an absurd tone

Looking back over the year's posts, I noticed that there was a definite change in my tone around the end of May and beginning of June.

It was around May 22, 2006 when I posted a blog about writing here less. It was a de facto farewell, or rather an announcement that I wasn't going to blog as frequently as in the past.

It also happened to be around the time that I quit the radio gig and started the higher-paying job at the prefab factory. I was anticipating that I wouldn't have any time to post at length, as is my wont.

Now that I've been gone from the prefab gig for almost three months, and now that the year is almost over, it feels appropriate to reflect upon what has come before.

New job and less time to blog notwithstanding, there was a definite change in my tone during the past summer.

And I remember what caused that change. I didn't write about it at the time because... well, I don't have any real reason or excuse as to why I didn't.

I guess now is as good a time as any to examine this.


*/*


In the middle of last Spring I saw an ad for a theatrical production of Ubu Roi, an obscure early-twentieth-century absurdist French play written by none other than Alfred Jarry, whom I have obsessed over for some time now.

Imagine my excitement: Jarry's work is strange and satirical, and reading the words on the printed page just doesn't do any justice to what he was trying to stage. Jarry is not the type of figure whose plays get staged regularly, and since I was working on a screenplay based on the eccentric 'pataphysicist's life, I thought it would be splendid to see a production (taking place in nearby Pasadena, no less) of perhaps his best-known work, Ubu Roi ("Ubu The King").

The main character, Pere Ubu, is an over-the-top antihero possessing every negative quality and trait available to the human condition: cowardice, greed, ignorance, sloth, boorishness, full of disgrace and wholly unsophisticated. This was Jarry's intention-- the character was based upon one of his science teachers during his insolent upbringing, a man that young Jarry and his classmates reveled in lampooning.

The best way to describe Ubu (to those who don't feel they can regard someone so repugnant and vile as even remotely comical) would be to compare him to Homer Simpson. If Homer Simpson was actually a real live person, 90% of the things that come out of his mouth (as well as 95% of his actions) would appall the average citizen. But we giggle at his antics because he is a cartoon character, a grotesque so broadly drawn that one must laugh in self-defense lest the gravity of his words and deeds remind us that reality is not that far removed from the caricature.

I knew of only one other person who would appreciate a theatrical staging of Ubu Roi, and that was my friend from high school, Laurie. When I forwarded a link of the ad, she replied that she would love to check it out. She would let both her husband Daniel and Eve know about it so that we could make a couple's night out of it.

It all sounded good to me. Personally, I would've gone by myself if no one had wanted to go.

In hindsight, maybe that would have been the better course to take.


*/*


As the date for the play neared, Eve and I were pretty much done romantically. She'd made it clear to me that she only wanted to be friends. I suspected that she was already seeing someone else, but I figured we could at least try to be friends. After all, I was friends with nearly all of my exes and it never posed any problems. Eve and I had matured enough over the years to be civil and respectful of each other in a post-break-up scenario, right?

Not quite.

I found that I didn't really like Eve as a person if we weren't in love. Absurd, yes, but you're dealing with a person who lives for the absurd.

Things that I could tolerate in her simply became intolerable without the net of an intimate relationship underneath us. Lacking a shared passion, I began to see how vastly different we are in general. Her idiosyncrasies started to grate on my nerves.

Look, I'm not the neatest, tidiest person in the world, but must she always keep her apartment in such disarray, with clothes strewn about and cigarette butts piling to Babelian proportions in her many ashtrays? To me, it was less about good housekeeping than a symptom of a deeper problem.

Still, it would not be such an issue if it weren't for her facile acknowledgement of this supreme messiness-- you couldn't walk into her place without hearing her apologize for the state it was in, even if you had no intention of mentioning it.

But to push matters into the realm of insufferability, she would refuse any offer to help her clean the mess. So here you have it: a girl with an unkempt apartment bitching about something she has absolutely no intention of doing anything about...

I could deal with it when we were lovers, but not when we became friends.

That was just one of the things that was growing on me, and it certainly wasn't the biggest thing either. But it would indeed prove to be the case later on.


*/*


When my friend Nina got wind of the Jarry production, she volunteered to buy tickets for the four of us plus two more for herself and her boyfriend, who later got me the short-lived job at the prefab factory.

She purchased tickets for the last day of the show. This made me even more excited, because I wanted to know what my friends thought of Jarry. I was already sold on the man and his writings, but to finally be able to talk at length with people I respected about something that I was so gaga over filled me with such an elation that I forgot about everything else, including my strained relationship with Eve.

Now that I replay the whole episode in my head, I realize that I should've done more to ensure that things would go off without a hitch. However, I was too happy about seeing a rarely-performed Jarry play in my own backyard to think of Murphy's Law, which is ironic seeing as Murphy's Law is the purest distillation of Jarry's pseudo-science of 'pataphysics that anyone could ever come across.

"If anything can happen, it will"... or so the maxim goes.


*/*


The day of the play, I started to get anxious.

The plan was for Laurie and Daniel to meet us at Eve's apartment, where we could travel together in one car.

Nina and her boyfriend were already on their way, and had called to let us know that they would leave the tickets at the box offfice window in case we were running late.

And running late we were. I was pacing around Eve's disheveled apartment, looking at my watch every two minutes. "Where are they?"

"They'll be here," Eve said, annoyed at my impatience.

"If Laurie and Daniel cause us to miss out on this for any reason..." I didn't finish my sentence. I had no threats to wield.

"Well, why don't we just go on ahead and meet them there?"

"Do you know where the playhouse is?"

"No. Do you?"

"No."

"Well, you should've thought of that beforehand."

That last comment from Eve ticked me off. Obviously I should've done more legwork in that regard... but considering her penchant for bitching and moaning about every litle thing, it was a pretty nervy thing for her to say to me, and at the worst possible time.

I glared at her for an instant and remembered that she and I no longer had any reasons to be phony around each other.

So I lit into her.

I chewed her out for being so petty, so dismissive of my anger, especially since every time she gets angry for the smallest reason I have to sit there and listen to her and take it and hear it again and again, and now that we weren't a couple I didn't have to put up with her sanctimonious bullshit, and why is it that I'm always the one who has to answer for everyone else's mistakes, why is it my fault when someone else is too fucking stupid or unaware to simply be on time for something as simple as a ride to the playhouse...

Eve didn't like that very much. But when I reminded her of the time, she got on the phone and called Laurie to inquire as to what was taking them so long.

"Hey Laurie, what's going on? We're waiting for you two... What was that? His what? He can't find what? Well, tell him he's going to have to can it, because we only have fifteen minutes to get there, and you guys haven't even left yet..."

Upon hearing that, I threw my hands up in the air. "Great... fucking great!"

I know I wasn't acting very mature about it, but at the time I couldn't believe it was happening. I simply could not believe that it was all going down the way it was going down.

Eve hung up the phone, a look of wariness on her face. "She said that Daniel's having some sort of a hissy fit... you know those Brits..."

I went outside to have a smoke. When my lighter wouldn't work properly, I lashed out and punched a tree with my fist.

Eve didn't like seeing this side of me, but when she tried to communicate that to me I retorted that she was going to have to get used to that side of me: Now that I had no reason to pretend I gave a damn about anything concerning her, she was going to see how I really am.


*/*


Fifteen minutes past the hour, Laurie and Daniel showed up. I don't know if their reaction to Eve telling them that they were wrong about the time the play started was genuine or feigned, but apparently they felt bad for being late and wanted to get there as soon as possible.

By that time, I'd stopped talking. I was filled with hatred and anger. Nothing I could say or do mattered. I was at their mercy from that point on.

There were the usual awkward gestures, mostly on the part of the women, to try and lighten the mood. But I had nothing to say, and Daniel, realizing that it would be very easy for me to jump all over him and blame him for our lateness as a group, kept quiet.

I finally said something when we arrived: "Let me out here, I'll check to see if it's too late to go inside while you guys find parking."

I approached the box office and talked to the woman behind the glass.

"A friend of mine left four tickets for the show. Has it started already?"

"Yes it has."

"How long ago?"

"Promptly at seven."

It was now 7:30 pm.

"How long is the show?"

"An hour and a half."

Not too shabby, I thought. An hour is better than nothing.

"I must warn you, sir," the box office woman said, "that the theater is probably full. We cannot guarantee that you will have a seat."

"Shit, I don't care if we have to sit on the floor. Do you have the tickets?"

She gave me the tickets just as the others walked up. I informed them of the situation and we all agreed that missing half an hour would not be a terrible thing.

The entire scenario was starting to brighten. We entered the theater and an usher greeted us.

"I'm going to have to check and see if there is anywhere we can seat you," she whispered.

We could hear the actors reciting their lines. There was strange Parisian music simmering in the background. The audience broke into laughter.

The usher came back to us and said, "I am so sorry, but there is nowhere that we can seat you that wouldn't violate the Fire Code."

My heart sank. All hope was dashed. Rather than try and see if I could sweet talk her into letting us stand somewhere, I mustered the fakest smile that I could and turned around.

"Let's go," I said to the others. I believe it was the last thing I said for the rest of the evening.


*/*


In the simplest of terms, I was greatly disappointed.

Regardless of blame or fault or circumstance, the fact remains that a part of me broke into pieces that night for some reason.

Why should something as trivial as missing a play hurt me so deeply?

Did it represent something in my mind? Did it symbolize the powerlessness and meaninglessness of existence in the face of our inevitable fates? Was this type of badly-planned, poorly-executed misadventure the reason why I embrace the absurd in the first place?

All verbiage aside, I was disappointed because I was really looking forward to it and it didn't happen.

No one is to blame for this. Actually, if anyone is to blame, it's me. If I really wanted to see it that badly, I would've just bought myself a ticket and gone by myelf, as I've done on countless occasions in the past. That way, the only unpleasantness I would have to endure would be the predictable chorus of people telling me that I should've called them because they would've gone if I'd asked them...

...and of course, the whole point of going by myself is so that I wouldn't have to ask anyone to do anything.

I don't know... It really crushed me, and I haven't even wanted to talk about it since because I know what an asshole I was during the whole thing. But at the same time I cannot find it in my heart to laugh it off just yet. It isn't funny to me-- it hasn't had time to gestate and transmutate into a hilarious but bittersweet anecdote.

There's more bitterness than sweeteness here.

When things like this happen, the first question I ask is, "Why me, Lord? Why do these things happen to me? Did you do this to fuck with my head? Or is this what I deserve, for being such a fuckhead all the time?"

Then I start thinking about the dumb looks on everyone's faces as they sheepishly attempt to change the subject; the flat jokes and fragile atmosphere that gets sucked out of the room like a vacuum due to my loud and blistering silence; the speechlessness and inability to articulate anything beyond a choke and a forced gulp in the back of my throat as I struggle to restrain myself from out-and-out strangling someone to death...

That event changed the tone of my blog, and after that I saw the comments dry up, and the posts became less humorous and more mean-spirited. Even if people couldn't put their fingers on it, something inside of me had turned for the worse. It was bleeding through my pores and into the keys of the keyboard, making its way into the computer and up on the monitor screen, imprinting itself on the font of this blog, embedding itself in the html code that makes up what you are looking at right now...

I can't say that I feel bad about my behavior, even as I know how unbecoming it was for me to pout and sulk as I did. But I won't apologize for it, because after all I am human, and we all make mistakes, and my mistake was raising my expectations above what constitutes reality these days.

That's the problem with dreamers like myself: When we hit the ground, we hit it hard.


*/*


As a footnote, Nina and her boyfriend said the play was excellent. They had no idea what to expect from it and came away very pleased, if a bit baffled at first. She told me all of this when I met with her to repay her the money she shelled out for the tickets we didn't get to use.

Daniel took issue with the playhouse overselling the show, and had a thorough chat with their ticket department. He was able to wrangle four free tickets for any play in the upcoming season. There probably won't be another staging of a Jarry play for some time, however-- maybe it will never happen again.

Then again, the play did very well both commercially and critically, and Jarry wrote at least three other Ubu plays... so who knows? Maybe one of these days I'll get to see one after all.

My friendship with Eve suffered greatly after the debacle. She stopped returning my phone calls and made no attempts to reciprocate any gestures on my part. I don't blame her-- when I told this story to a female friend recently, she looked at me and said, "Jesus, remind me never to get you mad!"

As for me, I gave up on completing the Jarry screenplay out of sheer disgust. I started the new job and instantly began to hate it. Then, I started using cocaine with an alarming frequency, even as I made peace with my father after 16 years of holding a grudge against him.

What sucks about me is that whenever I let go of one grudge, I take up another. I guess I am just one of those miserable persons who always needs to have a scapegoat to blame for all of his problems in life.

But this time, the person I am mad at is not my father or Eve or Laurie or Daniel or the playouse ushers or anyone else.

This time, I am mad at myself.

That's why I've spent the last half of 2006 punishing myself.

That's why the tone in my blog changed.

And that's why I'm glad this year is over.

I'm not going to say thing like, "2007 is going to be a great year!" No way, Jose-- that's what got me into this shit in the first place. Just take a look at my blogs from last year, and you'll see me gushing like a sexed-up schoolgirl about how 2006 was going to be great.

Instead, I'll try a little bit of reverse psychology: 2007 is going to suck big fat fucking elephant dicks.

Knowing my luck, Murphy's Law will kick in and 2007 really will suck elephant dicks.

But at this point, who cares? It's all absurd, right? It's all just one big joke being played on all of humanity, right?

Right.

HAVE A HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE

the death of soul

Eddie Murphy introduced me to James Brown.

Through his Saturday Night Live impersonations (Anyone remember "James Brown's Celebrity Hot Tub Party"?) and his dead-on bit in the infamous HBO stand-up special Delirious, Eddie Murphy turned me on to the Godfather of Soul, if only as a punch line to a joke that I was too young to understand.

Then, as I always do, I traced the lineage backwards and decided to find out who James Brown actually was, rather than rely on Eddie Murphy's routines. I wanted to understand the joke, instead of pretending I knew what Murphy was jiving at.

By the time Rocky III came out, I thought I knew who James Brown was: he was the guy from The Blues Brothers, the guy from Dan Aykroyd's so-awful-it-was-good Doctor Detroit, as well as the guy singing "Living In America" wearing Old Glory on his tailored suit...

By the time rappers started sampling James Brown, I thought I knew who he was once again: The Godfather of Soul, Black Caesar, The World's Greatest Entertainer, Mr. Dynamite, The Amazing Mr. Please Please Himself, The Hardest Working Man in Show Business, Soul Brother #1...

By the time I actually listened to a James Brown record all the way through, without resorting to a greatest hits compilation, I thought I finally knew who James Brown was: a fucking musical genius with more soul in his left nut than every rapper out there that I was trying to emulate.

But even then, I was not even close to scratching the surface.

The album in question was actually half of an album: Sides One and Two of Revolution Of The Mind, a double-live album that made a lasting imprint on my then-budding musical jones.

To paraphrase the great Flavor Flav, that album stomped a mudhole in my ass.

Yes, Mr. Brown was funky, but he also sang ballads like a man possessed. The version of "Bewildered" off that album is one of my all-time favorite live soul jams, right up there next to Marvin Gaye's legendary live rendition of "Distant Lover".

By the time I was knee deep in Parliament-Funkadelic, I already knew that Maceo, Fred Wesley, Catfish & Bootsy were graduates of James Brown's soul boot camp. George Clinton depth-charged the funk, but it was James Brown who strapped the funk to the body of the mainstream and held his thumb on the detonator.

As a bass player, I owe my love of the instrument to the man who made it cool to be "holding down the bottom end". In rock circles, the bass guitar is the equivalent of sitting "bitch" in a pick-up truck, right between the driver and the passenger; in the world of funk as dictated by James Brown, the bass was the main ingredient, the impetus upon which the beat could find its way back to The One and get everybody on the good foot again...

By the time people were screaming "Free James Brown", I already was wise to the fact that no jail could hold him, no law could tame him, and no mortal could comprehend his phenomenonal presence.

And even then, I was still miles off.

In 1968, James Brown stopped a riot in Boston (and possibly nationwide) when he televised one of his concerts in the wake of MLK's assassination, like Jesus commanding the stormy seas to stop.

The day I learned that bit of trivia, I finally stopped trying to figure out James Brown. The truth is, I will never know what made him tick, as if any of us ever could.


*/*


As with all of my eulogies of heroic icons, I am in tears as I type this.

It was bad enough losing Richard Pryor, because that felt like I'd lost my own sense of humor. But now that I've lost James Brown, I feel like I've lost my soul.

All of my heroes are dying.

If he meant this much to me, imagine how much he meant to African-Americans coming of age in the 1960s, when civil rights was brand new and yet the hoses were still being turned on and the dogs were still being unleashed on those brave enough to demand respect.

He gave them pride, self-esteem, power... but most of all, he gave them soul.

Today, the notion of soul is intrinsically linked with black Americans. White America wanted to take that soul away, by inventing words like 'nigger'...

James Brown gave black people (and the disenfranchised everywhere) their soul back.

And he smiled as he did it, and said, "Heh!" and did the splits and twirled and had Bobby Byrd put a cape on his back as he feigned exhaustion, only to come back (like Jesus, once again) and rock the mic like nobody else.

I love his music. I'm listening to it right now, in fact. "Say it loud, I'm black and I'm proud!"

I think of that scene in The Commmitments, where the band's manager convinces his charges that, since the Irish are the blacks of England, they should adopt James Brown's musical slogan as their own.


*/*


I heard the news on Christmas morning. What a fucking holiday surprise, eh?

Then I rationalized it this way: God finally received a worthy gift on his son's birthday

He got James Brown for Christmas.

We were lucky enough to have him for over seven decades.

They used to call out to "Free James Brown", but I contend that now he is finally free, after all of these years.

Jump back, wanna kiss myself.

'Cause he was Super Bad.

What's in ever he played, it's got to be funky.

PEACE to you and yours, James Brown.

found

I found her.

At long last, I found her.

On My Space.

Seriously.

I am waiting to hear back from her.

My fingers are crossed.

I know it is her. I am absolutely sure of it.

Married now. With two beautiful kids.

It doesn't look like she has logged on in some time, so I might not hear from her right off the bat.

I have no doubt in my mind that she will reply. It may take her a while to remember me, but she will.

This is all going into the novel.

It has to.

Why else would it happen this way if it wasn't meant to be written down and recorded for posterity?

Right?

Right.

Happy Holidays, people.

Fall (enmity aplenty)

I've hit rock bottom in this treacherous Autumn

desperately staring this way and there

Out loud I shout that I don't care

Inside I slide along the side of despair

It's just not fair

how you left me last April

how you left me standing with my cards on the table

and my soul on the dotted line

Last year at this time you and I were fine

In line in synch in smoke and in drink

Our dazed eyes glazed over and hazed for days

And now...

...now you're making me pay...



What do you want me to say?

That I want you back this very day?

That I miss your kiss and wish you missed me back?

It's not as simple as that



It's not as simple as that



And yet there is no substitute

as I sit here destitute

wanting to get the best of you

but knowing you have the best of me

and you could have the rest of me

but you don't want it

and now I am haunted

by the words of a sonnet that a friend sent me

upon reading it I felt so cold and empty

enmity aplenty

The loss of you is the end of me

Decades of friendship bent and now we pretend to be

happy while apart

but we're not (at least in my heart

I am not)



You must want me to beg

Okay, then I'll beg

I'll beg

I'll plead and crawl

and then one day

maybe I won't miss you at all



No, maybe one day I won't miss you at all

But until then

I endure the Fall


--November 2006

the mantra

At a recent show, someone asked me about Eve. They remarked that my so-called "best friend" hadn't been to any of my shows lately.

I was in a foul mood, due to exhaustion and over-partying, so my response was mean and embittered:

"Funny you should ask about her. After branding me a racist and a sexist, insinuating that I was trying to knock her up and all sorts of other delusional bullcrap, she decided that she needed to make up for her lost childhood-- you know, the one she spent getting high on speed with her boyfriend of nine years?"

The person walked away from me slowly, a worried look upon their face.

I'm not so mad about it now. Time has weathered the blows, the rejection, the humiliation (all for a second time, mind you-- this is not the first time Eve and I have traversed these paths) and all I can say is this:

It was nice while it lasted, and I got what I wanted.


*/*


It sounds like a case of sour grapes on my part, but please hear me out.

That philosophy arose from one of the last meaningful relationships I had, way back in 2000.

Jeanie was a girl with whom I met and had a summer fling. She was my next-door neighbor in the Sherman Oaks apartment complex where we both lived.

At the age of 28 (the same age as me at the time) Jeanie was serious about making a go of it, and I was (as usual) not interested in anything other than eating, drinking, fucking, and smoking.

When she caught on to the fact that I had no intention of marrying her, she left me. It was hard on the both of us, but eventually I found a mantra to help get me through the pain.

It was nice while it lasted, and I got what I wanted.

It sounds shallow, detached, perhaps even cynical. But I didn't choose to be put in this situation. For me, the mantra is more of a coping mechanism than anything else.

I could've gone on this way (with both Jeanie and Eve) for as long as possible; they were the ones who demanded definite answers and gave me ultimatums.

Then, when I was revealed to be the commitment-phobe that I am, they both made it seem like I was the one who wanted to settle down.

Whatever. The proof is in the pudding: Both of them went on to steady relationships with potential, while I still play the field.

It was nice while it lasted, and I'm still getting what I want.


*/*


But is this really what I want?

What is the alternative? And why was I getting so depressed over all the news earlier this year concerning my exes and their marriages and their newly-birthed children? Why was that stuff getting me down?

I didn't know the answer, but now I know: I was bummed because for the first time ever it occurred to me that maybe those girls had once thought of me as both marriage AND father material.

Granted, I knew these girls when we were all in our teens. Marriage and parenthood and settling down were faraway goals then, not to be reckoned with for some time. I doubt that they saw a future in me.

But then again, maybe they did.

As outlandish as it sounds, there's also some truth to the notion that women foster their dreams of getting hitched and starting up the homestead far earlier than men.

And I never wanted to believe that I could ever be considered that kind of candidate. It is far easier for me to think of myself as a cad, a scoundrel, a womanizer and a user of fair maidens.

To come to terms with the idea that I may have been wanted, at one time, by someone who saw potential in me, potential that I can never see in myself... it is frightening.

Hearing about all those girls and how they now have kids with good husbands... it made me insane, but not out of jealousy. It made me angry, because it seemed as if they were always certain about what they wanted out of life, and that the choices I've made have been wrong.

But I know, deep down inside, I know that the choices I've made in my life are the only choices I could ever make.

I know that I could never be a good father, or a good husband. I know this. I know these things to be true.

I just wish people would stop reminding me that I am useless in regards to domesticity. And hearing about an ex-girlfriend and her fertile offspring nails that point home with me.

I know myself enough to know that I would've regretted making such commitments. I would've longed to be set free, and I would've left the wife/mother of my children, just like so many wayward, absent fathers have done to their families.

So the answer to the question "Is bachelorhood really what I want" is a loud and resounding "YES".

If I answer any other way, it's because I am under the influence of something more persuasive than a drug.

I think you all know what I am referring to...


*/*


All I wanted from Eve was closure.

I got it.

Now I can see her on the street and not get upset about the whole Sharky episode. I got my apology from her, even if she didn't really mean it and I had to force her to give it to me.

During the last two years, I got some sex, some food, some gifts, some love and affection, kind words, and even a laugh or two.

That's all you can expect from this world. I know plenty of guys who haven't had anything resembling that in the past decade, so I guess I am fortunate.

It won't be the last time that a beautiful woman does that for me either. I am still young, I am still ready to take on the world.

I didn't get everything I wanted from her, but that's because if you give me an inch I'll go for the entire foot.

The mantra is true.

It was nice while it lasted, and I got what I wanted.

Now to move on to other things. There are more instances of closure that need to happen in my life regarding other women.

I think the cuts and bruises I incurred from this last go-round have healed.

Time to get back to work.

somewhere in the middle

So what have I been up to lately?

Well, for starters I'm working at a movie post-production house, scanning film negatives into a computer so that digital airbrushers and retouchers ("dustbusters", as they are known in the industry) can adjust colors, remove motes of dirt, and add visual/lighting effects.

I work at night, which is how I like it. The job affords me enough free time to work on my novel, surf online, and read books.

You might be asking yourself right now, How the fuck does he get these jobs where he just sits around and does seemingly nothing for hours on end? In this case, Wolf Man hooked me up, but I think fate and serendipity have a lot to do with it as well.

It's not as financially fulfilling as the last gig, but it pays more than the radio gig I left to do the last gig... so I guess it's the porridge that's just right, not too hot, not too cold...

Moreover, I am learning about movies, which is cool because although I like cinema I've never really been a cinephile. All of my old group of friends were cinephiles, but they ended up accepting what life handed to them... and here I am, working a job they would've killed to have had they not forfeited their dreams for bland security and shiftless mediocrity.

Realizations like that are what keeps me believing that not only is there a God, but that he is just.


*/*


I stopped smoking pot for the most part.

However, I've been sniffing cocaine, as evidenced by my Las Vegas adventures.

Moving from one drug to another is always a lousy trade, especially if you go from a relatively benign recreational drug to a potentially lethal party drug.

But you have to understand something...

I was sick of being stoned 24/7. I think the cocaine use is a symptom of my refusal to be hazy and slow all the time. Cocaine is the total opposite of pot in terms of the high.

But I can only take the coke high for so long before I get sick of it. It's like being held by the throat by someone who is lifting you off the ground: you might get buzzed from the lack of air but eventually it's going to harm you.

Somewhere in the middle of coke and weed is where I want to be. That middle ground, in my opinion, is complete sobriety-- a state of mind I am in more often than not these days.

You see, coke is expensive. And I can't do it all the time the way I used to do with weed, so in the long run I am actually spending considerably less money on coke than I ever did on weed.

Plus, I've always been wired without needing coke. That's why I smoked pot, to calm me down and mellow me out. Coke only serves to remind me that I am already coked out naturally and biologically.

I confine my coke use to the weekends, because I found out that I cannot make it through a work shift on the stuff. I don't see how people can go to work and sniff coke, because you need it every half an hour and that only compounds the fact that you've got so much more time to go before you can go home and finish off the bag.

Bottom line: All drugs are losing bets. I make no excuses for my coke use. But I think that's a step up from making up tons of excuses for my pot smoking.


*/*


Call me a Scrooge, I don't care. I'm just sick of Christmas.

It's for kids. Therefore, I will only buy gifts for little ones this season.

I'm not buying full-grown adults any gifts. Even if they act like little children, they're not getting a fucking thing from me.

Likewise, I don't want any gifts from anyone. If someone gets me a gift, I will seriously look at them and say, "No, take it back. PLEASE." And if they think I'm being falsely modest, I will make sure to conveniently "forget" the gift before I leave their home.

And if they force me to take it, then I will "re-gift" it.

I don't want gifts because I never get what I want. I haven't received a really good Christmas gift since I was a kid. And the fact that (in recent years) no one has ever gotten me a Christmas gift that made my face light up is proof that I am better off not getting anything at all.

A better gift would be to spend time with me, talking to me, asking me about my hopes and dreams. That would cost nobody anything, and it would make me happier than a thousand gift cards and $20 certificates. It would fit more snugly than a million sweaters. It would taste better than any candy cane or chocolate stocking stuffer.

The thing of it is: A thoughtless gift is an alienating experience for me. It says to me loud and clear, "Hey! I don't know who you are, and have never tried to understand you, but I'd like to think that I know you, so here is my interpretation of what I think you like!"

It's always disappointing. No one ever nails it.

I'm a good gift-giver, for the most part. And until someone gets as good as me, I'm not getting anybody anything. If they want a gift from me, they'll have to get down on their knees and suck it out of me.


*/*


I need to finish the novel.

I am trapped in a parrallel universe that I created for my characters.

I am constantly reliving the events of the novel, which are based upon my own life.

And yet, as I edit and re-shape the text, I sense that I still have more to write.

I have more events to live that will eventually be written into the novel.

Weird.

It's as if I am willing my novel into existence by experiencing it.

Which comes first: the experience, or the articulation of that experience?

Laurie, who is helping me edit this damned thing that has taken a decade to grapple, is concerned that I am doing too much living and not enough working.

But for a writer, the life is the work. Therefore, the two are inseparable.

I do know that I have to finish it up, just so I can grow as a person and move on.

Thus, I know what I have to do, and I have already taken the necessary measures to kick start the last phase of my writing.

And it starts in San Diego, where a young woman lives with her husband and two kids, wondering where certain people she used to know went and if they think of her and whether or not she made the right choices or not...

And there I am, playing the metaphysical detective, taking all the clues of life's mysteries and jigsaw-puzzling them together into one glorious bastard tapestry.

If y'all don't hear from me before year's end, have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

And if you are fiending for some of my writing (as if) then just look to a year ago in my Archives and look at what was on my mind. You'll be surprised.

AGAINST THE ODDS

October 15, 2006, 9:55am: I'd said 'sayonara' to the Missing Digits crew and left the Jockey Club just around sunrise.

Later on in the week, long after I'd returned to L.A. and the Missing Digits had concluded their extended stay in Nevada, JJ called me and informed me that they got a flat tire on their trip home.

The curse was real.

When I got back to the Palace Station, the bachelor party boys were still asleep. After rousing them awake and reminding them of check-out time, I went down to the lobby, still frying off of E and waiting for the Wolf Man to meet me for a breakfast buffet.

I killed time by telephoning Rose, to let her know that I was not going to attend a proposed BBQ she and her "boyfriend" had planned for later on in the day. She didn't pick up; I left a VM.

Wolf Man and I decided to leave Las Vegas after the noontime rush. KD Long wasn't coming with us on the ride back, which was good for me and Wolf: KD talked way too much for his (or anyone's) own good.


*/*


October 15, 2006, 1:23pm: After agreeing to meet Down Low, his brother A-Team, BJ Fornicati and KD Long at the Golden Nugget for one last stab at gambling, Wolfie and I drove to get some gas for the rental.

We had KD Long's credit card, which was his way of reimbursing me for the gas we used on the way to Sin City. Wolf and I joked about spending it on bullshit and strippers, which made KD frown a bit.

As I loaded a bowl in my pipe, I saw a Mexican woman in a truck next to me. She was eyeing me, but not in a sexy way. I put the pipe in my lap and pretended that I didn't see her, but it was too late: her boyfriend, a tattooed gangbanging veterano, also saw me and started trying to signal us.

"Hey man!" He yelled out to me. "You got some herb?"

I nodded.

"How much you got? I'll buy some off you!"

I looked over at Wolf, who merely shrugged and said, "Hey, man... it's your weed."

I was almost tempted to do the transaction right there on the Vegas Strip, in traffic, in full broad daylight, because that would have perfectly capped off an outrageous weekend of brazen illegality such as this one. But I also remembered the curse looming over the proceedings, and decided that the deal must be done at the gas station.

Before I could say anything, the O.G. and his old lady in the pickup truck slowed down, pulled behind us, then switched lanes again to get on the passenger side.

"Tell 'em to follow us," I said to Wolf.

"Follow us!" Wolf repeated.

We got to the gas station and the deal was quick and easy: $10 worth from my stash, with plenty left over for me and Wolf to smoke on the ride home.

"I'm new here to LV," the vato said to me as he threw the money through the driver's window into the driver's seat. "I don't know no one out here."

"You're lucky you ran into us," I said, "but we're headed back to Los Angeles."

"I guess you're the only luck I've had so far," he laughed. "I lost $300 this morning on Blackjack."

"Play Craps, man," I recommended. "The odds are better."

"I gotcha, bro. Hey, thanks again. Nice to meet you."

We slapped five, and I had the weed in my palm. He grabbed it and smiled and hopped back into the truck. He and his woman were gone by the time Wolf came out from the pay station.

"How'd you know he wasn't a narc?" Wolf asked me.

"I just knew. Just like I knew we weren't going to get pulled over for the rental's tags while in Vegas, just like I knew we wouldn't get thrown out of the hotel, just like I knew Low wasn't going to want to go to a strip club, or any of it... Sometimes, you gotta have a little faith, even when the odds are against you and the going looks bleak."

"What do you think our ride home is going to be like?"

"There'll be something... there always is... but we'll make it home fine. It might take a while, but if we're smart, we can avoid any bullshit that comes our way."

"Dude, since you were up all night, and I at least got some sleep, I'll drive the whole way home," Wolf said. "Plus, you drove all the way here, so I owe it to you."

"Yeah, thanks. At least KD isn't coming with us."

"I know. Dude, I wanted to strangle him on the way over here..."

"Can you imagine his reaction if we'd hooked up that gangster dude while he was with us?"

Wolf and I laughed.

"He would've shit himself." Wolf was feeling better, a far cry from his near-panic attack during the hotel security guard snafu.

"It's all about keeping your cool when the shit gets gnarly," I said. "No matter what happens, you gotta keep your cool. Nothing can hurt you if you believe in yourself and your ability to persevere."

"Yeah, but you gotta be careful," Wolf cautioned. "Murphy's Law, you know."

"Well, thats' the thing, Wolfie. Everyone wants to play it loose and rough, but when the shit hits the fan no one can deal. Like the hotel thing: Guys like KD and BJ wanna act like they're big shots, but all it took was one old-ass security guard with no power to make them scared. If anyone had rights to be freaked, it was you and Low because you two were the ones who spoke with the guard. But you guys handled it as well as you could."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. Everyone wants to live dangerously, but no one wants to pay the price when it's time, right?"

"Right."

We got back on the road and drove over to the Golden Nugget to give KD back his credit card and say 'adios' to the rest of the guys.

We didn't tell the rest of the guys about our impromptu drug deal. It really wasn't necessary.


*/*


October 15, 2006, 7:53pm: The dark clouds that we found ourselves immersed in were from a fire in the El Cajon pass (which we were slightly north of) and by shifting onto the 138 Hwy in time we managed to avoid the snarling traffic that would've delayed us by hours instead of half an hour.

After making the jump to the 138, Wolf and I decided to take a pit stop at a gas station right past the I-15/138 interchange.

The station was near-total chaos: Cars covered in soot, RVs mired in ash, huge lines for the restroom and the food counter, people milling about in nervous anticipation, trying to use their cel phones in vain...

Wolf and I looked at each other. I said, "Our best bet is to get back on the road and get into town before we stop again."

It took an hour before I could look up at the passing night sky and see stars. The smoke was so thick and black that for that duration of the trip we were covered in complete and utter darkness. Finally, some distant stars began to poke their way out, and that clued me in to our escape from the fire zone.

At one point we wondered why the highway hadn't been closed off; It wasn't until we got got back home and read the news that we figured it out geographically.

"Dude, we made such good time," Wolf said to me. "We'll be back at my place in Pasadena in less than an hour. Then you can get home from there. Feel free to take a nap until we get into the city."

"I think I will," I said.

I slept for the first time that entire weekend, and it felt so good.


END