, it's obvious that we have to do something about this. But who is to blame? The Taliban just denied it. Arafat denied it. All these countries that normally hate us are denying or condemning it. Saddam Hussein condemned it. Even Khadaffi is condemning it. What gives? I'd think that whoever did this would want to take the responsibility for it. Otherwise, why else do it?"

"Dude, they just want to start shit with us. Well, they wanted shit, THEY GOT IT. Dude, my dad used to go into that WTC building all the time, and now... now it's GONE, man! GONE!" Mac took a hit and shook his head in constant disbelief.

"Fuck," I said. I didn't know what to do about it. I felt responsible for it, like my words the before had somehow triggered these events to transpire. I felt like I needed to denounce my former statements. But at the same time, my stance on things also helped me to understand why someone or something would do this to us.

"I guess we were more right than we thought about the rest of the world. They really DO hate us. I mean, I hate America because it's corrupt. But at least I live in a place where I can say the things I do without being put to death or in jail... and I love America for that. It is a great nation... but this is also bad karma, you know? It was only a matter of time before the barbarians started clanging at the gates..."

"It's only going to get worse, " Mac said.

The day was a waste. Everything closed down. I finally got through to Diane, and she was okay of course, but she was in shock as well. Mac left around two in the afternoon, and I sat in front of the TV until I could stand it no longer. I worked on some music. I smoked some pot. I drank a half a bottle of tequila. I starting writing poems and lyrics. I found my Phil Ochs album and played the whole thing. I stared into dead air as the news of the carnage spilled over into nearly every single network and cable channel.

"... Mayor Giuliani has declared a state of emergency..."

"... President Bush is on his way to Nebraska aboard Air Force One... Vice President Cheney has been moved to a secret location..."

"... This is truly a day that will live in infamy..."

"... suspects include Osama Bin Laden and his terrorist network..."

"... Everywhere you look, New Yorkers are walking around with a dazed look in their eyes..."

"...Thousands are feared to be dead or missing..."


I was sickened to hear Henry Kissinger speak on CNN, barely containing his glee as he detailed his plan for what America must do to retaliate. At one point, he started going into some eerily specific descriptions of a "systemic attack" before he stopped himself and said, "I don't even know what [systemic] means..."

I began to fear the future: Arab-bashing, war-mongering, the whole nine... but what started to become clearer and clearer, as the day went on, was that if anything this tragedy would bring the American people together in an unprecedented way. I began to feel that, even with the high cost of human life that was paid, this war would be good for us. Because now, no one could deny that we are living in some turbulent times. Now, no one could bury their heads in the sand or feel unaffected by this. I began to realize that the things I was fearing, like the blind nationalism that always erupts when things like this happen, were actually just normal reactions to such deeds.

I began to see that, if anyone was upset about this, they had a right to be. This was not a war that was happening on the other side of the Atlantic. It was right here in our back yards, and instead of our usual indignance and arrogance, we were feeling a genuine sorrow and a collective grief, possibly for the first time in my lifetime. I came to conclude that even those who live under rocks or in caves now had no choice but to confront the reality of this world.

I think that's what's always been my problem with this country. The apathy of the last twenty years was killing this nation slowly but surely. This was a wake-up call, in a way. That's what everyone kept saying on the news: "This is a wake-up call for Americans..." I felt like I was always trying to awaken people, with my conspiracy theories that I only half-believed, with my refusal to sweep politics under the rug in the workplace, with my contempt for the safety and convenience that Americans often took for granted.

Later that night Flora came by to grab her things. I sat on the couch, watching the news like I hadn't done since the night of the 2000 election. I asked her what she thought about the news, and she said she was disturbed. But then she changed the subject.

"I don't think you're gonna like what I have to tell you."

"What could be worse than what's going on right now?" I asked.

"I think I'm falling for this guy who works in our San Francisco office."

I paused for a moment, somehow not sure I heard her right. "Are you talking about the guy you wanted to have an affair with last year?"

"No, not Ryan. He's weird. He wants to move into something way too fast. No, I'm talking about Phil, the musician. It just feels so right."

"Uh, Flora, how long have you known this guy?"

"Three months."

"Okay... And given that you aren't even officially divorced yet, how does he feel about it?"

"He said he's cool with it. He told me to do what I have to do. He's cool. He talks to me when I call late at night. He listens to what I have to say. It feels right. My sister went up with me to San Francisco two months ago, and when we were all hanging out she said that she'd never seen me so happy before."

"Flora, of course this guy's going to say that it's okay. He has nothing to lose. As for your sister... well, maybe she just saw that you were happy to be out of the house, as opposed to being in love. I mean, do whatever you want. But take it one step at a time. You haven't even filed divorce papers yet. And you never know-- what if you and Fred patch things up before..."

"There's no patching it up. It's over. We're done. I think I'm going to move up North after all of this."

I sighed. "Flora, I think you're getting ahead of yourself. I think you need to handle what you have to handle at the moment. Yeah, after it's all done you can date or marry whoever you want. But for now, it's not going to get easier. You need to focus on the immediate."

"I need help with my bags."

Flora left, and I was pissed. Leave it to her to be concerned, not with the loss of lives in New York, but with who she's going to be dating after she's a free woman. I silently feared that Fred, as cool and laid back as he was, would not want to give up so easily. It reminded me of when she got married for the first time: she wasn't thinking about the future, just about the here and now. Look at what she got herself into by not thinking about the future.

Then again, her marriage taught her a lot of things that she wouldn't have learned had she stayed single. She knows what responsiblility is-- perhaps she wanted to dodge it, after eight years of dealing with it and staying home as all of her friends (myself included) were out getting drunk and having fun.

I always told her that the grass was greener on the other side. I tried to convey the fact that, even as she saw life pass her by, she wasn't missing much of anything except for heartache and lonliness and romantic near-misses. But at that moment it all seemed lost on her.

I went to sleep, after taking two Vicodins and smoking the rest of my weed.

LIFE DURING WARTIME pt. 1

TO COMMEMORATE THE PENTANNUAL ANNIVERSARY OF 9/11, I AM POSTING EXCERPTS FROM A NOVEL THAT I STARTED WRITING SHORTLY AFTER THAT DAY.

NAMES HAVE BEEN CHANGED, AND MANY LIBERTIES HAVE BEEN TAKEN WITH THE DIALOGUE. I'VE DONE NO EDITING WITHIN THE BODY OF THE TEXT, BUT CERTAIN PARTS I AM NOT RE-POSTING FOR PERSONAL REASONS.

IT'S AN INTERESTING DOCUMENT MOSTLY FOR THE IMMEDIACY OF THE MOMENT: I WANTED TO PRESERVE MY FEELINGS FOR POSTERITY.

THERE'S NO TITLE. IT JUST STARTS LIKE SO:



It is the first Sunday since World War III began.

That is to say, five days since terrorists hijacked United States airliners and crashed them into the World Trade Center's Twin Towers and the Pentagon.

Thoughts have swirled deliriously in my mind non-stop in the last week. They are the kind of thoughts that need to be written down, so that when all of this madness passes, I can look at it all with some objectivity.

In fact, thoughts were swirling in mind about these matters even before September 11, 2001 rolled around. I can trace the unease back to the Friday before the weekend. Friday was the day I was going to fly out to Las Vegas for my sister's 21st birthday celebration. I didn't take the day off of work, so I had to book a last-minute flight to McCarren Airport. I also had to make last-minute arrangements for a hotel via the Travel Dept.

The Travel head was very helpful in getting me a discount on the Wellesly Inn, the same hotel that I had stayed at when I was last in Vegas. I was running around taking care of things, using my lunch hours to purchase a ticket at a local travel agency and trying to cash my $300 tax rebate and I couldn't go to the bank because my bank account was overdrawn by $400.

So Friday was a stressful day, and the fact that I didn't have a car it made it all the more frustrating. But I secured a ride to Burbank Airport from a friend and made it into Vegas around 9:20 PM. It was a one-way flight, notable for the fact that my carry-on baggage was checked, for the first time ever, and also for the fact that I sat next to a very beautiful woman who was in a bad mood and didn't want to talk to me during the half-hour flight. My family picked me up from the airport and took me to my hotel, where I checked in and left my bags. Then we went to dinner.

Throughout the weekend I was reading a copy of Turning The Tide: U.S. Intervention in Central America and the Struggle for Peace by respected leftist scholar Noam Chomsky. In between the festivities and familial outings I often paused to read sections of the book, which was published in 1985, at the height of Reaganism and the Contra-Sandinista battles in Nicaragua.

My parents asked me if they should invest in a timeshare in Las Vegas. We sat by the pool, discussing the merits of the timeshare. The Chomsky book was really what was on my mind.

I couldn't eat at the buffet that day, after reading on how the U.S. keeps Central American countries from democratically electing their own leftist government; how the death squads (or "freedom fighters" as we like to euphemize here in the States) kill scores of children, burn villages to the ground, rape and mutilate the women, and torture suspected guerilla sympathizers by slitting their throats, slicing their abdomens open and letting their bowels hang out and gouging their eyes out; how we force countries to change their exports, making them farm for us while their own people starve, taking the crops away as destitute families watch the food they worked long and hard to cultivate get shipped to North America, where spoiled five-year olds leave their dinner plates unfinished as they ask their mothers for dessert.

I didn't want to talk politics with my family. They are conservative to a degree, although my mother shocked me by voting for Al Gore in the 2000 election. She didn't think George W. Bush had "leadership qualities"...

But the words from the book spoke to my conscience. Even though the book had been written sixteen years earlier, it was relevant because things hadn't changed much in those sixteen years. But we were in Vegas to celebrate my sister's twenty-first birthday, and I wanted to keep my usual penchant for controversy on the back burner.

I asked my older brother Joe, "Do you remember when you were in the Army? You wrote me a letter saying you thought our government was corrupt..."

In between bites he replied, "Yeah. I remember that."

"What did you mean by that?" I asked.

He paused. He looked at me with his usual seriousness and said, "I just meant that the military is racist. I watched as other guys who were less qualified than I was were getting promotions and all that. It was discouraging, know what I mean?"

"You don't think that the military would wage war against its own people, do you?"

"Who's to say? I would hope that they wouldn't. If they did, it would be against people like us-- minorities, foreigners, the poor..."

"What did you think of Three Kings?"

I asked Joe this particular question because he had been in the First Cavalry in the Gulf War. I wondered how much action he saw on the ground.

"It was alright. But if you're asking if that movie was accurate, I'd have to say no, based on my personal experience."

"And that was...?"

"The Iraqis were surrendering on the spot. Supposedly this was Hussein's Republican Guard, his elite corps. It was sort of a gyp in a way, because all they did was put their hands up. After a while, we were all like, 'Damn, this ain't exactly what I was expecting!'"

"So you didn't see any of the atrocities that happened?"

"Not where we were at. We weren't dealing with villages and townspeople and all that. We were there strictly to fight. But it wasn't even a fight."

I left the conversation at that. We all went out to the Vegas Strip and watched the Treasure Island sidewalk show. Cannons blared, bucklers swashed, and people applauded. Nothing like a spectacular battle in the middle of Las Vegas to keep people happy. We watched it from across the street, because it was too crowded for all of my family to get a good view in front.

On Sunday my sister's fiancee drove half of the way; I drove the other half. I made it back to Sherman Oaks at 5:05 PM, barely missing the earthquake that gently rocked the Southland just minutes before. I wasn't in my apartment for ten minutes before I was talking with Flora, my old high school friend on the phone. She'd left a message, and I was calling her back.

"I need to stay at your house."

"Okay... Any reason why you need to stay here, as opposed to your own home with..."

"I'm getting a divorce from Fred."

"Whoa... Slow down, start from the beginning."

I'd always wondered when Flora was going to get sick of her marital status. I'd told her not to get married, and she went ahead and did it anyway. She'd known Fred for three months before the announcement of engagement. Less than a year later they were walking down the aisle.

And eight years later she'd had enough.

"Fred just doesn't care about the things I hold dear. We've tried to make deals and compromise, but he always slips back into his old habits and forgets that we ever had a problem to begin with. He says that if I'd only let him smoke pot and get drunk everything would be okay."

"Sounds like what I told Jeanie," I said. Jeanie was my last girlfriend.

"It's not about that, though. I just don't find him attractive anymore. We have to be wasted to have it. I love him, I care about him-- how can you not, after eight years? But it's not passionate. I don't know if it's ever been passionate."

"Why did you marry him in the fist place?"

I knew the answer to this last question of mine. At the time, she said it had to do with her citizenship-- she was born in the Phillipines --but I felt that she was in a hurry to get out of her parents' house, and she saw no other palatable option.

"I thought it was a good idea at the time."

I told her she could stay until she got her footing. But I was somewhat wary: I'd been living by myself for two years now, without roommates, and was very used to it. Still, I would help Flora out no matter what. She said she'd bring her things by later. She wanted to tell her parents the news first.

I cleaned up my apartment. Living single, and having been out of town for the weekend, my place was a mess. There was cat hair everyhwere, and I hadn't dusted or vacuumed in a month. I did my laundry, read portions of the Chomsky book, and smoked some weed. I even took a nap. Time passed, and Flora showed up at my door in the evening. I helped her with her bags and cleared some closet space for her things.

Within minutes of her arrival, my place already looked like a woman was living there. We made some cocktail shrimp and talked about things. She offerd to pay me some rent, but I said that all she had to do was give me some spending money until the end of the week. I had a feeling she wouldn't be here long. My place was falling apart, and seing that it was a one-bedroom apartment I didn't forsee her getting used to sleeping on the couch. I said she could sleep in my bed, and that I'd sleep on the couch, but she didn't want to be a bother. We smoked cigarettes and talked, and then I went to bed.

The next morning, she went to work, and after she left I went to the market. I used some of the money she gave me to buy groceries. Then, I caught a bus and went to work.

Work was normal, which meant that I stayed in my office most of the day. I was socializing less and less with my corporate co-workers. Except for the one or two friends that I had made while working there, I didn't really like anyone there. They were all too obsessed with making money and having status. They all had SUVs, and I rode the bus; they all liked bands like Dave Matthews and Uncle Kracker, and I liked anything that wasn't mainstream; they all thought movies like Pearl Harbor were great; I was a fan of Jim Jarmusch and John Waters and any movie that hadn't been put through the Hollywood meat-grinder. So I kept to myself and let the herds of sheep do their things, and they ignored me in the usual manner that they did. I had a reputation for being sharp-tongued and sarcastic, and no one wanted to hear what I had to say about current events and such.

Mac, my friend whom I had procured a mail delivery job, asked me what I wanted to do for lunch. We did our normal routine: go to his house, smoke weed, grab fast food on the way back, and talk about how screwed up America was.

"I've been reading Chomsky, man. Very intense shit."

"Yeah, Chomsky breaks it down all proper, " Mac said, as he smoked a bongload. "He knows his shit. That book's all about how we fucked up Central America."

"And the people of this country don't even know how bad we are in other parts of the world. If they knew, they'd be less proud to be Americans, that's for sure."

"Dude, we're so hated by the rest of the world. There's a long list of countries that would love to fuck us up. Just for being allies with Israel, too! I'm not even counting all the countries who are jealous of our prosperity. I mean, after WWII we didn't have to rebuild at all. We lent England and France and all those European countries money, and they never paid us back. That's why they resent us, by the way. They hate us for being so insulated, so detached from what's going on."

"Yeah, man. You're right. No one can stand up to us. We're the Great Satan. That's why I admire people like Castro. Fidel Castro stood up to the U.S. and told us where to put it. Sure, he's paying the price through economic sanctions, but he's still there, and until he kicks the bucket America is gonna have to keep its grubby imperialistic paws off of Cuba."

"I hear you man. The same with Ho Chi Minh. He asked the U.S. for assistance, and they chased him out of the Embassy. So he went to the Russians for help. I can't blame him for that. We wouldn't listen to him."

"I'm telling you, man. America has got some real bad karma to answer for. This country was built on blood, and a lot more blood is going to be shed as time goes on."

We were more critical than normal. I was reeling from the Chomsky book, and Mac had a chip on his shoulder ever since his days living in Las Vegas as a punk rocker.

Little did we know what awaited us in the next few days.


NEXT INSTALLMENT: Tomorrow

Friday, September 08, 2006

don't try

Last night I saw Factotum, a movie based on the novel by the late Charles Bukowski.

A factotum is a man who performs many jobs. Factotum concerns Bukowski's alter ego, Henry Chinaski, and his alcoholic existence, as he gets fired from every job, places bets at the race track during working hours, stumbles into dysfunctional relationships with seedy-but-sweet women, and writes up a storm.

I get compared to Bukowski, not because of my writing but because there are some similarities: We're both passionate about writing, we're both men of leisure, and we're both at odds with the cultural snobs out there who dictate taste.

But that's where it ends. Bukowski was much braver than I could ever be. He was also stronger, more resilient, less afraid and harder to damage.

And, he was more irresponsible then me.

On his epitaph, the words "Don't Try" are engraved. When watching a movie loosely based on his life or when reading about him or reading from him, it becomes clear that these words are not supposed to be a discouragement. He's not asking people to literally give up; rather, he is saying that there is no such thing as "try": You either do it or you don't do it.

In the movie, Matt Dillon plays Chinaski with a superb drunkeness, declaring at one point that "if you're going to try, go all the way." Bukowksi, the author of those words that spilled from Dillon's mouth, never tried too hard to do anything except drink and write, and when he indulged himself he found that the only way to go was full throttle.

I am still in my infancy concerning this. Even though I know the best things happen to me when I give up control, that part of me that labors and tries is always resisting the ebb and flow of the universe.

Bukowski resisted a different kind of flow: He staved off the Walking Death of thousands of men who deferred their own dreams and embraced "normalcy", whatever that means. As my friend Paulie would say, "He wasn't designed to work."

Some say that Bukowski glamorized and exaggerated the details of his life; I say that he possessed a genuine love of squalor and did what any writer worth his or her salt should do in that situation: Communicate to others as to why there is beauty in the gutter.

He also accented the terrors of the streets but in a muted, detached manner. His fiction and poetry were not meant to chronicle hard living with a hyper-realistic portrayal. He was not making a documentary about the denizens of the slums of Los Angeles.

He was writing a loving and fitting tribute, at all times.

Bukowski (and J.D. Salinger, whom I commented on yesterday) were two writers whose works were so perfectly realized (in my opinion) that when I first read them I decided afterwards to never pick up a book by either man for at least another decade. I did this to ensure that I would not become a blind disciple of these men. There was a hint of jealousy in this decision as well, because they both seemed to capture the kind of writing I envisioned for myself.

Catcher In The Rye was the novel I always wanted to write; Bukowski's poems were the kind that I was always striving to create. By delaying my eventual immersion in their works, I think it helped me to not copy their styles. I ended up writing like them anyway, but not out of imitation.

I realize that it is hubris to compare myself to J.D. Salinger and Charles Bukowski. But then again, for years I made a conscious effort to NOT read them, so I think it's only fair to open up the possibilities of comparison.

In other words, I didn't try to write like them-- it just happened, just as I didn't try to get this job, just as I didn't try to meet single and available women last year.

I think I'm on to something here.

Don't try to have a great weekend-- just have it.

Thursday, September 07, 2006

Two Things I Never Knew About J.D. Salinger That I Discovered Today

1) Did you know that the character of Holden Caufield has a middle name?

It's "Morrisey", with one 's'.

2) One of the many people who have attempted to buy the movie rights to Catcher In The Rye is Jerry Lewis.

Yes, that Jerry Lewis. Can you fucking imagine that?

"Hey phony lay-deeeee!!"

That's all I have for today.

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

woe is me

Self-pity is a trusted friend.

Self-pity is a warm muffler in the icy kiln of an emotional winter.

Self-pity is comfort invented in the wake of apathy.

And, it's also a rock-and-roll tradition.

Self-pity and rock songs go hand in hand. They are more than just kissin' cousins-- they are a couple, a pair, a duo. There's a relationship there.

Some of the best songs ever recorded were selfish laments. What is the blues if not the moaning and complaining of Southern blacks? Even when Whitey co-opted it, they kept the blues themes, although in their hands it sounded more like adolescent whining than authentic blues.

No matter. By the time Elvis touched rock-and-roll, it was strictly the domain of teeny-boppers and kids, an audience ripe with acne and liberal doses of self-pity.

That's why the theme of unrequited love is just as popular as ever in pop music. There's nothing more doleful and dew-eyed than pining for the one who left you for another.

There's a romanticism to it.

As the Wolf Man told me the other night as he and I attempted to talk to girls at a bar in NoHo, "I kinda like feeling like shit over this girl."

Although I wouldn't agree totally-- for me it is painful and debilitating and inspires great anger in me --I am aware of the toll it takes upon me, and how other girls sense it, and are maybe even drawn to it. They might look at me and think, "Oh, you poor thing. She must be a fool to not care about someone as nice as you."

And the cycle of self-hatred digs itself deeper underneath my skin, because I know that the sweet girls who want to pity me are wrong, completely wrong. And yet, there they are, trying to make me smile again.

That's self-pity. That's rock-and-roll.


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Name a song, any song.

"I Fought The Law" by Bobby Fuller. The singer ends up in jail, but he had a good reason to do it: "I needed money 'cause I had none..." And he certainly didn't do it for love, yet we find him thinking (after the fact) about how good his baby was to him... Apparently not good enough, however, to keep him from a life of crime.

"Long Tall Sally" by Little Richard. Now there's a song that doesn't contain any self-pity, you may be saying to yourself. It may be a tad racy, what with all the hints at incest in the lyrics, but certainly not a blues as we know it, right?

Then you check out the first line of the song: "I'm gonna tell Aunt Mary 'bout Uncle John \ He said he had the misery but he got a lot of fun..."

He said he had the misery? Sounds like self-pity to me. Little Richard, how could you?

Most Elvis tunes were intended to seduce women, but occasionally he gets weepy and teary-eyed, even behind such uptempo classics as "Return To Sender" or "Marie's The Name (His Latest Flame)". But the ultimate moment, perhaps the pinnacle of Elvis' self-absorption, is "You Were Always On My Mind", an incredible song with power and emotion on the surface that disintegrates into a cry-me-a-river-fest upon closer inspection.

"Little things I should've said and done \ I just never took the time \ but you were always on my mind..." Like that's supposed to make up for all the heartache, the hurt and the neglect? Oh, great, so you were thinking of me while you were treating me badly... How swell. THANKS A LOT, KING OF ROCK AND ROLL!

It's no wonder the Pet Shop Boys, who are adept at parodying such self-loathing sentiments, covered that song. Their droll delivery exposed it for the emotional chicanery it contained.

"Yer Blues" by The Beatles. It doesn't require any detailed research to prove that The Fab Four had a penchant for giving into their moodiness. After all, they loved singers like Roy Orbison, the Crown Prince of Misery Rock. But "Yer Blues" stands out even among woe-is-me opuses like "For No One" and even "I'm A Loser" because it is basically a declaration of one's intent to die.

Trace all this early rock all the way up to modern times, where people like Morrissey have long careers and "emo" is The Next Big Thing, and you see where I am going with this. It comes in cycles, and as we all remember the last time a musical genre wallowed in the mire so much was about a decade ago, when "grunge" had taken over the world and rockers decided not to smile or chase groupies for a while.


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Wolfie and I struck out big time but we made up for it by writing music. Actually, I'll give Wolfie credit: He actually tried. He walked up to a girl and tried to chat her up. She didn't reject him badly, but she made it clear she didn't want to talk to him.

I was proud of him. I told him not to worry. "This is our first time at this bar. Everyone probably knows each other to some extent. Then we come in, and it's obvious we are on the make. But if we were to come here regularly, after a while it wouldn't seem abnormal."

"But I don't wanna come here regularly," he said to me. "I just wanna get laid."

"You're in too much of a hurry," I said to him. "The watched pot, remember?"

"It's just easier to not think of her when I'm with someone else."

"Not so." And to prove it, I quoted from at least five different Smokey Robinson songs, to show that the game of laughing on the outside and crying on the inside was as old as the century from whence they sprang. "The Tracks Of My Tears" and "Tears Of A Clown" are prime examples, as they both contain the word "tears" in their respective titles.

I also quoted from X, whose song "Dancing With Tears In My Eyes" charts similar territory (it bears noting that "Dancing With Tears" was originally written by none other than legendary blues artist Leadbelly), as does "My Little Red Book", the Bacharach song that the late Arthur Lee and Love covered for their first hit single in 1966.

We didn't feel so blue after playing some music, getting high and talking way into the wee hours. We see it this way: We're artists, and we are pessimists, and we are also optimists and idealists, and we tend to go somewhat bipolar when our emotions get jumbled, and this is what causes people like us to bitch and moan and gripe... and create.

I wouldn't go so far as to say that I like feeling blue, but I'll admit that a part of me is so used to the rejection and pain by now that I sometimes miss it when it's gone.

And let's face it: When I'm happy, I just sit around and get fat and do nothing.

Here's a toast: To feeling like shit. All of us have to go through it, but some of us are better equipped than others to deal with it.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

lucy & ethel

One of the all-time great urban legends is the one where Lucille Ball contractually required her I Love Lucy co-star Vivian Vance to remain 20 lbs. overweight.

I always heard it was the producers who wanted the contractual stipulation, and that the weight required was 10 lbs over, but that's why they are called 'urban legends'-- the facts vary from storyteller to storyteller.

Anyway, it's not true.

But when it comes to the characters of Lucy Ricardo & Ethel Mertz and their places in pop cultural history, there is something that I tend to notice, a phenomenon that occurs between women friends, usually in the younger aspects of their lives.

I call it the "Lucy & Ethel Syndrome", or LES.


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Comedic pairs dominate the world of entertainment: Laurel & Hardy, Abbott & Costello, Lewis & Martin, Hope & Crosby, Ralph Kramden & Ed Norton... even Chris Tucker and Jackie Chan tap into this comic symmetry.

There's very few female duos out there. Ask someone to name a famous female pair and you'll get Thelma & Louise... but they weren't supposed to be funny. Tragic maybe, but not intentionally funny.

The next in line is, of course, Lucy & Ethel. They are right up there with the male pairs I listed, because the formula is the same: two seeming opposites joined together as friends who support each other through thick and thin. One is a bit manic, flighty and outgoing; the other is stable, steady but unadventurous. The Type A half of the pair is always enlisting the Type B half as a partner in crime, to help pull off hair-brained schemes.

What's amazing is that while there are plenty of real-life females out there who fit the Lucy/Ethel dichotomy to a tee, there's very few real-life males out there who subscribe to the formula laid down by such famous duos as I listed before. If there is any one famous pair that guys emulate, it's Jay and Silent Bob from Kevin Smith's movies.

More than the others I mentioned, Jay and Silent Bob accurately capture the true dynamic that occurs between male friends: both are on equal footing with each other but choose to express themselves in different modes. Neither of them can be considered sidekicks in the classic vein; in a way, both of them are sidekicks, but one does not eclipse the other.

Jay is the talkative one, but Bob's silence is louder and more informative. Jay gets all the attention and response but Bob (when he elects to speak) has the deeper advice to impart. And yet, Bob lets Jay speak for him 99% of the time.

With the LES, there is a definite inequity. Lucy is the star of the show, and Ethel is the sidekick. There never was an episode where Ethel asked Lucy to help her with her loony antics.

There was never any reciprocity.


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I've seen the Lucy & Ethel Syndrome manifest itself in several forms over the years. Its basic components remain the same: one girl is attractive and knows it but needs someone to come along with her on her insane quests as some sort of validation; the other girl is sometimes ugly, sometimes attractive but not TOO attractive so as to not upstage the other girl, and passively agrees to whatever the other suggests.

Years ago I dated a girl who fashioned herself a "Lucy" and she told me once that she needed a foil, an "Ethel", in order to function. She was pretty forthright about it, and from that point on I started referring to it as the LES.

This girl consciously sought out girls who would tolerate her bullcrap but who weren't threatening in the slightest. Then she would compete with this girl, which is the equivalent of helping train a Special Olympics athlete just so you can have someone to beat in a sporting event.

The hapless part of the duo, the "Ethel", was always asked to humiliate herself or defer her own satisfaction in order for the "Lucy" to gain a sufficient amount of narcissistic supply in order to feed her own ego. The only times when "Ethel" received any validation were when "Lucy" deemed it worthy.

This is more common an occurrence than you think.


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One of the most memorable instances that I can recall concerning this Lucy/Ethel dichotomy happened in high school, a virtual breeding ground for this sort of behavior.

The Lucy in this case was an ex-girlfriend who called me up one day and asked me if I wanted to go to the beach the following weekend. The way she phrased it made me think that she and I were going alone; since I still had feelings for her, I agreed to it and got my hopes up.

Mid-week, I called Lucy to confirm the date. As I pressed her for more details, suddenly the plans seemed to chang: in addition to the two of us, she invited her Ethel along with a guy that Lucy had a crush on but was too afraid to approach on her own. Ethel was along to help Lucy but apparently Ethel resisted, necessitating Lucy to bring me along to keep her company.

Lucy admitted after the fact that she had intended to bring Ethel and the new guy along when she invited me. But Lucy played it off like she wasn't trying to set herself up with this guy; she made it seem like a harmless excursion, and accused me of being paranoid.

But I knew better.

Of course, I was furious. I still loved Lucy and I'd be damned if I was going to stand there like a dumb-ass while she tried to mack on some guy. Not only that, but I think the plan was that Ethel was going to get to be alone with me at some point, because she had a crush on me as well.

I think that if Lucy had just come out and told me straight up that she needed me to play a wingman, then maybe (just possibly) I would've agreed. It's highly unlikely, but I would've at least considered it, and if Lucy had been upfront and honest then that would've influenced my decision.

What made me angry was not the plan itself-- in a way, I admired its simple complexity --but the fact that Lucy thought she could dupe me into it. I don't appreciate being thought of as someone who is easily led.

Lucy was playing me for a fool, which happens a lot because I have the sort of face that people mistake for an idiot. But my brain is far from that, and I saw it coming a mile away.

The day of our weekend beach sojourn, I had a plan in mind. We arrived and set up our spot in the sun. There was a cooler with picnic snacks and towels and sunglasses and sunblock and all the details that the girls no doubt spent hours the night before inventoring and approving.

Nothing was left to chance.

The minute we were set up, I got up and ran straight into the water. I swam and body-surfed for at least an hour. Then, when I came out to dry off, I sat down next to the others.

As soon as Lucy began to put her plan into effect, I got up to use the bathroom. Then, when I returned, I stuck around just long enough for them to think I was not going anywhere and snuck off to walk by myself along the shoreline.

Ethel was too passive to pull an audible and improvise, and Lucy was upset because she would get no time alone with her man, who was oblivious to everything going on.

I played this out quite artfully for the remainder of the day at the beach. It was a shitty thing to do, yes, but what was the alternative? Sitting around with Ethel while Lucy and her new man were frolicking like kids?

No, I'm not that kind of guy. Lucy should've known that I wouldn't put up with this. I was not going to be pushed over so easily.

By the time the day was over, Lucy was steaming mad. Ethel was confused, having had a wonderful day at the beach but wondering what went wrong with the plan; and of course the other guy was completely clueless as to what really went down.

Things began to simmer in the car, and then they boiled, and finally things overheated. Lucy and I got into a terrible argument: at one point she threatened to kick me out of the car (she was driving, even though it was Ethel's car) and almost let slip about her manipulative plan when I goaded her about it. I was all smiles, a mischievious grin impishly smeared across my leering face. I had her number, and I was having my petty revenge for her ridiculous scheme.

Lucy was angry at me for a long time. But she never had the nerve to approach that guy again, because of the way she short-circuited in front of us.

I was proud of myself, for not playing the role of the male Ethel.

As for the girl who played Ethel that day at the beach, she and I eventually hooked up on our own, without Lucy around to try and fix things.


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I still see it happen all the time.

Two girls I was in a band with had the syndrome, and it led to the band breaking up.

Almost every girlfriend I ever had knew some girl they could drag along on their selfish whims, and the girls who were consigned to Ethel status were always willing to be used because it was exciting to go along for the craziness.

It happens with guys too. It's more of a Bart Simpson/Milhous Van Houten Syndrome, but it happens. I was in a few of those when I was younger and yet I had the foresight to extract myself from those situations before they turned bad.

More often than not, though, guys tend to want to be around other guys they consider their equals, not to compete but to share experiences. Like Snoop Dogg said, it ain't no fun if the homies can't have none, and for the most part guys tend to take care of their own.

Women tend to use each other ruthlessly to get the things they want. Most of the time it is rooted in competition, such as who has the more desirable mate or who makes more money or who has more guys hitting on them.

This is not to say that all girl duos have LES. And there's even been some examples of a girl who is obviously a Lucy playing Ethel while the obvious Ethel asumes the Lucy role. Either way, it exists and it is very real.

Because of my experiences with women diagnosed with LES, I am probably more qualified than most to identify the characteristics. So if you are a woman out there and feel like you are being asked to be an unwilling Ethel, or if you are a Lucy and are in denial or need help, just e-mail me or leave a comment here on my blog.

There are ways to combat this affliction, but it takes a hearty resolve and some backbone. It's a difficult disorder to treat because of the heavy delusions that possess the Lucy half of the duo. The Lucies almost always fail to see how their self-centered ways cause pain to those around them. And even if the Lucy is dynamic and fun to be around, it all goes out the window the minute something goes off-script.

The person who ends up bearing the brunt of this, ironically, is Ethel, the very person who gave of herself to help Lucy.

So you see, this isn't some victimless crime where no one really gets hurt. And it sometimes happens on such a subliminal scale that it can easily be denied.

But a disease is a disease, and this one needs to be cured.
Your Personality Profile

You are dignified, spiritual, and wise.
Always unsatisfied, you constantly try to better yourself.
You are also a seeker of knowledge and often buried in books.

You tend to be philosophical, looking for the big picture in life.
You dream of inner peace for yourself, your friends, and the world.
A good friend, you always give of yourself first.

Friday, September 01, 2006

September horoscope

Aquarius (January 20- February 18)

Your September Horoscope by Susan Miller


Wouldn't life be more interesting if there were no such thing as money? Imagine, singing a song for your soup and your sandwich, or cutting your landlord's hair in exchange for a week's rent. Wouldn't it be wonderful to write software code in exchange for the new flat screen TV? Or to sew a jacket in exchange for a free semester at the college you attend? Ah, until the world spins completely on a barter method, you'll have to pay in the way the rest of us do - by check.

In early September, Uranus, your ruling planet, will be behaving in a particularly wild and unruly way. Uranus will cause havoc in your finances wherever you go. Meeting with the Sun, Mercury, full moon lunar eclipse, and Venus - that's a lot of movement for one planet in the space of two weeks.

Uranus will have its first showdown on September 3 when this rogue planet riles up Mercury. This will be the first indication that something is up with your finances. Any news you get will put your nerves on edge.

Two days later, September 5, brings one of two very hardest aspects of the month and possibly of the year. On this day, the day you are back from a long holiday weekend (if you live in the USA), Uranus will come into direct opposition to the Sun. This is a very powerful aspect, and you are likely to be completely outraged by what you hear.

The person you tangle with will be an authority figure such as a boss or client, or an official from an outside company - or, from your personal life, a spouse or ex live-in lover. Apparently a sum you assumed you would share or be given will not be delivered. Now you will have little choice but to make up the shortfall, something that you'll find easier said than done. This will undoubtedly be a tough blow, and it will leave you both very far apart. Fixing this will take weeks or months, and you'll run out of time - this will be something you'll need to fix on your own.

Two days after that, on September 7, the date of the full moon lunar eclipse in your second house of personal income, you'll feel even more stirred and upset.

The person with whom you are debating this question is will likely be the same one who caused you such grief earlier in the week. Now you will get the rest of the story, and it's not a pretty one. The more you hear, the angrier you will become. The person who has let you down might have financial problems, and may have even gone bankrupt this week, but now his or her problems have become YOUR problems because you have been left in the lurch.

The full moon lunar eclipse will strike September 7, plus or minus four days. Think back - you may have already received clues that something was up with money last month near August 7, plus or minus four days. Also keep your eye on October 7, with the same number of days of tolerance. Astrologers work with Bell Curves, so sometimes an eclipse will deliver news a month to the day earlier or later.

The argument you have with the person in question may center on a sum of money that you expected as a commission, royalty, or account receivable in a business. Or, your discussion may be about child support or alimony. An insurance company payout may be too little, considering what you expected to receive.

There are other possibilities. If you are about to leave your job, you may feel the severance package being offered is shockingly inadequate. Your upsetting news may be about taxes, or the size of an inheritance. Or, if you are a college student you may be upset at the shrinking size of your financial aid. A credit card bill may be larger than you anticipated. You get the idea.

If what concerns you is your salary, then it is possible that a raise that had been promised you may not be delivered. Of course, an offer that doesn't come though can be devastating. Keep in mind that if you are denied a raise, it probably has nothing to do with your performance but rather with the financial health of your employer. With Jupiter in your house of career status, you are doing very, very well and impressing everyone inside and outside the company.

If you need a raise and are very disappointed with news, you may want to seek a new position. Do so immediately and be ready to make your move in November when your career prospects will be at a peak - simply glorious.

No matter how you rattle your brain to anticipate what could come up with finances now, when Uranus is involved, things will always take an unpredictable course. The fact that you were never warned about this possibility will most likely be the part of this episode that makes you angry.

The problems this news creates may be so severe that you may consider ending your relationship. If the problem occurs with a business partner you discover is stealing from you or never paid payroll taxes, for example, of course you CAN sever that tie forever. However, if the problem is with someone whose support you need on an ongoing basis, like an ex over child support, you may have to stay and discuss a new payment method.

Try to keep all this private, for if your family gets wind of what's up, they might get involved by putting in their two cents, too. This of course would complicate things and leave your nerves raw. This would most likely happen when Uranus opposes Venus on September 15 - 16, your last difficult day. Make it a point to get through this weekend in one piece, and you'll feel better from that point on.

Throughout the first half of the month, be mindful of your possessions. If you have workers in your home, put your valuables under lock and key. If you travel with your computer, iPod, or expensive sunglasses, label them on the case with your phone number. Make it a point to keep those items safe. This will be a wild month, and I want you to leave it with your treasures in tact!

Also, defend yourself all month against any kind of financial scams, and protect yourself from identity theft. Get your credit report and study it to see if any parts are inaccurate.

As financial storms rage on in the first half, keep your cool, because the month's second eclipse on September 22 should help you to rebuild and reorganize your finances. You should also be able to find better sources of income by then. If you also need a loan to make up any shortfall, at that time you'd find more attractive rates.

Do you need a mortgage? Apply on or just after the solar eclipse, September 22. Also at that time, go back and petition a company if you feel you were shorted funds. For example, if you aren't happy with the settlement offer you received from an insurance company, file an appeal at the time of this solar eclipse. This new moon eclipse will open a new door and give you new reasons for hope.

If your boss can't give you a raise, alternatively, you may be able to get better benefits, so explore that with your employer. Better healthcare or a key to the executive gym is often worth a great deal if you had to lay the money out. A good day to ask: September 19 when Venus and Jupiter cooperate beautifully.

If you feel you won't have financial concerns, it is possible that you may schedule a medical procedure this month, for the same part of your chart that is so heavily accented, your eighth house, also rules operations. In this month where nothing that happens will be anticipated, you might be surprised that you need an operation, but that shouldn't stop you from actually having one this month. I always suggest you stay away from a full moon, which would be September 7, because we all bleed a little more. However, if you need surgery, have it.

Having had lots of surgery as a teenager due to a birth defect, I have practically become the poster child for the miracles of modern medicine. Remember what we always used to say in the hospital - that anticipation is worse than realization. Another way of saying this is that everyone is nervous before an operation, and everyone wonders why they were so scared later on. There is nothing to fear. I was a patient for eleven consecutive months when I was 14, but I was in for many more stays. The doctors really did leave me better than new.

The very best time for your operation would be on or just after September 23, when the Sun will move into Libra, a much more supportive sign for you. Having your Sun bolstered by the transiting Sun would be very helpful. Still, if you need an operation sooner, go for it. By month's end you'll be on the mend.

This month the areas of the body you are most likely to be focused on are: teeth, bones, feet and ankles, and intestines.

I don't consider plastic surgery (such as a classic full out facelift) an operation in the same sense. That type of elective surgery would take other planetary aspects into account, as you would need a good Venus on the day you choose. Once Venus moves into Libra on September 30 to stay until October 24, the time will be better as a general rule. Ideally, you should consult a personal astrologer to get the very best day for you.

Romantically, love has not been exactly pleasing to you for some time. That may be because life has become a bit too serious lately, or because you aren't getting along with your partner. The third possibility is that your partner is under a great deal of strain, and you need to be supportive of this person.

If you are single, you are likely to attract those who are overburdened, so you'd do best by dating several different love interests for now. If you zero in on one, helping your new romantic interest could become a nearly full time job. In fact, your new date may even ask you for money! (Say no!)

The day when you are liable to have an argument with your partner would be September 5, when Uranus opposes the Sun. Money would again be the topic - results would not be pretty.

Mars will help you now by touring Libra from September 8 until October 24. This will be a superb placement for Mars to be because your sex appeal will be unstoppable and your spirit so vibrant. With Venus due to help you too from September 30 to October 24, you will have quite a romantic month in store in October!

Best date nights: September 8, 12, 23, 28, and 30

Plan a romantic trip for October, dear Aquarius. With planets migrating into your distant travel sector at month's end, you'd have an ideal time to go. Keep watch on the full moon, October 7, as a lovely possible day for a fun trip together away from the maddening cacophony at home.

Summary

A bill that arrives now and needs to be paid could shock you and put you in a panic. You seem to need cash, but finding it may take a while, and you seem short on time. If you simply don't have the money, see if you can work out a payment plan with your lender. The meditation of the month will be to discover ways not to find yourself in a similar spot ever again.

That is not to say that this fix you find yourself in is your fault - it may not be at all. Someone may have let you down on money they owed you. It may also be that someone has started to put unauthorized charges on your account in an identify theft scam. Be sure you know where the credit card is at all times, and when the bill comes, check your statements carefully and notify authorities if anything seems amiss.

Love has been a sore subject for a while, and sadly, this trend will continue for a while longer. To avoid problems, if single, your best bet will be to play the field. Anyone you get too close to now will become exceedingly needy, and at the same time, oddly possessive.

If you are attached, brace for a sudden, serious argument on a matter important to you on or near September 5. With your ruling planet Uranus in sharp opposition to the Sun at that time, you could find your relationship suddenly torn apart before your eyes, and at the core of the problem may be money.

Although you may feel devastated by the words exchanged, if you look beyond this relationship, you will see that a whole world exists for you if you want to leave and find a new romantic partner. It may be too soon for you date others, but once you do feel ready, it should be a welcome relief to know that life will go on, and that others will find you quite desirable.

Mars will tour Libra from September 8 until October 24, a superb placement to get the party started. At the same time, sweet Venus will amp up your wattage from September 30 through the same date, October 24. As you see, you'll have these two "cosmic lover" planets, Venus and Mars, to coax you into the dating scene again - with dazzling results!

If married, these two planets will help you use charm to get your relationship back on track. Single or married, all Aquarians have reason to believe that life will get better - soon!